October 31st

Sung to the tune of Yankee Doodle:

"October 31st's the date,
In Fifteen-seventeen,
Martin Luther made it great,
Much more than Halloween.

"The just shall live by faith alone,
He nailed it on the door,
Just to prove to all the world
That you need nothing more."

That's pretty much the extent of my song-writing career. I like photography better, though - so head on back to last year's "In Praise of Autumn" post, and enjoy!

Birthdays

(click on pictures to enlarge)

We surprised my father-in-law with a visit on his 85th birthday - and with a tour of the Baltimore Orioles' Camden Yards ballpark. George - or Pappy, as his grandkids call him - remains an athlete to this day. He was ice skating an hour before we arrived. His knowledge of hockey is inexhaustible. And he's still quite the ball player.

So as we walked through the bird-emblazoned gates, we learned almost as much from him as from our excellent tour guide.



The historical importance of the site starts with the B & O railroad station,



where President Abraham Lincoln came through several times: the first on the way for his inauguration in Washington, D.C., (when he arrived in the middle of the night, fearing an assassination), on his long journey to deliver the short but brilliant Gettysburg Address, and in 1865 on his funeral train.

It was a beautiful day, full of "October's bright blue weather." There were tributes to past athletes:







the Orioles Hall of Fame, one of several retired numbers (here Frank Robinson's #20), and a statue honoring Baltimorean Babe Ruth (though a leftie, he is holding a right-handed glove, based on a photo of the same).

It's a beautiful park,



with its own sod farm for necessary patching.



The Orioles' groundskeeper is Nicole Sherry, only the second woman to hold that job in Major League Baseball. Though the season was over (but not for the Yankees...had to mention that), her work is not; she and her team will keep at it until the grass stops growing. Her team's workclothes stay at the stadium and are even washed there so that no foreign object goes onto the grass. The design of the field is kind of like the nap on suede, that's how they make it.



We visited the mahogany-and-carpet executive suites,



walked along hallways with 200 miles of wiring,



and went into the jumbotron control room (normally run by as many as 19 people).



We went behind home plate where the press sees the game,



(the groundskeeper is standing just right of the pitcher's mound)



and saw from afar the orange seat that marks the spot of Cal Ripken's record-breaking 278th home run (above the blue Bud Light sign). One other orange seat is in the bleacher section (not in this picture) to mark Eddie Murray's 500th home run (the fan paid $7.00 for his ticket, and sold the ball for half a million dollars).

Our girls Bethany and Hannah sat in the Orioles dugout,



and three generations (Pappy, Bill, and Nathan) looked upon a field of American dreams.



There were other bits of information on the 90-minute tour: how the warning track absorbs water almost instantly (demonstrated for us), where the special mud comes from that is rubbed on every ball before a game (Pennsauken, New Jersey; it costs $100 for 18 ounces), the 20 mile pipe that carries beer through the stadium, the equal number of women's and men's restrooms (25 each), even how the balls that hit outside the stadium are commemorated with plaques:



Only one ball has hit the B & O warehouse building, it was hit by Ken Griffey, Jr.



We had our picture taken together, by the cobblestones,



and then outside the park when Pappy received a cap from the tour guide.



The retro-styled 48,000 seat baseball-only Camden Yards, located in downtown Baltimore's Inner Harbor, opened in 1992. Memorial Stadium had been the home of the Orioles before that, and was dedicated to those who had served America in battle. When it - and its significant motto - was torn down, many were justifiably upset.



So a monument was built to make sure that sacrifice was not forgotten.



And that caused me to remember...



Pappy worked throughout his life for the federal government, but he also had several part-time jobs, usually involving skating. For many years, he was a guard at Memorial Stadium's outdoor ice rink. As a result, he worked on-site with the help staff when Billy Graham came to Baltimore in June of 1981.



Pappy was (and is) a good man, a faithful husband, and a devoted father. But he thought a personal relationship with Jesus Christ was something for his wife, not him. During those meetings, however, that changed - and his eternal life began one night in Memorial Stadium.

Important things happen in ballparks.



Happy Birthday, Pappy. Twice...

Sister Act

The Chapel choir began Christmas rehearsals tonight - and there are three sets of sisters involved. Two sets are my family (left to right) - my Aunt Thelma and my Mom (who have been singing together since they were toddlers), and my daughters Hannah (13 - her first time in the church choir) and Bethany (23).

Hannah and Bethany (who is married) did not plan on wearing the same thing, but they both have on their Do Hard Things T-shirts from The Rebelution Tour in D.C. Christ is born - sing Alleluia!

Fifteen chairs

When we had our family reunion at the cottage on Lake Ontario this summer, we kept up the tradition of eating as many meals outside as possible. The food, usually prepared by my brother, was as good as the incredible setting.



The best part of our time there? Being together. All fifteen of us.

Each chair represents a family member, someone I belong to, someone I love.

It's not the empty rooms.



It's the people that fill them, and that fill my life.

"Perfect"

(Well, "perfect" would mean pictures from my summer. I'll do that soon. But first, a little homeschool moment.)

To know me is to know that the words "perfect" and "homeschool" are rarely mentioned in the same sentence.

But this week, a few things went rather, well, perfectly.

There was the science experiment. Atoms, molecules. The way copper turns that greenish color. A 9-volt battery, some baking soda. And it turned out just right. No scrambling to re-read the directions, mutter something about 'how it should have happened,' and state that bit about 'even a failed experiment teaches us something.' Lesson learned, illustrated, understood.



And then there was trap shooting today.

Nathan's been on the team for several years, from when he shot with a .410, to the progression to (his own) .20 gauge, and then his .12 gauge shotgun. He worked his way up through the awards, until his walls are papered with them. Attention issues? Focus struggles? These framed certificates, pins, patches, and medals shout otherwise.

And today, the elusive goal was achieved: a perfect score. 25 out of 25.




A certain mother keeping score on the stand let out a yell. Might have been me....

Not all days are perfect. Most aren't. But there are lots of perfect moments, and I rejoice to celebrate them.

Never forget

Days of shock. A skyline of smoke. Cars at the train station, covered with flowers. Story after story. Prayer. Tears. Hope that some would survive. Resolve. Flags everywhere - every house, every car...Praying today for those left behind, for those who serve, for those who remember, for those who lead. Grateful for the heroes of that day. And so, so proud to be an American. Never, ever forget....

Morning

Sunshine igniting the moving water,
Green leaves in a stage-whisper
beside me,
Coffee brewing, and fragrancing the air,
Books and journals and pens
waiting, with promise
but no demands,
While family stirs and rises
one by one
To meet me and the day
on the cottage porch.

Remembering

"Remembering Katrina, and Lakeshore Baptist" - from Chapel on the Hill's perspective.

My mink

Rather cute...
(Click to enlarge. Taken on the shore of our beach at Lake Ontario in upstate New York.)

Now Hear This :-)

I expect to start blogging again.

(Gasp from someone in the back....)

Later.

Hopefully.

See ya in a bit...

Fourth of July

My thoughts on this special day.

Because There's More

The words were slipping out of my mouth before I could stop them.

“If I can play paintball, ANYONE can play paintball.”

It was one of those moments when the brain apparently really has no control over the tongue, despite what those anatomy books say.

It was shortly after my husband and I (along with our daughter and son-in-law) presented to our church the idea of a youth retreat that included “Paintball with a Purpose.” The lure of five hours of paintball had nearly all the boys and several of the girls so excited they could hardly wait to sign up. But a couple of girls and one or two boys were not so sure.

“I heard it really hurts” was one remark. “Do you have to do paintball if you go?” was another. And in the midst of the nearly deafening chorus of “Aw-right!”s and high fives, there was one individual who just stared at us, with a mixture of wide eyes and an expression that said There-Is-No-Way-I’m-Going-On-This.

We wanted all the church kids to go, and to invite others to join us, too. We knew it would be important for them spiritually. We knew it would challenge them and they’d have a great time. We knew we just had to get them to say they’d go…

So that was when I blurted it out.

It was meant to be an encouragement, a statement of confidence in how great this would be, and almost a dare. It was all that – and it worked. All those worried kids signed up. It’s just that I forgot it meant I would one day be putting on a big scary-looking mask, picking up a ‘marker’ (looked more like a machine gun to me), and quickly scrambling up the side of a wooded hill to get to the bunker I was supposed to ‘defend.’

Oh, and did I mention rock-wall climbing, too?

This is not the official pictorial report of the retreat. We’ll do that at a Relive The Retreat luncheon a week from Sunday. Nor is this a blog post of all that happened. I’ll put that on the church blog soon.

This is just my own personal story of two and a half days in the Endless Mountains of Pennsylvania, when God spoke to my own heart, even though it was a youth retreat, and even though I was one of the speakers.

The work of preparation was all-consuming, and went on for a couple of months. It got so it was on the back – or front - of my mind, every waking moment. The last few days before we left were non-stop retreat work (packing for us and our two teens, planning, organizing, coordinating and shopping for this group of twenty-seven kids and four leaders going 150 miles away), and there wasn’t a lot of time to reflect on anything personal, other than what Bill and I were going to say in our messages to these kids.

Our theme was to be Looking Unto Jesus, and our verses were, of course, Hebrews 12:1 & 2. ‘Therefore, we also, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him, endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.”

Let us run with endurance. We thought of that many times during the weekend, when we marched the entire group three quarters of a mile down the road for each meal, and then back again afterwards, and when we walked them into the woods to have our services in the Youth Chapel.

And I thought of that on Saturday, when I was ducking behind a log barrier that looked like something from the Revolutionary War. I kept thinking as I peered out through my slightly foggy mask into the mass tangle of spring green, ‘What must war really be like?’ But then I forgot such big thoughts in the sudden battle that ensued.



The games continued into the afternoon, with different rounds, different objectives, different strategies. And although I started out the day expecting to hang back and pretty much hide (um, I mean, defend), it wasn’t long before I was going from tree to tree, rock outcropping to wood pile, crouching, ducking, shooting, and – getting shot.

I took my first hit on the elbow. I never saw it coming, I don’t know who did it (though one of the kids later bragged that he was the one), all I knew was that it hurt like crazy. (It stings? Excuse me, that is not a sting. That is pain.)



It went away, though, and soon I was showing off the splatter on my outer layer of sweatshirt like everyone else. In another game, I got hit in the eye. Those masks are amazing, and of course, I never felt a thing. It was a bizarre thought, though, to wonder, again, what it ‘must be like.’ My last hit was in the chest, and by then I must have been pumping so much adrenaline I didn’t even feel it.



By the last round, I gave it all I had. (If any of you kids are reading this, don’t laugh. For me, that was all I’ve got.) I didn’t hold back, I wanted to leave nothing on the battlefield. I wasn’t even sure where the flag was at that point, I just knew I was headed in the general direction. And by game’s end, I’d reached my own objective: I was still standing.

The camp’s leader, Steve, got all the kids to sit up on the rocks, and he talked to us about running our race with endurance, about having a strategy to do it, and about going to the Rock which will never fail us. He did a fantastic job, both in coaching, guiding, and in complementing our message topics.



And yes, I was very glad I’d been a part of it. In fact, I couldn’t imagine, at that point, having missed out on those hours of paintball in the woods.

After hiking back to the dorms, getting changed, then walking the three-quarters of a mile to dinner, and walking back (the rule was you couldn’t walk ahead of Mrs. B, so I had to jog for a bit to get ahead of the group. Please note: I do not jog. So even that was really ‘big’ for me, too), it was time for rock-wall-climbing.

The hillside gymnasium (where we stayed, the dorms were connected to it) had one section of the wall covered with hand and foot holds for climbing. There were four side by side ‘paths’ to the top that you could take, each one harder than the next. Strong climbing ropes attached the climber’s harness (through a sort of pulley at the top) to four harnessed people at the bottom.

After a time of instruction and encouragement (and again, parallels to what we were teaching in the Youth Chapel times), Steve got the kids to start climbing.

I knew it was now or never. I admit, I chose the first or ‘easiest’ path. But hey, I’m not after medals here, I just wanted to encourage the kids – and myself – that they could do more than they dreamed, when they do it for the Lord.

So on went the harness. The helmet was another story – I must have a big head or something, because it ended up more like a big red necklace. But I didn’t care, I was going to try to climb, so I pretended it fit and announced to my team ‘Belay’ or whatever it was I was supposed to say.

I told whoever was listening nearby ‘I’m just going to see how far I can get.’ Maybe I was lowering my expectations, so I wouldn’t show disappointment, or embarrassment. The old feelings of klutziness flooded my mind (I guess I forgot to mention: sports - or anything even remotely connected to them – are not my thing; I was chosen dead last for anything I ever played, and my coordination is simply non-existent. I. Am. Not. Kidding.). This wasn’t me hiding in the woods where no one could see. This was me, on a wall, with lots of witnesses, several of whom had cameras, and who weren’t afraid to use them.

One hold at a time. Some shouts when I paused. “It’s just to the right of your foot!” “Reach for the purple one!” “You can do it, Mrs. B!”



There was that midpoint moment when I realized I was higher than my five-feet-seven-and-a-fraction inches ever want to be, particularly up on a wall – but in that same instant, I knew I was going for the top.

That ceiling on my head felt incredibly great.



I did it.

Not huge to some. We’re not talking Everest here.

But for me, a 51-year-old non-athlete, the aches I feel today, the day after the retreat, are my reminders: I ran with endurance the race set before me, with the Lord, and for the Lord.



We ended the retreat on Sunday, after our morning gym time, walk to breakfast and walk back, walk to the Youth Chapel (more music, memorizing Hebrews 12:1 & 2, and messages, complete with helping the kids with note-taking ideas) and walk back, with a hike.

We all walked on what this Bible conference calls their Scripture trail. Along a three-quarter to a mile long trail, they have white wooden signs with verses on them. We ended the trail on the top of the mountain, where we spread out the elements for communion, Bill spoke to the group, and we ‘showed the Lord’s death until He comes.’



It was one of those times that you know will just linger in your mind and heart for good.



There was so much more, and I’ll write about it and show more pictures. But I wanted to write here about how Jesus spoke to me. I had wanted so much for these kids on this retreat – but I had also begged God for my husband, my own children (all three, and my son-in-law – we were all on this trip, which was such a gift), and – please, Lord, I had begged – for me. I knew I needed that time of refreshing from the Lord.

I got more than I’d ever imagined.

We taught the kids that they need a strategy for the race, that they should not go defenseless into battle, that looking unto Jesus means joy (and if it doesn’t, they don’t really know Jesus). And the strategy for the individual race God has set before them is all in His Word. Read it, we told them. Study it. Memorize it. Listen to it taught and preached.

And yes, love it – because it reveals Jesus to us.

That was what I’d needed. I needed to know that it’s not time to sit back. It’s not time to say I’ve done all I’m going to do, I’ve reached my goals, I’ve gotten to know God as much as I’m going to in this life.

There’s more. Jesus is our example: “who for the joy that was set before Him…”

And it’s worth whatever it costs to get there.

Full heart, crazy schedule, big plans...

Bill and I lead - and speak at - our church's first youth retreat this weekend.

You'd think we were moving with these kids, not just going away with them. I have lists of my lists, my head is spinning.

Sleeping bags. Messages and Bibles. Camo and sweats for paintball. Cases of snacks. Sheets of music. Supplies for communion on the mountaintop. Games and funny plans for the three hour bus ride. Pillows. Towels. Ponchos (please, God, we'd really rather not have to use them!). Travel size toiletries. Hangers. First Aid kits. Lock boxes for the medicines. Ingredients for smores for the campfire. A notebook full of charts of who is allergic to what, who can and can't take what, whom to call (with multiple back-ups, it's amazing how many phone numbers each family has) when and if someone can or can't or should or shouldn't take something. And NO cell phones. (Except for the leaders.) A technology-free weekend. An amazing thing...

Twenty-seven teens and a few pre-teens in the mix. And the four of us (me, Bill, daughter Bethany and son-in-law Nate) leading. Thirty-one in all. A big, gorgeous bus. A gym. Rock wall climbing. (Did I mention five hours of paintball on Saturday?) A youth Chapel in the woods. A lovely dining hall. Bunk beds. The Endless Mountains of Pennsylvania, in May.

Hebrews 12:1 & 2. Looking Unto Jesus. By this time Sunday night, we should know it: in our minds, and in our hearts.

Tonight, we sat in the messy living room (piles of stuff, in that pre-packing state that fosters excitement and yes, panic) and ate take-out Chinese food, talking over what to do if, how to tweak the schedule, and how we are working on the messages together. And then - we got out the music and went over it, singing together and finding the melodies and harmonies that will be the score to God's work.

Refiner's Fire. There is a Redeemer. Open my eyes, Lord. Come, Holy Spirit. I love You, Lord. I surrender all...

All to Thee my blessed Savior, I surrender all.

Pray for us. Pray for these kids - their names are here.

(Are we really doing this??)

National Day of Prayer!

Leaving in a few minutes to go to our town hall, to stand with my (homeschooled!) children outside at the flag pole, and join with several others from my township. We will pray together for our community, our state, our nation, our president and other leaders, our military - and ourselves.

I wrote about it here.

Worth a thousand words...

I'll post some of my favorite new spring pictures soon, but thought I'd share the link to my political blog (A Vertical View - for a Change) and a very special picture I have there :-)

http://averticalview.blogspot.com/2009/04/why-i-volunteer-for-huckabee-and-for.html

Our Good Friday

Last night, we joined together as a church to adore and worship our Lord and Savior. The choir sang (what a thrill to have my Dad lead the choir and to have my mother, daughter, son-in-law, aunt, uncle, and cousin sing in the choir - as well as all the others who are my dear spiritual family), Pastor (my Dad) gave a stirring message, and members of the Cross Culture youth group presented "I Will Arise."

My daughter Bethany choreographed and directed it. My sixteen year old son Nathan portrayed Jesus. And my turning-thirteen-year-old daughter Hannah had a part in which she steps into the middle alone, then has two of the other girls by her side.

To see "I Will Arise," go to our church's blog, Chapelccino.

Looking forward to tomorrow - and celebrating the Resurrection!

Edit: It's also up on youtube here.