by jphilo | Mar 12, 2009 | Out and About
I could have spent our whole California vacation watching surfers. Their sport is as mesmerizing as the ocean, as wild and unpredictable as the waves, as precarious and exhilarating as a baby’s first steps.
For someone like me, who finds remaining upright a challenge and standing on a balance beam an impossibility, their sense of balance boggles the mind. How can their feet cling to the board? How can their bodies, clad in slick and glistening wet suits, react with such grace to the nuances and pummeling of wind and wave?
The more I watched the surfers, the more evident it became that a successful ride is the exception rather than the rule. The surfers spent most of their time lying on their boards, paddling in the ocean, waiting for the waves. When a good ones came along, their attempts to gain the wave usually failed, and cold water engulfed them. Seconds later, they emerged from the foam, climbed on their boards, and waited for another wave.
Though the surfers intrigue me, their sport is not calling my name. The water’s too cold, the waves are too wild, and the mental picture of my middle-aged body glistening in a wet suit is absurd. But every morning when it’s time to plan the day, I see myself carrying a board toward the ocean, dipping in my toe to test the water. Slowly I climb on my board and paddle toward the waves. Every day is a struggle as waves of phone calls and emails, writing and projects threaten to engulf me.
When I fail, my only option is to try and mount the board again. Because, on the few occasions when I find my balance, the sensation is exhilarating and the world is lovely from my rare vantage point. So I try again and again and again because balance is a gift not to be received, but to pursue.
by jphilo | Mar 9, 2009 | Out and About
Southern California is part of the United States, but during our four days there, that was about the only commonality I found between it and the Midwest. Here are the top ten differences between southern Cal and midwestern states:
10. The sound of ocean waves kept us awake at night.
9. After our morning walks, we shook sand off our shoes instead of scraping at mud.
8. Hiram jogged barefoot in the mornings and sunburned his head in February, three
months ahead of schedule.
7. Californians erect three story statues of people, not just touching one another, but
actually kissing in public. (Must have something to do with sunstroke.)
6. Flowers bloomed in February and no one was excited about it.
5. Surfers hung their wet suits beside their front doors.
4. Homeless people were everywhere.
3. The temperature never got below 50 degrees or over 80, and no one was excited
about it.
2. On Sunday, the coffee cart was outside on the church patio.
1. During worship, the pastor prayed that we would avoid excessive navel gazing during
Lent. Midwesterners don’t admit they have navels, especially not in church.
Midwesterners wouldn’t dream of going over ten in any top ten about just themselves, but since this top ten includes California, which has a reputation of being over the top, this list could expand to at least twenty. So if you’ve got other things to add to the list, leave your comments.
by jphilo | Mar 6, 2009 | Out and About
It doesn’t take much to thrill two baby boomer Midwesterners on a sunny California beach in February. So when my sister and I came face to face with this pelican when we rounded the side of the restaurant at the end of the Oceanside pier, we were delighted. I manned the camcorder while my sister took still photos. (Credit for today’s photo goes to her.)
The attention didn’t phase the bird, intent as it was upon it’s morning grooming ritual. A few minutes into recording my version of The Pelican Brief, three things became abundantly clear: the bird was amazingly flexible, its beak is a lethal weapon, and the species has no need to invent toilet paper
Our encounter with the mangy and tourist-weary pelican reminded me of a limerick I learned in elementary school. Maybe you learned it, too. The part I memorized was:
A wonderful bird is the pelican,
His bill will hold more than his belican.
He can take in his beak
Food enough for a week,
I thought the poem was by Ogden Nash, but a little research informed me that humorist Dixon Lanier Merritt penned the ditty. The research also revealed why every elementary teacher’s rendition stops before the last line:
But I’m damned if I see how the helican.
No wonder teachers cut the last line. They want to keep their jobs. But after watching one bird contort it’s body and wield its beak as only a peli-can, the last line of Merritt’s poem makes perfect sense. Just don’t tell any of my former students I said that. They would be scandalized.
by jphilo | Feb 27, 2009 | Out and About
Okay, go ahead and laugh. We’re not in California and won’t get there until this evening since our morning flight to Minneapolis was delayed (mandatory rest for crew) so we missed our connecting flight. Our new flight doesn’t leave until later this afternoon, so Hiram and I are enjoying a day in the Omaha airport. Guess we can check that one off our Bucket Lists.
My sister, who drove to the Minneapolis airport through the snow, made her connection just fine. And to think that last night we were congratulating ourselves for picking the cheaper Omaha flight and missing the Minnesota snowstorm we would have driven through to fly out with her. She’s a really good sister. She didn’t even say “I told you so.”
But to wet my ocean whistle, I found this photo I took a few years ago. My friend, Helen, and I had a great afternoon, walking on the Atlantic beach and wading through the warm August ocean. After visiting Helen for a few days, I went to a writers’ conference near Boston. At that conference I hatched the idea for A Different Dream for My Child with the woman who advocated for my book and Discovery House Publishers and is now my editor.
This morning, we chatted with our linemates as we inched toward the ticket counter. We talked about our jobs and my book came up. One man asked how he could buy the book. He and his wife have one child, a five-year-old son with severe autism. I directed him to my website and gave him my business card, wishing the book was already published. Suddenly, the line moved. He went one way, we went another.
Afterwards I realized I didn’t know his name. But his son’s a beautiful, brown-eyed boy named Conner. And Conner’s dad said what every parent who needs the book says when they hear its title. “That’s exactly what it is,” he said. “A Different Dream, not a bad one.”
His attitude put one less day at the beach in perspective. It’s a different dream, not a bad one.
by jphilo | Dec 14, 2008 | Out and About
A winter moon, bright and full, shown above us as we left the monastery early yesterday morning. It escorted us down the mountain, along steep and winding roads, as the headlights of the car illuminated the heavy, snow-covered branches bending over us.
The moon followed us to Interstate 64 , past refineries with belching smokestacks and into the rolling, white-fenced pastures of Kentucky. For two hours, the moon hovered above us, until the sun rose, pink and quiet behind us.
“What is this like for my son,” I wondered as the moon faded and the sun gains strength, “Driving away from one life and toward the next? What must he be thinking? How can he do this?” We drove all day, and he gave no indication of qualms or second thoughts, and we arrived home at nine o’clock last night.
This morning, I was three steps outside the door when I stopped to take this picture. The moon, the tiniest bit smaller than it was yesterday, hung above the trees along our driveway in the rich blue morning sky. It had followed us from West Virginia to Iowa. I basked in this assurance that some things will stay the same, no matter where my child goes: the sun will rise and set, the moon will wax and wane, God’s sovereign hand upon him, and my love and prayers for his new life.
Some day, when he’s settled in an apartment, a framed copy of this photograph will be my housewarming gift. When he asks me why I called it “Faithfulness,” I’ll remind him of the moon that followed us from West Virginia to Iowa and of the sovereign God who created it.
by jphilo | Dec 11, 2008 | Out and About
Today’s weather is depressing. “This is what I don’t like about West Virginia winters,” Allen said as I drove him to the Intensive Trauma Therapy Institute today. “Most days are soggy, chilly, and dark.”
Yesterday was dreary, too, and the weather didn’t help Allen’s struggle with “the Wednesdays,” a phrase coined at the Trauma Institute to describe the predictable midweek downturn most patients experience.
When I picked him up at 4:30 yesterday, we did all we could to banish the Wednesdays. The weather and traffic conspired against us, but we persevered. First, we ate an early supper at Panera. (You’ll be pleased to know I didn’t spill a thing!) Then we threaded our way through the most bizarrely laid out parking lots and frontage roads we’ve ever seen, right into rush hour traffic.
After a fruitless trip to Blockbuster Video to rent silly comedies (we were too cheap to pay $10 bucks for two DVDs), we spent ten minutes trying to cross the street to get to a Kroger’s Market so Allen could pick up some hair ties. We found the ties and a DVD rental kiosk (kinda like Red Box) where we scored big time – Get Smart and Stranger than Fiction for $2!
A rush hour accident snarled traffic, and as we inched along, I looked Allen straight in the eye. “I’ve never been in a traffic jam with you before. This could be a defining moment in your new life.” That declaration set us both giggling, so we were primed and dangerous by the time we arrived at the motel and slid Get Smart into the computer.
The movies and your prayers crushed the Wednesdays completely. This morning, Allen was a bit more cheerful. He teased me about my tendency to over-plan and joked about the dark colors that comprise his present wardrobe. There was confidence in his step and hope on his face as he entered the Institute to face another day of memories.
The weather says “Wednesday” this morning – depressing, wet and cold, dark and gloomy. But the calendar says it’s Thursday, and God says there’s sunshine after the rain. Someday, my son and I will see it. Then, we’ll laugh.
