French is my second language, and I find it much easier to read and speak than to hear. That’s because all the silent letters make any words spoken quickly hard to discern if it’s not your native tongue. There are too many options to sort through quickly in your mind.
When I was in Paris several years ago, it was much easier to read signs and menus, and even order food and taxi cabs, than to comprehend what people were saying in the Métro. (It really is true, though, that French people appreciate when Americans try to speak the language. They just smile politely when you butcher it.)
The other challenge « en français » is that the plethora of short vowels and nasal sounds makes the language hard to sing. As my lyric-soprano wife likes to say, “There’s just no way to make ‘/ɛ̃/’ sound pretty.” Ditto, /ɑ̃/, /ɔ̃/, and /œ̃/. (If you don’t know the international phonetic alphabet, just blow your nose to imitate a duck, and you’ll approximate those sounds.)
The saving grace in French music—particularly classical songs and opera—is that short vowels can be lengthened, emphasized, and given specific rhythmic weight to fit the musical phrasing. Additionally, for two back-to-back nasal sounds, the first syllable can be lengthened, and the second can stay short, as in the famous Christmas carol:
“Il Est Né Le Divin Enfant” (“He Is Born, the Divine Child”)
The ending syllable in “divin” normally would be short and nasal, but that would give you three duck quacks in a row (i.e., “in,” “en,” and “fant”). Therefore, French music allows the singer to pronounce the word “divin” as “diveen” to minimize the quacking.
Merci beaucoup.
All that said, I was captivated by the beauty and passion of “Maison” (“Home”) as sung by “Lucie,” a 15-year-old year old French singer who gained popularity for her performances on The Voice Kids France. It was written and composed by the aptly named Emilio Piano, whose score is exquisite. Below is the approximate English translation, though I may have missed an idiom or two. C’est la vie.
Enjoy!
Home
Where do we go? When we no longer have a home? Flowers grow from under the concrete Mom, tell me Where do we go?
Will we really know one day? Or are we just faking it, all the time? Where does our heart go when it gets lost? In its doubts and winters? Why is every day the same? Will we end up seeing what we have put together? Mom, tell me
Over yonder From the storm, there is Love, love, love When heaven opens up Everything becomes calm again And all is well
Where does it go? Happiness, that fragile thread, When it wobbles and breaks? Mom, tell me Where does it go?
Why does the world seem so big, When we become just a bit bigger than before? What happens to dreams that are lost? And memories that we forget? Will I always have questions? Maybe I’ll make them into songs. Mom, tell me
Over yonder From the storm, there is Love, love, love When heaven opens up Everything becomes calm again And all is well
We are thrilled to announce that our son Andrew is engaged to be married! At around 5:00 p.m. on Monday, October 27, he asked the love of his life, An Le, to be his wife. He proposed to her at Longwood Gardens in Kennett Square, Pennsylvania, using his grandmother’s wedding ring, which is loaded with meaning and sentimentality.
Drew actually designed and commissioned a uniquely tailored ring with An’s favorite gemstones in it, along with an interlocking configuration of A’s from their first names. Alas, that ring won’t be ready for another few days. While the delay was initially disappointing, the heirloomring brought a sense of family history into this precious moment.
Drew’s Grandpa Keith worked for an entire summer painting army barracks at Fort Hood, Texas, so he could buy that diamond for his fiancé, the one who would eventually become my mother-in-law. Without him and Grandma Lorena, Sonya would not be here, and neither would Andrew. He was their first grandchild, and the newest joy of their lives—a thrill I understand a whole lot better these days. On bended knee in a beautiful garden, he brought his grandparents’ love and legacy into a sacred event the happy couple will never forget.
An wearing Grandma Lorena’s wedding ring.
More important than any ring, however, is the one wearing it. An is a lovely Christian woman with a deep personal faith and commitment to Jesus. She is gracious, kind, warm, and engaging. She’s also an exceptional piano player, and we love to hear her “go to town” on the ivories. She is able, even from memory, to play classical music as well as hymns and worship songs. She has a captivating smile, and she adores children, including Samuel and Levi, which means she has good taste. (And also because she’s crazy about Andrew!) We love her to pieces!
Drew and An met at Sight & Sound Theatre, near Lancaster, where they both work. Their encounter was made possible when Drew decided to leave the photojournalism business several years ago and reboot his life. It was an act of faith and courage on his part, and I’m exceedingly proud of him for taking such a bold step. The station where he worked would not give him Sunday mornings off to attend church, and they constantly asked him to signal-boost—not just report—events that were contrary to his Christian faith. Not only that, he had seen enough violence, crime, and human devastation covering the news to last a lifetime.
So, providentially, he made his way to Sight & Sound, where he could put his Film & Media Arts degree from Temple University to good use for the kingdom of Christ. Little did we realize at the time that God had a divine encounter awaiting him in the person of An (pronounced “Ahn”) Le (pronounced “Lay”), who works in the theatre’s Hospitality Department.
An and Andrew on a recent date.
Her father Phil is a medical doctor who, at the age of 11, was rushed onto a plane during the fall of Saigon, Vietnam. The Communists were rounding up and killing Christians, and Phil’s neighborhood was scheduled for execution the next day. Blessedly, that emergency flight out of the country saved his life. More divine providence.
Knowing the proposal would be made Monday—and anticipating An’s joyful acceptance of it—Andrew, Sonya, and I gathered Sunday night for a time of prayer to thank God for his goodness to us. There were, of course, tears of delight as we remembered praying—even while standing by Drew’s crib when that first contraction hit and we knew it was time to go to the hospital—for our firstborn’s future spouse.
An, you are an answer to many prayers that go way back in time. Welcome to the family, dear one. We love you, and we pledge to pray for you into the future as well.
Blessed be the name of the Lord.
Engagement pictures (and snaps of the custom ring) forthcoming.
Today’s swimming lesson involved throwing a toy and retrieving it. Samuel chose the rubber ducky—in part because yellow is his favorite color, and in part because he loves that old Sesame Street song, “Put Down the Duckie.” I now I have that song in my head, so I’m sharing it with you. You’re welcome. 😊
And just for fun, here’s an old love song I heard at a wedding reception two weeks ago. They played it after we all had to endure “Butterfly Kisses” and “I Loved Her First,” which was just cruel to some of us. LOL.
Levi was dedicated to the Lord this past week at his home church. It was fitting that the occasion fell on Mother’s Day. During the ceremony, Samuel burped. And just in case anybody missed it, he smiled and said, “Burp!” At one point, Levi yawned, and the pastor said, “O.k., I’ll hurry up.” It was delightful to be there.
After church, we went out to eat and then hung out at our house for a bit. The video below shows Levi walking around with a doughnut, complete with icing on his nose. The first pic is from the dedication, and the other is from Saturday’s swim lesson with Samuel. Only three more sessions to go. Levi keeps asking when it will be his turn. I’m ready whenever they sign him up!
“…to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.” (Isaiah 61:3)
No one is sure who’s having more fun at our Saturday morning swim lessons–Samuel or me. But I’m grateful for the weekly opportunity to make some memories with this little fish. I thoroughly enjoy every second we’re together. And being in the water makes me want to start swimming again now that my schedule is slightly less unreasonable than it had been for several years. Here are some pics and vids from our first two sessions.
Counting my blessings after another lap around the sun, with gratitude to the Lord who gave me life—and new life—along with all the family and friends who have enriched me in countless ways.
One day, one night, one moment, My dreams could be, tomorrow. One step, one fall, one falter, East or west, over earth or by ocean. One way to be my journey, This way could be my Book of Days.
Ó lá go lá, mo thuras, An bealach fada romham. Ó oíche go hoíche, mo thuras, Na scéalta nach mbeidh a choích.
No day, no night, no moment, Can hold me back from trying. I’ll flag, I’ll fall, I’ll falter, I’ll find my day may be, Far and Away. Far and Away.
One day, one night, one moment, With a dream to believe in. One step, one fall, one falter, And a new earth across a wide ocean. This way became my journey, This day ends together, Far and Away.
This day ends together, Far and Away. Far and Away.
Where the river foams and surges to the sea, Silver figures rise to find me, Wise and as daring, Following the heart’s cry.
I am that deep pool, I am that dark spring, Warm with a mystery, I may reveal to you,
In Time, (Time holds the heart’s key) Key to everything is Love, (Love makes the heart flower) Flowers into a deep desire, (Passion in the heart’s fire) Passion and desire.
What started as a 7-minute intermission during the “Eurovision Song Contest 1994” in Dublin, Ireland, grew to become a theatrical phenomenon that today, 30 years later, still captivates and exhilarates audiences around the world with its unique blend of magical music and Celtic choreography.
The show consisted largely of traditional Irish music and dance, but it contained key innovations (some controversial) that brought the art form into the modern era. With a score composed by Bill Whelan, it featured Irish dancing standouts Michael Flatley and Jean Butler, along with the vocal ensemble Anúna.
I saw Riverdance shortly after it came out in 1995 on a VHS tape made for me by my mom. She thought I would enjoy it, and she was more than right. I was enraptured by the production’s confluence of beauty, musicality, joy, and athleticism—so much so that I got choked up several times along the way. I stood in awe at the sheer talent projected on the screen, and the inspiring impact it had on my soul. Good art can do that.
Last night Sonya gave me an early birthday present. (My actual birthday is March 31.) We got to see the opening night production of Riverdance 30 at the American Music Theater in Lancaster. Needless to say, I got choked up again. It was no less amazing than the original, except that it was mostly unoriginal. No one, however, was bothered by that. We wanted to see what a new generation could do with the incomparable classic.
Most of these dancers and musicians had not been born yet when Riverdance debuted, but they rose to the challenge last night with energy, grace, enthusiasm, and flair. They honored the original cast and production with not only a fine recapitulation of the masterpiece, but also with video clips of the 1995 show in the background during the finale. They also honored the audience with an unforgettable performance that brought back some powerful memories.
And that’s what has me feeling a bit wistful today. Flatley and Butler famously parted ways about a year later over creative differences, artistic control, perceived slights, and a public war of words. That seems to happen a lot in show business, and it’s always sad when it does. Flatley’s next project, Lord of the Dance, was darker, creepier, and somewhat narcissistic. The magic was gone, at least for me. Butler continued performing in new iterations of Riverdance, and the public seemed to be more sympathetic to her side of the rift.
I have no ability or desire to arbitrate the matter. I just know that I’ll never not appreciate the original performance. And I do hope the two leads who “riveted me at the river” 30 years ago can someday mend fences. That would be an even greater magic.
Time holds the heart’s key Key to everything is Love Love makes the heart flower
It’s been far too long since I’ve posted pictures of our munchkins, but these little guys continue to be a source of great joy and delight in my life. I’m beyond blessed to be able to watch them on Wednesdays and Friday nights (i.e., the pizza and sleepover night). A few shots below show their love of tractors and trains. You can also see their Trunk-or-Treat costumes—a firefighter and a Dalmatian, with Mom and Dad serving as the firetruck. Super adorable! My own “trunk” this year conveyed yet another post-season collapse by the Phillies. Only one word came to mind for the sign. 😊
While the rest of the family spends their week in Hickory, North Carolina for the triennial Taylor Family Reunion, I’ve chosen to stay home to spend some quality time with my sister. She no longer has good days, just bad days and worse days. Occasionally she has some good segments of days, for which we’re grateful.
Yesterday she was having a good segment, so we slid ourselves into the car and drove to Reading, PA, our old stomping grounds growing up. (It’s always fun to hear people pronounce it “Reed-ing,” especially when we play Monopoly out of town. Actually, it’s pronounced, “Redd-ing,” though none us really knows why.)
Our little daytrip was filled with laughter, tears, memories, and a good bit of nostalgia. We talked about what our lives were. We talked about what our lives have become. We talked about what our lives might have been had we never been adopted. We talked about what our lives will be in eternity.
We talked about things that matter, with a good bit of silliness thrown in from time to time to make it fun. Indeed, there’s a time for everything under the sun.
Sunrise. Sunset.
Yesterday after sunrise, we got to see:
Our old row home at 553 S. 15½ Street in Reading, a place of love and chaos, in equal measure.
Our nana and aunt’s home, which was four houses down the street from ours, a place of love and refuge, in abundance.
The steep back alley where we used to race our model cars, our snow sleds, our Tonka trucks, and our bikes whenever we wanted to play “Evel Knievel.”
The walkway between houses where little Ricky once peed on Lily’s windows. On purpose. Lily was not happy, and she scrubbed those windows with a scowl and ferocity hitherto unseen in our neighborhood.
The old 16th and Fairview Mennonite Church, where we used to go to vacation Bible school, now a Spanish-speaking Seventh Day Adventist church. I remember the cookies, the punch, and my first Bible verse, “I will trust and not be afraid” (Isaiah 12:2). I especially remember the love of those old Mennonite teachers. Back then, they could hug you.
The Old Tack’s Sandwich Shop at 16th & Cotton Streets, which is now a different kind of sandwich shop. “That just right steak sauce” is a thing of the past, except in our memories.
The old jewelry store where we would buy our mom a cheap little Christmas pin each year from our allowance, just in time for the Christmas Eve service. She cried every time, even though the thing was probably hideous. Come to think of it, maybe she cried because it was hideous.
Our old elementary school at 16th & Haak Streets, where we played street hockey and broke windows with errant shots on goal.
The Neversink Playground on Fairview Street, where several bones were broken and deep cuts needing to be stitched took place.
The old East Reading Swimming Pool on S. 14½ Street, where I learned to swim.
The old Hillside Swimming Pool on N. 14th Street, where I worked as a lifeguard.
All the schools on N. 13th Street, including Reading High School, and the Geigle Sports Complex/Natatorium, where I spent most of my high school days getting pruned.
We saw traditional landmarks, like the Pagoda, the Courthouse, the Fire Tower, and City Park.
We had a blast pointing out all the houses where all our friends used to live, and the memories we made with them.
We recalled the various places along the way where we sustained injuries requiring trips to the emergency room. I especially enjoyed seeing the telephone pole I slammed into the day my brother and I switched bikes. I broke my thumb, and he broke his two front teeth. (Our brake settings were vastly different.) Dad was not happy, and he scowled at us much like Lily when she cleaned her newly anointed windows.
We then came home and had a steak dinner at sunset, just the two of us. We even had Pennsylvania Dutch potato filling to go with it, something we enjoyed every holiday meal growing up. We also had a dessert from “Sweet Street” in Reading called “Ever-Lovin’ Spoonful” chocolate cake. It was divine.
Amidst our gospel conversations, we talked about a recurring dream I had when I was a little boy. It was always solemn but never scary. The setting of the dream was a lush, tree-lined meadow with thick green grass and sun rays bursting through the branches. Numerous caskets with sets of steps in front of each one followed the crescent path of the tree line.
In this recurring dream, I helped each of my family members into their caskets, one at a time, closing the lid and then moving to the next family member.
The last casket was mine. After I crawled into it, I would pull down the lid, only to wake up right before it was completely shut.
I never understood why I kept having that dream as a little boy, but its contents have played out over the years as I’ve buried quite a few family members—parents, godparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, a brother, and others.
As a Christian pastor, I’ve gotten to sneer at death each time with a version of these marvelous words from the Church of England’s committal service:
In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our frail bodies that they may be conformed to his glorious body, who died, was buried, and rose again for us”.
I’d like to think that my waking up before the complete closing of my own casket lid was a hint of my pre-death rapture, but if not, I can still say with the Apostle Paul, “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?”
Even now, in the face of my sister’s cancer, I can say to death, “Because of Easter, you’ve become God’s conscripted little escort, leading us into his glorious presence for all eternity.”
I can say to death, “Thanks for harvesting the earth for the great banquet to come. We’ll rejoice in your humiliation when we dine with God. The chocolate cake is divine, and you can’t have any.”
I can say to death, “Because of the risen Christ, all is well. And it will be forever.”
The flurry of activity these past two weeks—from the heartbreaking death of a family friend to the joyful birth of our little nugget—delayed the posting of snaps from our anniversary trip to Cooperstown, New York. We took scores of pictures, but a mere handful will have to suffice for now.
Day 1: We attended the Glimmerglass Festival production of Paccini’s La bohème at the Alice Busch Opera Theater.
Day 2: We toured the Baseball Hall of Fame, wax museum, Doubleday Field, and various shops in the area.
Day 3: We visited the Fenimore Art Museum, which featured an exhibit by M. C. Escher, the Dutch artist known for his tessalated woodcuts, lithographs, and mezzotints.
During the trip we stayed at the lovely Landmark Inn and ate at local restaurants. It was a lovely time away from the daily grind. (Pictures aren’t allowed during the opera, so there’s a stock photo included.)
The Alice Busch Opera Theater. Inside the theater.La bohème is a musical feast.Outside the National Baseball Hall of Fame.The hall of fame rotunda.Schmitty, my favorite Phillie of all time. Chase Utley is a close second.Lefty, the most dominant Phillies pitcher ever. Roy “Doc” Halladay, another dominant pitcher, sadly no longer with us.The legendary birthplace of baseball.Escher’s most famous work, unwittingly demonstrating the absurdity of self-creation.Notice the interplay between angels and demons.
Well, apparently there is crying in baseball, contrary to Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own. Like every other Phillies fan around the globe this past Sunday night, I watched Game 5 of the National League Championship Series between the Philadelphia Phillies and the San Diego Padres. As you may have heard by now, the Phillies won that game 4–3, and in the process, they also won the pennant. I may have gotten a little choked up during the post-game celebration. Raise your hand if you did, too. Be honest.
Now, I realize baseball is not everybody’s cup of tea, so this post is a personal reflection that goes beyond the world of sports. It’s more about those occasional flashes of joy that make our journeys sparkle once in a while, and for which we can be both happy and grateful. It’s about “high hopes” and learning how to wait patiently until those hopes are realized. (Thank you, Harry Kalas). Until a few weeks ago, it had been over a decade since the Phillies were involved in any postseason play. Now we’re in it to win it.
Sunday night: The Phillies had just surrendered a one-run lead in the seventh inning to put themselves on the brink of having to go back to California for the rest of the series. Nobody wanted to play Game 6 on Monday night at Petco Park. Not only would that squander our home field advantage, but it would also drag us right into the crosshairs of the Padres’ best pitchers. So, “the Phitins” wanted to clinch a World Series berth right here. Right now. This inning. Easier said than done.
Standout catcher J. T. Realmuto started the bottom of the eighth with a single to left field against right-hander Robert Suarez. That turned out to be huge, given what was about to unfold. The tying run was now on base, and the go-ahead run was coming to the plate. But who would be the next man stepping into the batter’s box? None other than our star cleanup hitter and likely Hall-of-Famer, Bryce Harper.
Everyone was thinking the same thing. A two-run bomb would put us back in the lead and on the verge of clinching. Harper certainly has the guns to do it (even to the opposite field), not to mention the drive, the talent, and the history to do so—but how much magic can we expect from one player? He had already done so much for the team in the postseason, along with Kyle Schwarber, Rhys Hoskins, Zach Wheeler, and several others. But #3 lives for moments like these, and this was his moment.
Harper showed good discipline at the plate, laying off Suarez’s bread-and-butter pitch out of the zone. He then threw a 2-2 sinker toward the outer half of the plate. The location was good from a pitcher’s perspective, but somehow—with his trademark “violent swing”—Harper muscled the ball over the outfield wall and into the left-center-field seats for a two-run shot to take the lead. If you didn’t get to see it, take a look:
Fans at Citizens Bank Park went ballistic. Viewers at home went ballistic. I went ballistic. It was storybook stuff to be sure, and no one could have written a better script. It’s what every little boy dreams about from the time he can swing a whiffle ball bat. This dramatic video clip will be shown for decades to come.
It was another milestone in the history of the club—a team I’ve been cheering for since I was a little boy. That’s why I got choked up Sunday night. Not just because we held on in the top of the ninth to win the game, but because it brought back some truly precious memories. The last time we won the World Series was in 2008 against the Tampa Bay Rays. Before that it was in 1980 against the Kansas City Royals. Before that, it was—well, there was no before that.
The Phillies have won the World Series only two times since becoming an MLB team in 1883. Back then they were known as the Quakers. They became the Phillies later in 1890. For most of those 139 years, it’s been phrustrating to be a phan. I’ve often said that the Phillies are always good enough to give you hope but bad enough to break your heart. That’s been the story for most of my life, with a few notable exceptions.
Why then do I keep cheering for them? Three words—family, friends, and memories. My dad took me to Veterans Stadium for the first time when I was about six or seven years old. It’s a memory that finds deep lodging in my heart, even to this day.
I remember holding my father’s hand walking out from under the shadowy concourse into the bright, shining seating area. The sun sprayed the radiant green AstroTurf with a brilliance that illuminated a perfectly manicured ball field, dazzling this little rookie into silence. I was in awe at the sight of it. And the sounds of it. And the smells of it. It somehow felt like I belonged there. At that moment I fell in love with baseball in general and the Phillies in particular. I’ve been a “Phanatic” ever since.
I also remember my dad getting me a dish of vanilla ice cream poured into in a little red plastic Phillies helmet—my very first baseball souvenir (and one that may still be boxed away somewhere in my attic). We also got hot dogs, French fries, and Cracker Jacks that day, purchased from the vendors walking up and down the aisles hawking their treats. Dad was happy, and I was over the moon. I didn’t understand the game very well back then, but the Phillies won, and that resulted in a lot of loud cheering—something I had never experienced before at that level of intensity.
My family, friends, and I went to many more games over the years, and we got many more souvenirs. Of course, we watched more games on TV than we attended in person, but we always wanted to know how our Phillies were doing. We could catch the nightly news, or read the box scores and standings in the paper the next day if we missed a game on TV. (I had to share the tube with my dad since he was a Yankees fan. Obviously, I’m adopted.) My heroes back then were Mike Schmidt, Larry Bowa, Dave Cash, Pete Rose, Steve Carlton, Bob Boone (who autographed a baseball of mine), Greg Luzinski, Gary Maddox, and Bake McBride.
I got to watch the second World Series victory in 2008 on the big screen with my church family. Several parishioners still remember the final out of that game—a strikeout by closer Brad Lidge—and they wrote us messages this week recalling that wonderful time of fellowship and celebration. Some of the kids were even at church in their pajamas that night.
Oddly enough, the Christian message is another good reason to stay with the Phillies through all their peaks and valleys. As Jesus sticks with those of us who keep striking out spiritually until we become more healthy, stable, and productive, so I can stick with the Phillies through tick and thin, regardless of their winning percentage. The theological word for that is “grace.” We all desperately need it, so we should all be willing to give it.
Having become a baseball junkie early on, I tried out for our middle school team and made the roster. By the start of my second year, I had worked myself into a starting position in the infield, and I loved every minute of it. Game days were always the best days, even when we lost. There’s nothing like going home tired, sweaty, and dirty after a game, knowing you did everything you could to help your team win. If you fielded well and got a hit or two, so much the better.
As life would have it, I was better at swimming than baseball, so that’s where I put my athletic energies in the years to come. I made it to the NCAA Division 1 Nationals, twice, and it wound up paying a big chunk of my college tuition, so that was the right call. But deep down, baseball was always my favorite sport. There’s just something about the game that captivated me as a little boy, and it’s never let go. Over time I learned that every pitch has a strategy, and every strategy has a counterstrategy. So, the issue is always one of anticipation and execution. Good teams do both well.
Back to this past Sunday. Right after preaching the morning service at our church, I came home and lost my voice. Laryngitis set in a few hours before the game, so, I couldn’t even yell for my team during that amazing come-from-behind, pennant-clinching victory. But I sure did grunt and snortle like a muffled rhinoceros a few times.
Then there were the silent but exuberant gesticulations of this little boy in a man suit whenever the Phillies put runs on the board. Sonya now knows how Michal felt when David danced before the Lord (cf. 2 Samuel 6:14–20), though I didn’t actually do anything that could remotely be called dancing. I just lumbered around the living room like a drunk baboon looking for a lamppost to lean on. (I’ll blame it on the meds I was taking.) In the end, though, myriad expressions of delight found ways to ooze out of my body from other portals besides my pie hole.
What will happen in the 2022 World Series? I have no idea, and I make no predictions. Houston has a great team, and I have a personal no-trash-talk policy. Athletes at this level are so good, any team can beat any other team on any given day. It’s just a matter of who’s clicking and who’s finding their groove in the moment. I never expected the Phillies to get this far, and I suspect very few other people did, too. So, even if they come up short at the end of this round, I’ll still be proud of them.
In the end, the best of our sports heroes are just human. They have good days and bad days. They have moments of great accomplishment and moments of great disappointment. They have seasons of good health and seasons of nagging injuries. They have big dreams and big hopes, just like the rest of us. Let’s let them be human and have some fun together, regardless of the outcome.
One dream I’ve had for a long time is to see the Phillies play in a World Series game—in Philadelphia, the city of my birth. I am blessed beyond measure to share with you that this longstanding dream will finally come true.
As of now, it looks like I’ll be going to Game 3 (Monday, October 31) or Game 4 (Tuesday, November 1). Look for me on TV. I’ll be wearing red and white. And if I get my voice back, I’ll be cheering as loud as everybody else, too.
I plan to buy myself a little red plastic Phillies cap filled with vanilla ice cream (yes, they still sell them!), and I’ll think of my dad while I’m eating it. I’ll no doubt revel in the magical atmosphere again, just like I did my first trip to the ballpark. Just like I did on Opening Day this year, which was another first for me. Yes, I was there when Kyle Schwarber started the season off with a first-at-bat home run, something now known as a “Schwarbomb.”
And, like everybody else, I’ll be waving my red “rally towel” for the Phillies, grateful beyond measure that my father introduced me to this wonderful sport all those years ago. While I’m there, I’ll be keeping the seat warm for little Samuel. Maybe someday day he’ll want some ice cream in a red helmet, too.
It’s been way too long since I’ve posted any Samuel pics and clips, so prepare to be deluged with cuteness! Our little Bubby passed the 10-month mark earlier this month, and he continues to be a source of great delight to all of us. Sometimes I have to fight back tears of joy while simply holding him because I love him so much. What a gift the Lord has given us!
I have such a great time with SamJam when we’re together, and I’m exceedingly blessed to be able to see him at least three or four times a week. I’m thinking Christmas is going to be a blast this year. I had better start preparing now for “adorableness overload.” 🙂
Enjoy!
Getting ready for his 10-month photo shoot…
Hold the sign a little higher…
There we go…
If you’re happy and you know it…
Helping Grandma do her grocery shopping…
Until it’s nap time…
“They do feed me, but when I’m teething…“
I could just melt when he looks at me like this…
Plotting his escape…
Held by Aunt Joan…
Video clip time: Learning how to jump…
Learning how to sing and dance…
Making fun sounds on Mommy’s thigh…
Rubber duckies, followed by the breaststroke kick…
Saying, “Ma ma ma ma ma ma ma…”
Giggling at “My Turn, Your Turn”…
First time eating mashed potatoes…
Learning to say, “More” using sign language…
Celebrating the Phillies post season run…
Coming over to see Grandpa…
BONUS
I performed a wedding last weekend at Camp Swatara, and the autumn leaves were breathtaking…
* Ramble Alert! * I tend to get pensive, ponderous, and poetic at the end of the year. So, there’s no need to read further, as you probably have better things to do with your time. I’m just processing my own musings as the calendar gets ready to flip again.
1. I shaved off my December goatee. As I was doing so, I had flashbacks to some hurtful insults I received during my school days. I once was described as having a “beaver chin” and “a weak, unmanly profile.” Because of a “face-plant” fall I had as a young child, I developed an overbite that was only partially corrected by my (terribly uncomfortable) retainer. My classmates in fifth through seventh grade were particularly cruel about how I looked. Only one kind girl out of hundreds my age thought it made me look cute. Even when I was at peak physical condition in college, a photographer doing a local hairstylist’s spread featuring a few of us chiseled swimmers kept telling me to grind my teeth or somehow produce a stronger jawline since mine was too wimpy. (Why, then, did you ask me to be in the picture in the first place?) The good news is that these insults no longer sting like they used to. But I do wonder sometimes why I remember them so vividly. Maybe it’s because they led to so many insecurities that would later cause me to overcompensate in other areas of life (e.g., athletics, academics, etc.). Whatever the psychology behind it, it’s a good reminder for us to speak kindly to one another, especially those who are in their early formative years. Let’s not allow our careless words to do unnecessary damage. Lord knows, I’ve had to repent of many unkind things I’ve said over the years.
2. It’s always been our family tradition for me to read the story of the Magi from Matthew 2:1-12 on Christmas morning before we open our gifts. It’s our way of trying to keep the focus on what the day is all about. Problem is, my family always takes bets as to how far I’ll get in the passage before getting too choked up to read any further. (The Incarnation never gets old, and it wrecks me every time I ponder it.) I knew in advance that there was no way I’d be able to get past the first verse with a newborn in the room this year. Samuel wasn’t even a month old on Christmas Day, so it just wasn’t going to work for me to read the text without brutzing. So, this year I carved up the passage and gave each of us a few verses to read. It went well, and everyone enjoyed doing it that way. I think we’ll do something similar in future years. No more betting against me! 🙂
P.S., I got to take SamJam on a walk in his stroller yesterday. He was curious about the world around him, and I was overwhelmed with delight in watching him! (Yes, we got him the hat. Totally appropriate, right?!)
3. The 20th-century British novelist and poet Robert Graves once said, “There is no such thing as good writing, only good rewriting.” That’s why I find the process to be both exhilarating and exhausting. I’m seldom happy with what I’ve written. “It can always be better, sharper, clearer,” I tell myself. And maybe this perfectionistic tendency is rooted in what I (imperfectly) wrote above in #1. Either way, it’s a great hinderance to finishing an academic dissertation. We’re trained to anticipate objections and opposing views as we write, and the “lawyerly disposition” in me always wants to create an unassailable argument. That’s not humanly possible, so please pray that I get over myself and write something defensible, even if not incontrovertible. The best dissertation is a done dissertation. Thanks!
4. I recently finished my latest binge, How to Get Away with Murder. The story arc spanning six seasons was engaging and unpredictable. The progressively expanding flashbacks—while confusing at first—were intriguing and captivating as the episodes unfolded, serving as teasers to keep watching and assemble the pieces yourself. The screen writing was sharp overall, and the plot twists were uncliched. Moreover, the casting was brilliant, the acting was superb, and the emotional impact was notable. As was the case with Scandal, the scene cuts were a bit hyperactive at times, though they were much more manageable. Ironically, the hyper-talented Kerry Washington from Scandal made a few appearances in Murder, which was a welcome addition. Aja Naomi King made a strong case for being the new generation’s Kerry Washington. Her portrayal of Michaela Pratt, an ambitious and overly confident lawyer in the making, was one of several acting standouts in the production. It will be fun to watch Aja’s career unfold. Unfortunately, some of the moral values promoted in the series were disappointing, and part of the socio-political agenda was executed in selective and prejudicial ways. But that’s what Hollywood does these days in their “ends-justifies-the-means” approach to progress. Create a straw man and then give yourself high fives for ripping it apart with ease. We tend to write fiction to suit ourselves because it’s much easier than honest debate. The West Wing and other shows of that ilk often follow the same playbook. In an attempt to get back to cinematic sanity, where I don’t have to keep fast forwarding past the raunchy parts, I may return to Endeavor next (since I’m a Morse fan, and the series was filmed in charming Oxford), but there will be no more guilty pleasures until the dissertation is finished.
5. C. S. Lewis described pre-Aslan Narnia as “always winter but never Christmas.” That is, a fallen world without a Savior is devoid of hope. It’s just an icy darkness that shatters the soul and renders people zombie-like until they breathe their last. But because there is a Savior in this world—one whose magnificent mane was shaved in humiliation on our behalf, only to grow back in resurrection glory after the stone table cracked—eternal life can now be described as “always Christmas but never winter.” Believers bend but never break in a world where Aslan is on the move. Here is a poem about how this particular image helped me through a difficult time in my life. It’s not great art by any means, but it’s an honest portrayal of what I was feeling at the time. Here’s the context:
On Saturday, July 1, 2000, my father-in-law, Rev. Keith Moore, resigned as pastor of Baker Heights Baptist Church in Martinsburg, West Virginia. He was only six months away from retirement, but he could no longer shepherd the flock. The awful effects of radiation and chemotherapy had rendered him virtually lifeless, nearly brining him to the point of death in order to spare him from it. It was a painful time for the whole family. That same day, Pastor Keith got a haircut. It turned out to be his last one. The clippers came out and the hair came off. “Better to do it myself,” he said, “than to let the chemo do it.” I was present for that awful event, and when it happened, I sobbed. I was no stranger to the humming of the electric razor. In the 1980s I would often shave my head as a high school or collegiate swimmer to prepare for the big meet at the end of the season. But those silly haircuts had a purpose. They helped me swim faster. But this haircut was nothing but shame and humiliation. It had no purpose at all. Or did it?
Razed to Life
Before the chemo waged its war on blood and scalp alike, The ravenous razor snarled away, leaving a head full of spikes. In the other room I lost my nerve and filed a complaint with the Lord; Comforting words I had given to others suddenly felt like a sword.
“Why, dear Lord, this man of God, who faithfully fed your sheep— “The same day losing his pulpit and hair, craving nothing but sleep?” “He’s frail and weak, Lord, wracked in pain; what does the future hold?” “Where is your power, God; where is your love, if I may be so bold?”
And then in my gloom a beacon of hope fastened upon my soul: “Aslan’s razor,” came the reply. “That’s all you need to know.” Aslan’s razor—what could that mean? Where have I heard that before? A gem by Lewis, for children, and me, where a Lion loses his roar.
Where they crop off his mane and stab at his heart and leave him for dead in the mud; Naked, ashamed, and lonely he dies with scoundrels mocking his blood. But why was he captured and horribly killed, and strapped to a table of stone? The witch said, “For justice,” but Aslan, “For love—for a treason not my own.”
Well, the world, like Narnia, has children around with questioning tears in their eyes, Yet the world, like Narnia, has a table that cracked, and a Lion who knows how to rise. So the death of death in the death of Christ laces every trial with hope, And the empty tomb declares to us all that the grave will not be our home.
While some use pain to bludgeon our souls and scratch away at our faith, God in his infinite wisdom and love uses faith to scratch at our pain. So even today a Lion is heard whenever the gospel is shared, Telling the story of Christ and his love, showing that God really cares.
“Come!” says the Lion to children of faith. “Ride on my back, and we’ll soar.” “Come!” says the Lord to children of grace. “Enter my heavenly door.” “I have a surprise especially for you: I’ve built you a grand destination.” “A land of delight with no more tears—and evil’s humiliation.”
“Look at my mane! Touch it again! Only one scar remains; “I keep it around to let people know that death has lost its claims.” “And look at his hair, flowing again; the razor bows to its glory.” “Yes, I let you feel pain, but only on earth, to maximize your eternal story.”
6. Here’s a good word from Jon Acuff to end the year. Let it be a micro-motivation for us all: “If you picked up any bitterness this year, don’t miss your chance to put it down this week. Don’t carry last year’s rocks into next year’s garden. Don’t paint next year’s canvas with last year’s colors. Don’t write next year’s story with last year’s words. You might need to choose it 100 times, but leaving bitterness behind is always worth it.” Amen.
7. Two albums today for me to finish out the year in mellow reflection: John Michael Talbot’sSimple Hearts and Enya’sShepherd Moons. “God Alone is Enough” in the former is a great place to park the soul (as Teresa of Avila captured the best and wisest approach to life), and “Marble Halls” in the latter is a fun place to unleash the imagination (as there’s so much more to this life than riches and material wealth). Love is everything. So, perchance to dream. Also appropriate today is Enya’s “My My! Time Flies!” though we’re way past 2010. 🙂
Stay safe tonight, and Lord willing, we’ll see you in 2022.
Edit: Nicole Kidman and Javier Bardem are outstanding as Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz in Becoming the Ricardos. Watched it last night on Amazon Prime after our company departed and the house got quiet for the first time in a long time.
I’m not sure how Santa got this thing down the chimney, but I’m glad he did. I’ve never had a power recliner before, but this is a high-end Bassett that’s super sturdy and comfy.
This wonderful piece of furniture was for yours truly. “Hers truly” got a silver Bach Stradivarius trumpet. This top-tier instrument is stunning and is supposed to be played only with gloves or a hand cloth.
Both are kingdom tools. One is for reading and writing. The other is for praising and worshiping.
As nice as these things are, the best Christmas present this year (besides Jesus) was the new addition to the family. Samuel didn’t make a peep during the entire Christmas Eve service—even with our brass team belting it out during the opening carols. And, yes, he slept through the sermon! 🙂
Today I got to babysit him for a couple hours while Bethany went to a doctor’s appointment. What a blessing that he lives less than 15 minutes away. I’m utterly smitten with this little munchkin and have to share a few snaps from the past few days.
1. Yesterday I walked out of the hardware store and started getting into my SUV. Or so I thought. (Hey, it looked just like mine!) I realized something was wrong when I saw a big dog staring back at me, growling. Fortunately, the creature was rather tame, but, oh what a fright he gave me! The real embarrassment was that the driver was still in the vehicle when I tried to fob my way into it! With her window rolled down, she smiled and said, “No worries, I do that all the time.” Glad to know I’m not the only one. Chalk it up to academic fatigue, I guess. (Yeah, that’s better than calling myself an airhead.)
2. I’m still plowing through my dissertation, and it’s wonderfully exhausting. I love the subject matter (more on that later), but academic research and writing are tedious and time-consuming. Still, I’ve learned so much, and I can’t wait to share the results. All in good time. Last I checked, my bibliography is 32 pages long, and that’s only half the entries. Yes, I’m insane, but I totally dig doing targeted research.
3. Speaking of insanity, when I lay out the syllabi for all the courses I’m teaching this semester, there’s no room left for anything else on the table. Not even a coffee cup. Still, I’m having a blast gearing up for the new term. The only frustration has been moving from Canvas to Pathwright. It’s not a terribly difficult learning platform, but there’s a learning curve, and my muscle memory needs to be retrained. Courses begin on Monday.
4. All these ventures leave little time for getting in the pool lately, but I do still get out for long, brisk walks. I can almost smell the fall season approaching. That’s nearly as good as the smell of coffee. 🙂
5. My mother-in-law’s garden has exploded this year. We’ve gotten so much produce from just a 64-SF bed that we started putting some of it in front of the house with a FREE sign on it. Tomatoes, lettuce, squash, zucchini, green peppers, cucumbers—what a harvest!
6. Samuel is due in about three months—another image bearer of God! What a profound mystery. I love the little munchkin already.
Well, time to get back at it. I do miss writing general posts and all the other features I used to do (e.g., Throwback Thursday, Friday Fun, etc.), but this is just a season. I’ll get back at it when I can. Thanks, everyone, for your support and encouragement.
Have a great weekend. Be blessed!
EDIT: Our church is singing “Goodness of God” tomorrow for the first time. I’m taking some tissues with with me.
