A Box of Curtains

Oh To Be A Tree

2011-01-02T08:03:00.005-05:00

But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and on His law he meditates day and night.

He is like a tree planted by streams of water,

The strength of a tree is such that it can break concrete. Then it lifts the weight.

This is destructive to a sidewalk, but it serves to remind me of the psalmist’s words. I am nourished by the Word, just as the tree is fed by waters in the soil by the side of the river.

God’s strength is matched by the compassion He shows to frail beings such as I am. As John Mark McMillan wrote, “loves like a hurricane, I am a tree. Bending beneath the weight of His wind and mercy.”

Watered well and with a tap root way, way down into the soil, a tree. Breaking the constraints that this temporal world’s values impose on me. And experiencing His Holy Spirit’s wind and the free gift of mercy.

A tree

the Psalmist’s simile

I want Your wildness to blow through me

Your refuge too, is where I flee

I submit my all to Thee

And That's The Way It . . . Will Be?

2010-12-24T23:03:00.007-05:00

He is young; he is bright, bilingual, ambitious. And he wants to be a journalist.

We have had lunch and talked (watch short video* now).

A soccer player, he aspires to sportscasting. I haven’t doused his desire to reach ESPN.

Neither have I made all of this look easy (“like on TV”). Many journalists exert the dogged diligence of toiling on in relative obscurity. (Having served in ag journalism, I love the line about “pork belly futures . . .”) But this trait is unportrayed by the quick conflict/resolution plots of television and cinema.

The journalist was negative, more so than I have been. This is due in part to my young friend’s interest in sportscasting. Whereas people may starve themselves of news (especially international news, decimated by budget cuts) the appetite for sports coverage remains. “Seventy-five percent of what people come to the page for is sports,” observed Mr. C of the Deseret News.

Time was, sports formed a portion of a newscast, even as the audience grabbed a view of the world from trusted voices – journalists’ voices. Walter Cronkite comes to mind, of course.

As my young friend attempts to learn something from me, the easier part is to evaluate journalism of the past. The harder part – as audiences continue fragmenting into niche segments – is to predict job possibilities and the future.

And to sound authoritative and conclusive with a summarizing statement like, “That’s the way it will be . . .”

*Video by: Lee Gjertsen Malone.

Some Shots From Ecuador's Coast

2010-12-18T20:45:00.021-05:00

Your righteousness is like the highest mountains,

Your justice like the great deep.

You, LORD, preserve both people and animals.

Yes, he is in there . . . yeah, he's there. Possibly a stenocercus iridescens, or iguana to most of us.

Here . . . let's get closer. A LOT closer. Actually, I never got near him. I helped a small crab escape the swimming pool where someone had put it. Yeah, picked that out of the water.

As to the beached eel, I was willing to let it be. I pointed it out to a passing beachcomber, and with his stick, he flicked it into the water.

And what do you suppose is going on here?

Pelecanus occidentalis, which is known as the brown pelican, captures fish by a spectacular plunge from the air. Other species of pelicans swim in formation, driving small schools of fish into shoal water where they are scooped up by the birds.

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.

Places Where Our Patterns Were Set

2010-10-30T19:03:00.011-04:00

Yellowstone National Park

2010-10-30T18:38:00.012-04:00

Another Astoria, A Different Aberdeen

2010-07-22T20:31:00.021-04:00

It was a different Astoria than I'd known during my small town newspapering days of decades earlier. Crossing the long bridge, we entered the state of Washington.

So too, it was a different Aberdeen than I'd known in my younger years working at a rock AM station. At Aberdeen, Washington we stopped & piled out of the van at the Young Street bridge over the Wishkah River. We read the plaque informing us (perhaps incorrectly?) that ashes of a rock star, Kurt Cobain, had been scattered on the water after his premature death in the early 1990s. Amid the fame of his band, Nirvana, he was a self-confessed junkie.
After the trip, I am midway through Heavier Than Heaven, a Charles Cross biography of the musician. Musically gifted and artistically brilliant, Cobain spiralled downward inside even as Nirvana's popularity careened ever higher.

What went wrong? More specific to my own evangelical beliefs, what went wrong with Cobain's born again experience and exposure to Christianity years earlier during his teens?

A photo shows Cobain in Olympia, Washington. Behind him is a billboard that admonishes Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved. By that time, the message seemed lost on him, although he continued exploring spirituality in one form or another. In a relationship, he sought unconditional love just as we all do.

"Come As You Are" Cobain urged a generation of young people. It is a message we need to hear from the Church -- that Jesus welcomes sinners in need of God's grace.

God chooses to love me, not for what I do but because He simply chooses to. His grace is central to the gospel message. So too, the doctrine of santification warns me that while forgiveness is great, God urges me on to holy living. I may come as I am, but He will woo me and work for a better me, a more complete me.

And another building block of Christianity - hope. Despite Cross' thorough reporting work in the book, I don't know just when it was that Kurt Cobain lost hold of hope.

Fabulous Falls and a Grand Gorge

2010-07-22T20:25:00.016-04:00

Posting from Portland . . .

2010-07-03T02:01:00.008-04:00

Watching Tony's Toes

2010-06-07T21:20:00.024-04:00

He wear no shoeshine, he got toe-jam football
He got monkey finger, he shoot coca-cola
-J. Lennon / P. McCartney

I promise that this will be my only toe jam blog entry. TMI (too much information!!) as the young people say.

At a coffeehouse open-mic evening, I played with Rick and band (dubbed as "Rick S & the Beauty Queens" by some wag) . The lyrics of "Come Together" are . . . very interesting.

"Toe jammed" again several days later, I watched as the main wheel of Toe Jam Music, Tony Melendez, strummed and picked his guitar on the floor . . . playing with his feet. For you see, Tony was born with no arms -- affected in the womb by the drug, Thalidamide.

With his feet, he also directed the crowd in doing "the wave" and tossed frisbees to us. Fun! His music ranged from Tu Eres Mi Dios (You Are My God) to a Lennon/McCartney classic, "Let It Be" to Ritchie Valens' La Bamba.

I'd been aware of Tony's story but his drummer, Tim Pope, fascinated me with his one-handed drumming. He kept full purcussion going with his left hand while the right hand played "bass" on a keyboard.

Yikes! This band has no bass player!

I hold no illusions; I play average bass
Dispensable?
Produce or Be Replaced?

Listen! to Tony's untiring message

urging me on
until one day when I see His face

the message in his life,
in his music
of God's fountain of grace.

The View from the Mountaintop

2010-06-05T22:20:00.012-04:00

Two-Dollar Dental Work at a Mobile Medical Clinic

2010-05-16T18:42:00.020-04:00

As a kid, I would watch as my dentist sterilized his instrument on a small Bunsen burner before proceeding on my filling. No reclining chair, no humor and certainly no laughing gas. Those were dental visits from the history books.

Eventually he moved into pre-retirement, spending more time grooming his yard and flower gardens with his wife. With this, he suggested that Mom seek a new dentist for me and my siblings. (Mom obliged by taking herself and Dad to a new dentist along with us kids.)

Was it that cut-the-kids ruling (I learned of it decades later) that prompted my own desire for kids to wait outside the medical caravan truck? I don't know, but as I watched, I wondered when the ax would come from Dr. Reinaldo:

"Afuera por favor." (Wait outside please.)

As he worked on mouth after mouth, the verbal "boot" never was uttered, not even under his breath. Even the returning 5-year-old, Andres, did not warrant a reproof. Instead, Reinaldo put himself on a first-name basis with the boy and conversed with him.

One girl stood and watch as Mom was attended to. Little Natalia came in unaccompanied, boldly acquanting herself with Reinaldo . . . until she was actually in the chair.

Cleanings took the longest; extractions were quickest. Extraction, filling, or profilaxis cost $2. The biggest currency that was pressed into my hand was a $10 bill, and by then I had enough in the coffee cup to make change. Part of the joy of this job was giving a Gospel of John to people as they left.

Most had just one procedure. But Edison, a young man with hand-drawn tattoos on his arms (yeah, I still notice) had two extractions one afternoon, then returned for another pulling the next day. Another man's smile revealed decorative gold framing his front teeth -- the handiwork of an earlier dentist elsewhere.

Reinaldo also did a few consults and charged the patients nothing for those. Beginning at 10 a.m., we saw 21 patients by 4 p.m. that day, then we, the two docs, and Ian packed up everything and backed the caravan off of the blocks.

Jofre moved the caravan to a new location nearby.

There were likely kids there too. And plenty of dental and medical needs.

Another dental diary is here.

The Need To Read

2010-05-08T19:54:00.005-04:00

Kathy writes:

I have read several books in the past few months.

One was Peace like a River, the Los Angeles Times Best Book of the Year.

The Midwestern family in this novel has miracles happen every few months.
It has me thinking about what kind of things our kids will remeber from their
childhood. Are Ralph and I reminding them often enough of the LORD's
miracles we have witnessed?

Another was One Flew over the Cookoo's Nest. Painful reading at times, knowing the tragic ending to come. Yet, I couldn't put it down.

Laurie Halse Anderson's historical fiction work, Fever 1793, was another one that had me hooked from beginning to end.

Phillip Yancey's I Was Just Wondering is the one that currently has my attention.
I read a long time each night before bed, while the supper is cooking, and
any other time I can catch a few minutes.

After explaining to students their assignments, I have been able to read
quite a bit while substitute teaching.

Various times the students would ask me about the book I was reading.
I was saddened to learn that so many of the kids never read, or only read
what they absolutely have to for a passing grade.

In the 8th grade English class, the kids had two months to read Johnny
Tremain. The day I had to sub was the 100 question test over that book. Many
of them complained as I was handing it out. "But I'm not ready"- "But I
didn't read it after the first 5 pages", etc.Some even joked about it and
seemed proud that they had not read it.

Reading is one of my absolute favorite things to do. I started reading aloud
to our kids when they were infants. I thank God that they all enjoy reading
for pleasure now. We have enough books in our home to start a library. When
I think of the books that I have read just in April, and all the things I
have learned, and how I have been challenged and encouraged in my walk with
Christ, I am overwhelmed.

To think that so many of the students I work with every day are missing out on one of life's greatest pleasures saddens me.

I have decided that talking about my current read is going to be a regular
part of my "good morning, class. Mr. So-and-So is ill today" speech.

It's my small way of trying to get the IM/Facebook generation back into books!

Vehicle Inspection

2010-05-08T14:18:00.009-04:00

More info (in Spanish) is here.

Check emission gasses.

Sure hope the Jeep passes.

Seven-thirty was late.
So a two-hour wait.

My second time around.
Where vendors abound.

The vehicle now inspected.
Few(er) problems detected.

Yes!
It passed the inspection at last.

Finally!

Success!

but . . . . vehicle registration is next.

When People Go Away . . .

2010-03-16T13:59:00.009-04:00

"Why does everyone want to go away? I love being home," was Beth March's query to her sister, Jo, in the movie "Little Women." The phrase has been on my mind with the departures from our community in recent months. We have shared sad news of a deportation, a drowning, and other deaths. These are not people who wanted to go away; circumstances simply took them.

We move ahead but the emotional burden adds up. One begins to feel the weight of mortality; the shoulders sag a bit.

First chair in the saxaphone section was vacant (see video clip). Kay had played earlier, but now was off bidding good-bye to classmates. Her visa difficulties had prompted this parting. Rob's send-off message encouraged listeners to Carpe Aeternitatem or Seize Eternity (this clip is even shorter.)

In the wider community, we lost three members of a family to a car crash over the Carnival weekend. And so, just weeks after Kay's special graduation, the chapel filled again for a memorial service for Emilio and Ana and their young son, Asaf.

These were people who seized eternity; they lived with a view to eternity. Amid the routine, there was a reasoned response to Jesus' claim that "he who loses his life for My sake, will find it." They lost themselves in something bigger (SomeONE bigger) than their own existence and so the tragedy of that weekend served as mere transition. Their eternity looks different to them now . . . but we don't know just how different it looks. They apparently saw it clearly before, even if "through a glass darkly."

Not long from now, a few dozen more will leave us for far flung places of the planet. No matter how the commencement speaker challenges these young people, I hope there has been, is and will continue to be an underlying theme of their years with us: Carpe Aeternitatem. Seize Eternity.

Russians Are Coming? No, Not Really

2010-03-15T22:50:00.021-04:00

It will just never work to falsely report that your country is being invaded.

Afterthought attempts at damage control will see only limited success. Your media outlet will face angry accusations decrying that the independent media (pro-gov, anti-gov - no matter) is irresponsible.

A recent example occurred in the republic of Georgia, where an Imedi TV broadcast showed images of what could happen if the Russians invaded. The director of Imedi Media Holding, Giorgi Arveladze, at once apologized for, and rationalized, the controversial broadcast.

"We wanted to show something that we never want to happen," he said. As I watched, I noticed no disclaimer across the bottom of the screen.

Possible misinterpretations?

A true event.

Or perhaps nationalistic fervor overriding journalistic integrity.

Or maybe political opportunism on the part of the instigators.

Entertainment (ever growing as news content) also plays into such coverage. History shows that the martian invasion fantasy of New Jersey prompted public panic in the 1938 radio version of The War of the Worlds (reprises in Chile in the mid 40s and in Ecuador --with reprisals -- in 1949).

Re-broadcasts can even go awry. One month after and again one year after horrifying tornadoes whipped through Louisville, KY, WHAS radio attempted to rebroadcast audio describing funnel clouds that dropped down for devastating results. On both occasions, public panic prompted the coverage (which was to later win multiple journalism awards for WHAS) had to be pulled from the broadcast.

We could all learn a lesson from Georgia (in Euro Asia), but just watch. We will do it again.

Very soon in fact, we will do it again . . . as some fools stage an April Fool's Day "newscast" that will indeed fool those who still trust the media.

Surgeons Volunteer Time, Talents for Kids

2010-03-01T19:40:00.009-05:00

Around a table are people from Ecuador, Chile, Colombia, Venezuela and the U.S.

But it’s not for a conference. These are friends who’ve come to Quito, Ecuador. And they’re not sharing a meal together either. Laughter, stories and food will come later—after the work is done.

Instead, they’ve gathered around a young patient on the operating table, just as this team of surgical specialists did a year earlier, and the year before that.

“They do it because of their friendship and because it’s interesting,” said Dr. Eckehart Wolff of HCJB Global Hands.

In the operating room at Hospital Vozandes-Quito, he takes a few moments to answer this reporter’s questions before hustling off to assist with another surgery. “They’re all specialists,” he said, “teaching at universities in their countries.”

Different techniques are considered as each team member brings something to the table. “We have learned a lot, especially from the Colombians,” said Wolff, a German physician who has served in Ecuador with his wife, Klaudia, since 1989.

Months before the arrival of each international surgical team, led by 71-year-old surgeon Dr. Jim Gage, Wolff does much of the preparation work. He studies the cases of several dozen Ecuadorian and Peruvian children whose mobility has been severely curtailed by cerebral palsy or other maladies and injuries.

Then in the months after the team leaves, Wolff watches the miracles of mobility occur during his follow-up care of the children. On the most recent trip in January, team members operated on 34 needy children.

(Story and video segment by Ralph)

Dental Assistant for a Day

2010-02-28T12:40:00.006-05:00

Some instructions on sterilization
After an hour's drive, I'd say
sees us receiving our first patient by ten
I am dental assistant for a day

Scrub and sterilize instruments for re-use,
disposing of needles with care.
Set up Dr. Monica with all of the tools
before the next patient climbs into the chair

Receptionist, cashier, supplies

--all part of the job as well

One of the names stumps me

a name la doctora helps me spell

Both doctors meanwhile, see oodles of kids

whose parents had brought them around

to find good care and the gospel

when the medical caravan has come to town.

Facing Catastrophe With An Eternal Hope

2010-02-09T23:21:00.003-05:00

When the mountains are falling
When the waters are rising
I shall be safe in You
-M. Redman

Please see the video that our friend, Martin, put together after his return from Haiti.

HCJB Global Hands Aids Haiti Quake Victims

2010-01-19T21:44:00.005-05:00

I set out the Marantz recorder and began showing its features to Martin, who would fly out for Haiti the next morning (Thursday, 14 January) with our disaster response team.

The recorder, microphone and mic cable lay beside small model planes on an airstrip that Martin and his young son had built together.

This little coincidence wasn’t lost on me less than 24 hours later when Martin wrote from Florida,

“Big problem is getting to Haiti. Airspace is clogged with aid flights and very limited parking space at airport in Haiti. Fuel shortage also means that FAA have halted flights into Haiti for now. It looks increasingly probable that we will fly in tomorrow now.”

On Friday, the team arrived in Haiti, to relieve a surgical team that had already put in 48 hours. Sheila tells of her team's work :

Martin, who has kept communications flowing, along with his real specialty – water.

I have helped to tell this story, mostly with a computer screen in front of me or a phone receiver to my ear.

Martin's photos are displayed as part of his "Aid Worker's Diary" on the BBC website. Please click here.

See more of the Haiti medical response by clicking here.

What I Did During Vacation

2010-01-03T19:52:00.008-05:00

Billy wants a pair of skates; Susie wants a dolly.

Sally wants a story book; she thinks dolls are folly.

And the trombone player wants a trombone shiny and new

Not the old one that her brother always blew

Her dad's suggestion: "Let's repair and renew."

There is, of course, the question of the "how-to"

Quite honestly, Dad had not even a clue.

And so it was that Billy (not the one mentioned above, but pictured above) instructed me how I might remove the lacquer from the trombone, then proceed, shining it up with Brasso, applying degreaser, then spraying on a new layer of lacquer.

He also loaned me an unrepairable that cannot be damaged by my experiment.

(The steel wool was my own solution to stubborn lacquer, but likely would not be endorsed by a professional restorer.)

I have made a start on this project. So far it convinces me that there may be an easier (albeit costlier) to give our daughter a "new" horn.

ReKINDLEd Love for Printed Pages

2009-12-23T23:19:00.021-05:00

Am I a candidate for a Kindle purchase?

To get four textbooks from North America to here for another synchronous online classroom has put me in touch with:

-five different book distributors
-four separate couriers to bring the books at no cost.

To make these arrangements:

-loads of messages in two different e-mail accounts

So far:

-one missed deadline on a courier's departure
-one book listed but not in stock

What looks much simpler than my present craziness? Purchase the Kindle electronic reader, then go to Amazon.com and buy and download to the mobile device the textbooks* as pdf files.

But wait . . . and here a line from the movie "Witness" seems to fit:

"You're plain, John Book."

Book is a streetwise Newark detective brought by circumstances into a cultural clash with Eli Lapp, a wizened elder of a religious community known as the Amish. At Lapp's farming community where cows are milked by hand and homes are lighted by lanterns, Book and Lapp's grandson find refuge from corrupt cops bent on destroying the witness to a murder. Book too, becomes "plain" like the Amish.

Books are "plain"compared to flashy digital technologies like the Kindle a gal showed me in conversation at the airport several months ago. She told of its adjustable font size for easier reading. She displayed the lighted screen and mentioned the free books she'd downloaded. Shelves full of books, newspaper subscriptions fit onto a Kindle's memory.

Still, I am sporadically "Amish"on the world's techno wonders, liking the old ways. My love affair with pages began decades ago.

I face a growing list that needs to be transferred to a digital format: audio heirlooms (on cassette), Miles Davis jazz (on LP), radio productions and other prizes. (Some available from I-tunes, of course.)

Hopes ran high for a viewing method after I acquired some used, LP record-sized, digital-format disks of the civil rights movement in the United States. But I finally disposed of them, the information a prisoner of a short-lived technology. Our collection of VHS-format movies, well we still use those . . . for how long we don't know.

These technologies are from my lifetime. In contrast, my oldest book, by a pastor named Henry Ward Beecher, was published in 1854.

It still works as well as it did when it came off the press.

Book, I know you. I can judge you by your cover, in spite of the old expression that says otherwise. I open the cover and begin interacting with the content. The interaction is thorough; I use a highlighting pen.

Book, you are dressed in black and white.

Book you have no buttons.

Book, you are plain.

I like that.

(Just for fun, here is a video on Youtube called "Helpdesk in the Middle Ages." A similar one explains features of Book on this site for website visitors who speak Spanish.)

*none were available in Kindle format, although other textbooks are. Of 20 textbooks I´ve used over the last couple of years, five are available as Kindle books.

Of Volcanoes, Dinosaurs and Alerts

2009-10-16T19:03:00.022-04:00

(photo: H. Schirmacher)

Now it is raining.

But recently, our wonderfully green neighbor, Mt. Pichincha, was burned black in places. I was reminded of days a decade ago when news dinosaurs like myself would update radio listeners about news, weather, and natural phenomena. Tongue in cheek -- well somewhat anyway -- I tried to be a pundit. I explored the possibility of politics affecting nearly any situation. So from my files, here it is:

SMOKE AND MIRRORS - OCT. 1999

With just the right angle, a mirror outside our studio door should provide an "on-air" view of Quito's slowly erupting volcano, Guagua Pichincha.

Why take the trouble to install a vehicle rear-view mirror visible by the morning show host? During our October 7th show, Guagua belched a 15-kilometer high vapor cloud that dominated Quito's western sky. Learning of it, our morning team immediately went to air with observations on the volcanic explosion.

In the last 13 months, we've grown accustomed to --even tired of-- experts' descriptions of the volcano's seismic activity.

And we've debated on what drives the alerts system. Could the alerts serve as a diversion? Was the Yellow Alert (and a more recent Orange Alert) a ploy to divert people's attention from Ecuador's economic crisis? Nature's wrath or human sleight of hand? (So you see "Smoke and Mirrors" fits after all.)

"Since new protests and strikes are coming, they're going to announce new eruptions," Alberto, a computer technician, predicted as he read a newspaper in Quito's tourist district. The October 1998 Yellow Alert came just as Ecuador faced massive strikes. Coincidence? Nearly a year later, the Orange Alert came as Ecuador defaulted on Brady Bond interest payments.

Discussing the volcanoes, we say partly in jest -- and what part I don't really know -- "It's just political."

But we don't say it about Tungurahua volcano, a hundred miles away. It's issuing fairly constant ash columns and throwing out incandescent rocks -- some as large as pickup trucks. Authorities quickly evacuated the tourist resort of Baños. Experts say of Tungurahua, "It's one mean volcano."

Quite honestly, there is enough happening in Ecuador's economy and on the political scene, that “these things happen” even while Ecuador's volcanoes burp, spit and spew.

As our fragile democracy here confronts one crisis, then another, volcano alerts merely coincide with one more trudging step forward.

Well, the morning host,Jeff, has strung mic cables up to the roof. Today we gave news and sports, volcano observations and an interview from "up on the roof . . . uhh, that's the 'High Tech Volcanic Monitoring Station'," he says.

Of course, he has to set the record straight. Otherwise it would be just Smoke and Mirrors.

Shortcake, Shortwave, Short Night

2009-10-03T14:54:00.031-04:00

Tim, Ian and Ralph witnessed the end of an era of great shortwave

broadcasts from Ecuador. September 30 was the official final day,

but some broadcasts will continue through mid November.

Ken writes, "Just stepping on the property one knew that it was a special place."

Others declared that it was holy ground.

Whatever a person's viewpoint, these 130 acres of rolling green fields with a spectacular view of the perfect snow-covered volcanic cone of Mount Cotopaxi to the south were a single point from which shortwave radio programs could be beamed to the four corners of the earth."

Read "From Ecuador to the World," about the decades of shortwave service from Pifo, Ecuador. Ken's reflective writing on the Pifo transmitter site is found here. (In Spanish here, and in German here.)

Ralph writes, "Why strawberry shortcake?" you say.

A bittersweet experience maybe? (Naturally tart, strawberries -- like news you don´t want -- must be appropriately sugared.)

But the reality is that shortcake just happened, or as we say in Spanish, por casualidad. Tim wrote, "Just found strawberries -- will have short cake."

It was a cellphone text message. Appropriately enough, I suppose. We adapt to new technologies . . . rapidly or with less enthusiasm as we hit the learning curve. This little getaway on Pifo closing night, September 30, was planned entirely by text messaging:
SUNDAY SEPT 27
"When can I come and talk about Wedsday?"

"Come by right now."

ONE DAY LATER:

"Ian McF to pifo w us. When back?"

EVENING OF SEPT 30:

"Please pick me up at the compound whenver ur ready."

"Could take me an hour to unplug."

"Ok no hurry."

"Tell him 9745 to Mexico is on."

When Tim wrote about the strawberries, I wrote back "nice".

After the official closing date of Pifo (Sept 30) several languages continue, with the final, final end of transmissions there in mid November. Details are found here.

Getting the Story: "State of Play"

2009-09-15T23:05:00.015-04:00

As the cursor crosses the the old computer's screen in a cluttered cubicle at the Washington Globe, all eyes are on investigative reporter Cal McAffrey at the keyboard.

McAffrey (Russell Crowe), and his colleague, Della Frye (Rachel McAdams) have pulled together the facts, connected the dots, and written the stories. A purse snatcher laying dead in the morgue had unknowingly grabbed much more than cash and credit cards when he pinched the attache case of McAffrey's fellow Pennsylvanian and friend, Congressman Stephen Collins (Ben Affleck).

McAffrey's boss, Cameron Lynne (Helen Mirren) pooh-poohs his theory initially, heaping scorn upon him and demanding coverage that is more instant, more attention grabbing, and yes, more superficial. Earlier, she'd given him and Della eight hours to tie it all together, then held off the Globe's press run for four hours more.

Racing the clock to prove that a sinister conspiracy is behind four murders, McAffrey and Della have scrambled to get sources to go on record . . . before they're killed. Throughout the spellbinding "State of Play", a shadowy assassin stalks witnesses and others to enforce secrecy.

The secrecy surrounds contracts with the Defense Department that are worth billions. Collins leads the congressional committee investigating the private security firm that has its CEO rolling in the dough.

Della's gossippy angle initially leaves it up to McAffrey to begin tying the seemingly disparate events together to unravel a web of power, money and murder. Della stays on the story, objecting as McAffrey crosses the ethics line again and again. Despite personality contrasts (as with Woodward and Bernstein's merged efforts to become “Woodstein” in breaking the Watergate story of the early seventies), together they build the investigative reports.

One reviewer compares "State of Play" to the intensity of a Bourne movie and I agree. The tensions are laid to rest as the newspaper's last story of the night goes to the page, the pages goes to press, the papers go to the trucks.

Journalism as it once was, as the closing song runs. The page negatives are shot, the plates are burned, the web-fed presses roll, the collator orders the pages. In the darkened theater, I remember that exhaustion of the wee hours (in a much, much smaller market).

“Put a candle in the window” say the closing song's lyrics - a 1970 rock/blues number “Long As I Can See The Light.”

Light. With radio rants from the right and left consuming our attention, we have a lot of heat. But does this journalism reveal dark secrets hidden behind the doors of power. Is there light? Meanwhile, major cuts are made to newsrooms. An earlier refrain of "profit" has been replaced. Now it is "survive".

With artforms sometimes telling a story more effectively than do business reports and balance sheets, floundering major newspapers should give away (they're already giving away their content, why not give more?) tickets to see State of Play.

We need to be reminded in yet another way, that journalism has historically contributed to democracy and is expected to continue doing so.

Plugged In Online reviews it here.

Jamall Finkley of Blacktree TV interviews Russell Crowe about journalism then and now (*includes one British expression some may find objectionable.)

Giving Thanks for our Home

2009-09-14T16:54:00.003-04:00

Ralph has been begging me to write a blog, so here goes!

If you look back an entry, you will see a few pictures of our new place. As the day started, I was reminded of all the reasons I am so thankful to the LORD for it!

*Getting up this morning at 5:40, looking out the window into the dawn of a new day, I could see the glimpse of an inactive volcano in the distance!

*As I exited the front gate, I noticed our faithful street guard, in his little casita, only a hundred yards away.

*By the time I got back from my daily walk, the house was flooded with light. Oh how beautiful is the morning sun through spacious windows in every room.

*There are three full baths here, less crowding as we all prepare for the day!

*Each of our kids finally has his/her own real bedroom!

*Our work and the kids' school is a five-minute walk!

*I could hang the laundry right out the back door from the utility room, and watch it flutter in the wind as I did the dishes.

*As I write this at a laptop, there is room at this desk for another laptop and 2 oldies for word processing. Thanks to my dear husband and boys who constructed a long narrow desk so there's plenty of room for all the kids to be doing homework at once!

*The indoor garden helps keep the air clean from the pollution of the busy street a block away.

*Ralph finally has a quiet study to call his own. A refuge as he does homework for his masters level class and room for his vast collection of books!

Now I must move on to the “adventure” of grocery shopping. Perhaps I can return another day and fill you in on more reasons I am Thankful! -Kathy

A Very, Very, Very, Fine House

2009-09-11T22:13:00.006-04:00

Eleven Lighted Churches on a 10K Run

2009-09-01T20:38:00.040-04:00

This was a really fun evening run.

I took it slowly; most of the photos didn´t blur.

I hope these photos capture the festive, party feel of this 10k run through our historic city.

Members of a mountaineering club trotted the distance in full gear (one weilding an ice pick)
with their helmet headlamps on and roped together.

I ducked into a doorway quickly, asked about AA batteries, and Amelia quickly sold me a packet (she even had correct change.)

I always feel a magnetic pull to a band. I can't get past without watching awhile or snapping a picture. (Once I shot photos at a high school dance and most of the pictures were of the band, which didn't set too well with the yearbook editors.)

On Amazonas Avenue, the cheering crowds thin. But a drum corps compensated. Rhythmic energy emanated from the stage. I asked a bystander, "Tomback?" and she said "Si, es Tomback." I've included here a concert appearance they did a few years in France.

White - Black - Gray

2009-08-27T22:10:00.015-04:00

Likely tomorrow, a new frenzy of media chatter on Michael Jackson. He was born on August 29, 1958.

At Jackson’s death in June, Kathy and I - both pop music fans- placed a long play record (LP) on the turntable and listened to "ABC" and "I'll Be There."

More recently however, an old copy of the book, "Black Like Me" has turned our attention: the world obsesses on one whose skin was lightened; we are reading of one whose skin was darkened.

I first read it 40 years ago. In the year 1959, J. Howard Griffin used medications intended for sufferers (as Michael Jackson later became) of vitiligo. It is a splotchy loss of skin pigmentation. Griffin also spent time under a sun lamp. He shaved his head and shaved the hair off of his hands. His skin turned temporarily black.

Then he travelled about in the Deep South of the United States as an African American and was treated as a second class citizen.

Black Like Me excelled as first-person journalism, holding up a mirror to show a society its own “Picture of Dorian Gray.”

Sometimes we would rather look away . . . and markets-driven media know it. In June, Jackson’s death prompted a media stampede, revealing our diminishing news judgment and the declining scope of news coverage. Journalists still do the heroic, but the herd mentality can be both contagious and dangerous.

Fortunately social networkers in Iran used Twitter and blogs to keep before us an ongoing story of international import. Fortunately journalists were willing to risk those wayward steps into North Korea. Fortunately we have technologies to use in right and proper ways.

A Virtual --And Virtuous? -- Community

2009-08-15T22:58:00.016-04:00

Does social networking create community? Does it promote healthy relations with other people?

With God?

Yes and no.

Using Twitter, you may now send a short prayer request to Israel. A young economist, Alon Nir, and his team will print it and stuff your prayer into the Western Wall in Jerusalem.

Community, I suppose.

A California teen, Alan Wright, has devised “A Note to God”, by which people would be able to pray using their I-phone.

Community, if you consider “other-oriented” or selfless behavior as a necessary element.

So much of it however, centers on self. “Like many of you, I reluctantly entered into the world of virtual social networking, primarily swayed by the argument that it would be a good way to stay in touch with friends and family,” writes David Sills on http://davidsills.blogspot.com/2009/08/tweet-tweet.html. “However, reading the Facebook updates and Twitter tweets that inundate the web through the day makes me suspect that their primary purpose is self promotion.”

Where is the virtual community taking the younger generation?

I watch our sons minimize the homework screen, pop up an online chat (multiple conversations, no less), then check on the status of a video that's loading, then go to homework. Can normally mono-tasking males be transformed by this media to multi-taskers who do everything all at once?

If -- and I have NO proof but just am wondering -- there is biological change in brain circuitry occurring, can the mental and spiritual remain exempt? Can media, which changed the way we look at candidates and national events with the advent of television, also modify the way we look at ourselves and how we posture ourselves before others?

Awhile back, a newspaper reporter and I were using e-mail to discuss the use of Twitter in journalism. Don also observed a "self-obsessed twist in the nature of Facebook updates . . . and Twitter that, over time, is unhealthy for society." I tucked it away, only to find the same observation amplified recently by Dr. Sills.

Our start point may be “I can ride my bike with no handlebars.”Will our claims about ourselves then morph into "I can destroy the planet in a holocaust."? No, because we do not become megalomaniacs overnight.

A likelier scenario: a much subtler, smoother slide to "hey, hey look at me!" And collateral damage in that slide: a loss of the fine art of listening, the discipline of meditation, the give and take of true friendship. Replaced by white noise of "everybody's talking at me; I can't hear a word they're sayin'" as Harry Nillson sang in a simpler day than ours.

We may also lose discernment, for it's awfully tough -even for multitaskers- to evaluate as we're pecking out our next Tweet.

You Done Broke My Heart . . . Uh Guitar

2009-07-13T06:06:00.012-04:00

Guitars and communications – a couple of my favorite topics.

While I've held Taylor guitars in high regard I've only ever held one Taylor in my hands. And until today, I'd never heard of Dave Carroll.

After today, I hold both Taylors AND Carroll in high regard.

A songwriter, he tried for a year to get an airline to cough up for his Taylor guitar damaged on a Chicago-Nebraska flight.

After penning a country song “United Breaks Guitars”, the troubador and his bandmates hammed up a corny video*, already viewed nearly two and a half million times on Youtube.

Carroll also used his own website and Twitter effectively, as demonstrated by an Aussie, Lance Scoular.

In his staid deliver, Scoular chronicles the phenomena (I hestitate to call it a formula. Carroll did some things very right, but wannabes could now do - and and likely WILL do- the very same and get just 15 views.) Congrats go to Dave (a David of sorts), who brought the giant to heel, with faith in new media capabilities and letting go with a couple of stones.

The little guy can be heard against a giant, whether its United or the manufacturer of malfunctioning voting machines (another episode of new media, viral story travel and crowdsourced journalistic work).

But it is still not a replacement for newsrooms and professional journalists. There is too much injustice for that.

*a little warning that the Lord's name is used in vain early in the song.

Twenty-thousand Feet at 2,820 Meters

2009-07-05T21:19:00.017-04:00

(Deep radio male voice, close mic position) TWENTY-THOUSAND FEET!

(Excess studio reverb) 10,000 RUNNERS!

THOUSANDS OF CHEERING FANS!

(Race noises up, then under) And a 15 kilometer race on cobblestone and on pavement, with the FINISH in the Atahualpa soccer stadium!!!

That’s the way it was likely promoted – the annual Ultimas Noticias run. The way it began was much more low key.

We and other runners rode in silence on the trolley. At the end of the line we walked in small groups, most of them talking among themselves.

We stretched and waited for the starting gun. Then after the race officially began . . . we waited even more. Ten-thousand people don´t cross the start line all at once.

The stories are important to me. A day earlier, I talked with Luisa and Gustavo while in line to get our singlets and shoelace time chips for the race. A year earlier, Gustavo had come up from Riobamba to run the race, so Luisa took him way down south for the race start.

“Well, we´ll see how I get home,” Gustavo casually mentioned. “I´ll go with you for awhile,” Luisa replied.

A ways down the 15k route, she decided to go further with him, then on a bit further.

And on and on . . . until they jogged right into the stadium in the north part of town. That was 2008.

Saturday June 6, 2009 they were picking up their race supplies for the Sunday race.

Gustavo is 83 years old.

And The Beat Goes on

2009-06-27T09:59:00.004-04:00

My first drum restoration is underway. The bass drum shell is in good shape, considering its age. It is Made In Japan vintage from the sixties or early seventies. The wrap, though faded, was staying on. On the inside, one rib needed a bit of regluing. The lugs and tension rods were not pitted, and so cleaned up nicely with rubbing compound.

The inside mounting plate had rusted, but in Tim's shop I cleaned it up with his grinder/brush. It was nice to get back into the shop for a change.
Bought some claws on Ebay for $11. Andrew brought them. The one remaining drum hoop was pretty beat and after watching Ebay sales for awhile, I opted for a pair made in Ecuador. They used three coats of preservative, followed by four coats of car paint. $12 each hoop.
The new hoops are more of a royal blue, not blue sparkle. But they dress up the drum nicely. (Will put on the other one when I get a drum head.)

Make Me Thy Fuel

2009-06-14T17:28:00.004-04:00

In a country church down a gravel road off Highway 75, it was time for a music special. I didn’t have a song; I had a poem. I stood at the front and recited “Flame of God” by Amy Carmichael of Dohnavur Fellowship.

From prayer that asks that I may be

Sheltered from winds that beat on Thee,

From fearing when I should aspire,

From faltering when I should climb higher

From silken self, O Captain, free

Thy soldier who would follow Thee.

From subtle love of softening things,

From easy choices, weakenings,

(Not thus are spirits fortified,

Not this way went the Crucified)

From all that dims Thy Calvary

O Lamb of God, deliver me.

Give me the love that leads the way,

The faith that nothing can dismay

The hope no disappointments tire,

The passion that will burn like fire;

Let me not sink to be a clod;

Make me Thy fuel, Flame of God.

A couple of decades and a few thousand miles away, I am carried back to that time and those influences upon me. On Monday, I arrived for work only to learn that old-timer, John Munday, had died. Soon I had in my hands, Kay Landers’ biography of John, God’s Fuel.

The obituary written, the final story told. John’s threescore plus 10 (in this case plus 20) are gone. Who could ever count his legacy among orphans for whom he became a surrogate dad?

John’s death. A second event this month that helped me recall mission nudgings from my younger years.

You don’t need to do much to leave a legacy.

Just die.

Every day.

Just be God’s fuel.

Penned in Pain and in His Power

2009-06-14T15:51:00.010-04:00

Though the woman in the bed had no choice but to be served, “servant of all” was still her watchword. One kind of service still open to Amy, when pain did not make it impossible, was writing.

The Servant as Writer, in "A Chance to Die, The Life and Legacy of Amy Carmichael"

Punch is needed in newsletters, for they seek to update donors, solicit specific prayer, and, we hope, help givers keep on giving because they know they have invested in work that is bearing spiritual fruit.

How is this done when a delicate health condition forces on you, confinement to a limited schedule of activities? How to write with spark and pzazz of human limits, solitary suffering, and seemingly unanswered prayers.

You begin, if you happen to be married, by telling of the work your spouse does. That's how Becky handled it in a letter I reviewed recently for her and her husband, Germán.

German does this; German directs that project; German has plenty on his plate of responsibilities.

Becky mentions her involvement with the ladies of the church German pastors, saying she will coordinate a women's retreat. Otherwise, the work and social hubbub that is reality for many of us who work together is to her, a foreign land. She is not seen stopping by for a few minutes to see German. Or working in the same complex. Her health does not allow her to be here.

Her presence however, was powerful in my office the morning I reviewed her letter. I sign off with the words that Becky wrote:

Still Waters Artist

Jesus,

When pain is a storm that my boat unmoors,

You turn my eye to still waters’ shores.

With artistic wisdom uniquely yours

You reweave the peace that my soul restores,

touching and teaching me through my tears,

lovingly lifting me from my fears

up toward the clearness of Son-lit spheres

where yours is the Music that my heart hears;

painting me portraits of divine Grace,

setting each detail into its place,

sculpting eternity’s Time and Space,

which some day I’ll share with You face to face.

The rage of the storm seems more faint and blurred

When all through your artwork your voice is heard.

I watch and I listen, my senses stirred

By a poem composed of the Perfect Word.

As power dances deftly at your command

And kindles the strength that I need to stand,

You draw me a map of your Father’s Land,

Where some day I’ll walk with You, hand in hand.

No, storms that unmoor can’t compete with You.

You hold me through all that the storms might do;

You steady my hope, once more prove it’s true

That You love me far more than I ever knew!

-Becky Rhon ©

(used with permission of the author)

photos: Ben

This Old Man, He Played

2009-05-28T22:41:00.009-04:00

And he played and he played.

Continuing to play music, he celebrated his 90^th birthday earlier this month.

I returned to my old haunts and dug up an interview done in the mid 1980s during a song fest in Quito:

Please click here to listen to the 7-minute interview.

Ken: I’ve been a fan of yours for 20 years. I remember the music during Vietnam and the civil rights struggle. Do you feel that music – that 'protest music' as it was called – made any impact on policies and decisions of governments? Or was it a way to vent frustrations for those who found themselves opposed to policies?

Pete: I don’t think I could say for sure. If I didn’t think that music did something I wouldn’t still be singing. I love to sing but I would rather be home with my family o n the beautiful Hudson River where I’m fortunate to live.

But I do believe songs can help pull this world together. I think of music in the broadest sense – lullabies and love songs, and various sorts of hymns and serious songs, blues and laments.

It’s hard to say though exactly what effect they have. Of course one can go into history and find people saying they have an effect. Plato is supposed to have said way back . . . he’s the old Greek philosopher … that it would be very dangerous for the wrong kind of music to be used in the republic. It could destroy the republic.

Here’s my favorite - not original with Pete. He set it to music 50 years ago though.

A video version

Text is here.

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time for every purpose under heaven.

A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep.

A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones
A time to gather stones together.

A time of war, a time of peace
A time of love, a time of hate
A time you may embrace
A time to refrain from embracing.

Turn, Turn, Turn.

Turned 90 on May 3. Pete Seeger.

Everybody at the Gate

2009-05-27T23:21:00.007-04:00

Everybody, it seems, wants to be a gatekeeper of the information flow in our modern world of communications.

Gatekeepers. The term has been long used to describe those who determine what we read, hear and view in the media.

In Venezuela a small earthquake injured no one, but ignited a war of words between President Hugo Chavez and Globovision. Whose story was it? Charge and countercharge were flung, becoming aftershocks that eclipsed the quake itself.

Enemies at the gate: Globovision and a Latin American head of state vying for control.

Meanwhile, Irish student Shane Fitzgerald pushed on the info gate only to watch it swing wide open. His fabricated news content clocked the speed that info travels and revealed fact-checking failures in the news industry. With news of the death of French composer Maurice Jarre, Fitzgerald crafted a Jarre quote and submitted it to the online, crowd-sourced Wikipedia.

Wikipedia editors wisely removed the quote, as it lacked attribution. When Fitzgerald placed it a few more times, the hoax quote was picked up and used by mainstream media outlets around the world.

Everyman (and everywoman) at the gate.

And the traditional gatekeepers – the mainstream media? Asleep at the gate. A seemingly innocuous incident, but packing a powerful punch: image stands taller than the reality.

Another weakness of the mainstream media – its disconnect with its audiences – is chronicled in Frank Rich’s recent editorial. Rich also defends however, the traditional media as any society’s best champion against tyranny. Then he delivers a sobering reality: we get the information we’re willing to pay for.

It is far easier to mail “the sky is falling” messages in e-mail or spread them virally in newer ways. (These can and should be verified before forwarding by checking snopes.com or other reputable sites.)

The sky falling and the sky's the limit. Gatekeepers galore and infinite information. And all free! (And so much is worth exactly that.)

When critical content is needed, we need to know what price we'll pay to know what is true.

Where The Wall Tells All

2009-05-22T22:29:00.009-04:00

Bouquets: Beauty, Bargain, Blessing

2009-05-16T09:15:00.006-04:00

Flowers don't cost much here. Kathy is in the right place, loving the economy AND the activity of making bouquets. She prepared these two for a special lunch today.

12 gerberas for $3.00

12 liatrice for 80 cents

1 bunch of mini carnations for $1.25

1 bunch of baby's breath for $1.25

12 hypericum for $1.25

Can't beat that!!

Pile Your Rubbish Here

2009-04-22T16:13:00.016-04:00

Pastor Bob & I had purchased the Cipro for his wife, who'd picked up a tummy bug during their visit. At the corner I jerked my thumb toward Deb’s work on the walls.

“Did you see the murals?”

Bob’s response was enthusiastic as we passed under the shade of the drive-thru at the liquor store to have a look.

A year earlier, he’d seen the work of Deb’s crew at the Galapagos Islands and had loved it. Amid evolutionary theory assumed as fact, murals stand as a testimonial to the Creator.

We stood and admired the work; it wasn’t long before Bob found his own story on the wall.

“This was me, right here.”

I knew his story even though I'd only met him an hour earlier.

The artist, Xavier, had captured it all in black and white: anguish, emptiness, desperation. Bob had known what life was like without God, whom he credits with non-churchy overtures toward a personal relationship. Like spoiling a drug deal at Bob’s lowest point, for example.

In the next panel, Jenny had artfully showed crowds playing with the wrong “toys.”

“Oh and look over there; people at the cross,” Bob gushed. He credits God with rescuing his marriage and bringing his family back.

We headed up the hill, Bob saw to his wife, and we drank a cup of coffee together.

“I better go,” I said.

“You need to? I could talk about Jesus all day.”

I really think he could have.

The next day I thought “oh, what a shame” when I saw garbage piled on the sidewalk in front of the murals. But the symbolism rushed in quickly:

Pile your rubbish here.

Right here.

At the foot of the cross.

Come as you are and pile your rubbish here.

As a chorus says,

Give them all, give them all, give them all to Jesus

Shattered dreams, wounded hearts, and broken toys.

Give them all, give them all, give them all to Jesus

And He will turn your sorrows into joy.

See (and buy!) more of Deb's work.

Book Details Spiritual Journey of Captive in Colombia

2009-04-19T21:49:00.009-04:00

Source: CBN (used with permission)

A hostage of Colombia’s notorious FARC guerrillas for nearly six years, Marc Gonsalves considers his abduction a second chance to live for Christ. In early 2003, Gonsalves, along with Tom Howes and Keith Stansell, were captured by rebels after their plane’s engine problems forced them to land in the jungles of Colombia. A Christian already, Gonsalves’ faith had become cold, however.

“I wasn’t praying anymore,” he said. “I wasn’t going to church and I still believed in God . . . but I was still lost and this brought me back to Him immediately.” The ordeal of the three hostages is chronicled in a new book, Out of Captivity. Gonsalves had given up on surviving until he felt God’s presence in the midst of his suffering.

Locked in a 6x6 box, he heard Colombian military jets dropping bombs on the camp. “I was just shaking, physically shaking, and I just called out to God to protect us,” he said. “The next morning I woke up and I felt different. I felt like He saved me again--saved my physical life, and that’s when I believed that we were going to live through that.”

With a new desire for God’s Word, Gonsalves received a Bible from another hostage. He often discussed the Bible and his faith with fellow hostage Ingrid Betancourt--a French-Colombian politician kidnapped by the FARC while running for president of Colombia in 2002. Gonsalves said he saw in her a woman of faith who was generous and humane.

Gonsalves and 14 other hostages, including Howes, Stansell and Bentancourt were rescued on July 2, 2008. Their FARC captors had been tricked into handing them over to Colombian commandos posing as aid workers. They made it home safely.

If you have not already heard Ray Rising tell of his 810 days of captivitity in the jungles of Colombia, here are three audio files. They aired as one complete program on HCJB-Australia in 2004 or so. Ray was held captive in the mid 1990s. Each segment runs several minutes.

Includes a dramatic re-creation of Ray listening to a Luis Palau Crusade broadcast in camp, a regular morning occurrence during his captivity. Please press Play for Segment A.

"Most of them (captors) were between the ages of 14 and 20, so I got to be kind of a father to them." - Ray. Please press Play below for Segment B.

"Well, Ray is on a special assignment for awhile." -Doris. Please press Play for Segment C.

When Wall Street Won't Matter

2009-04-17T20:37:00.013-04:00

Thoughtful truths of "You Can’t Take It With You" still bubble up in our conversations after we recently saw the comedy by Kaufman and Hart. Percolating you might say, just as each “bloop” of brew came into view through the glass knob on the lid on our old-fashioned percolator.

A central character, Grandpa Martin Vanderhof, dropped out – of the workforce, not high school – and is a bohemian, a “hippie” of sorts decades before anyone had used the term. He spends his days attending commencement addresses, capturing snakes for his living room terrarium or improving his dart game. Around his dinner each evening are family members, household help and hang-arounders. Their own endeavors include writing unfinished novels, reading Trotsky, and making homebrews of fireworks in the basement. The conversations are lively.

Grandpa has not worked in 35 years, and advises the same lifestyle to a tightly wound business magnate, Mr. Kirby, whose son falls in love with Mr. Vanderhof’s granddaughter. Hence Grandpa’s admonition, “You’ve got all you could want; you can’t take it with you.”

The phrase refers to an end to all earthly attachments at death. Two characters however, had fled their homeland, Russia. Likely, their posessions remained behind. Duchess Olga had lost the most, for her social standing had also been left in Russia. Now she works as a waitress.

Introduced to Grandpa’s family amid adieu and adulation, Duchess Olga Katrina gets acquainted with the family, answering their questions. Yes, she knew the czar, in fact he was her cousin. Yes, there are other royal family members in America who fled the revolution. Yes, everyone wants to know about Rasputin.

Then she graciously accepts their invitation to dinner, assuming the role of a servant. “I just love to make blintzes,” she joyously proclaims as she sweeps into the kitchen in her duchess attire. Within minutes, royalty had won the hearts of this oddball entourage at the Vanderhof home.

Can we all do as much in tougher times when we’re adjusting expectations about major purchases over the next few years or maybe our eventual retirement? Or maybe expectations about our grocery spending next month? If we live like kings (compared to much of the world, we do) we might lose status, as the duchess did.

Can we take that? Or do we take ourselves too seriously (I do. And most of us do, according to Jim’s sermon series we also attended recently.)

Another guy who ended up amidst revolutionaries and tax men, in royal courts (on trial) or breaking bread with rough-edged workers was the Apostle Paul. He wrote these lifetime priorities to friends at Philippi:
-that I may know Him
-and the power of His resurrection
-and the fellowship of His sufferings
-and be conformed to His death
-so that I may attain to the resurrection from the dead.

With priorities like these in place, Wall Street won’t matter and we can go to the kitchen with a smile. And never be stingy with blintzes.

aging

2009-04-16T08:49:00.013-04:00

Although I haven't yet turned 50, my recent birthday reminded me that for all intents and purposes, my life is half over.
Growth and change marked the first half. Starting out in rural South Dakota with two very hardworking and determined Christian parents, I learned quickly that the lazy and inept were not to be tolerated. We worked hard, worshipped often, but also had time for games of Yatzee and Pit, and kickball in the front yard with the neighbors from across the road. "Maude" was forbidden on T.V., but "Gunsmoke" and "60 Minutes" were mandatory.

Fast forward to college, when God reached down and got a hold of my soul. My parents' faith became real to me. I fell in and out of love a few times and found out what real friendship is.

After graduation, moving to the big city of Minneapolis was an eye opener. For the first time I was a small fish in a big sea, rather than vice-versa. A lot of tears were shed as I tried to navigate adulthood alone.

Then I met the man I have spent the past 20 years with - my best friend. Now the adventure was really beginning. I moved with him to a developing country,"far from the home I loved." Seven and a half years later, I had bore four beautiful children, who consumed all my time and energy.

Nine years have passed, and Motherhood is still a full-time job. Even though they now can make their own supper when I am beat from a day of subbing, they still protest when I announce plans to be away for an evening. Thus begins my second half of life. I know that my role as their Mom will change drastically as they leave the nest.

What else will this half bring? I dream of time to take ballrooom dancing lessons with my husband, write my life story, and someday live again in the land of my childhood.

The Story Continues: Carlos on Cassette to Carlos in Concert

2009-04-12T16:35:00.009-04:00

Carlos Santana is on tiptoes now, coaxing a bit more expression from the fretboard.

Half a phrase earlier, he'd tipped back his head as if to watch his notes take flight from his guitar, then shower down on 10,000 listeners at Ruminaui Coliseum in Quito. The tickets that Martin and I had bought a day earlier were in the "nosebleed" section (as is the entire city in fact, at 9,000 feet.)

Often, the 61-year-old Santana’s solos featured a pleasant complement to a driving rhythm; other times in the nearly 2 ½ hour performance, he showcased his bandmates’ talents. In a musical dialogue, they solo’ed or traded riff for riff.

No matter where those solos soared, the tight rhythm carried the crowd forward, whether it be salsa, Afro-Cuban, and even rap and reggae. Roused to their feet to sing Oye Como Va, people would surely have been stirred to a fevered frenzy at Santana’s first appearance in Quito.

He’d back off the pace however, with a ballad, sitting on a speaker monitor by the side of the stage. He spoke little, letting the guitar talk in ways it has since his reputation skyrocketed to fame 40 years ago at Woodstock. The ladies in Ruminaui received a dedicated song in the flamenco rhythm. Another song hailed Africa. Launching his1960s classic, “Oye Como Va” prompted a chorus of voices joining those on the stage.

His fusion of rock with Latin music established Santana, and the performance in Quito revealed his decades of disciplined playing. He successful weaved in the piercingly high solos central to rock music since the sixties, throwing in triplets as effortless embellishments. His Pandora’s box of effects full of any number of moods most often produced the “wah” of the seventies.

Martin at one point suggested a move to bleacher seats that would've let us see the rhythm section in action, for a speakers tower and huge video screeen blocked our view of the drummer, Dennis Chambers, and the fellas adding punchy percussion for that Afro-Latin sound. We in fact were watching a drummer, Chester Thompson, who happened to be on organ and keyboards. Benny Rietveld played bass; Bill Ortiz was on trumpet and fluegelhorn, teaming up nicely on brass with Jeff Cressman on a featured number. Santana stepped briefly into a role as sideman before re igniting the audience with another solo. Late in the evening it was Raul Rekow and Karl Perazzo delighting the audience on timbales and congas. Other stellar players included Andy Vargas, Tommy Anthony, and Tony Lindsay.

The band played a dozen songs, then said goodnight, with enough audience applause to bring them back for a just a few more.
Surging rhythms . . .

soaring solos . . .

saying goodnight . . .
Santana.

(Way, Way) Back There The Story Starts

2009-04-12T16:32:00.013-04:00

The song ends.

A weary hand slips out from beneath the heaps of quilts, feels for the Panasonic on the plain wood floor, and turns the cassette tape to Side 2. Quickly, the hand rejoins its owner in the warmth of the bed.

Happy, syncopated rhythms in mono sound from the cassette recorder compete with winter winds howling outside the farmhouse’s upstairs bedroom. Then exhaustion from the day’s cold and work outside sets in. The four boys doze off as Santana's guitar plays on.

It was Christmas 1970 and my older brothers' new cassette recorder introduced a new phase of life, new rhythms, a new musician and a new language. (Our school only offered German as a foreign language. The one family in town with a hint of Hispanic roots, the Duarte brothers’ surname we thoroughly anglicized. Nobody said Duarte, we all said Dwoordee.) Carlos Santana’s name got similar treatment, even as his Abraxus album got played over and over on those nights in the unheated bedroom until we fell asleep.

Lying dormant for decades, this childhood memory revived for me as our own kids began passing from childhood to adolescence. Just as my brothers and I had left behind homemade toboggans and go-carts and sparrow shooting with the BB gun in the barn’s hay mow, our own boys were moving on.

The memory surfaced on Christmas a couple years back. That year's batch of presents had brought into our home a bass guitar. The drum kit was getting some new accessories - a ride cymbal and stand. The kids' Duplos had already been stored years before; even the little Lego lilliputians were seeing fewer visits from the Gullivers who assembled their world.

I wrote down the reality of time never waiting for any mortal; the paper got shoved in a drawer. Months later at the school's spring concert, a new Santana stimulus when the band played Oye Como Va. The boy in me remembered the rhythm and late night 70's radio in the car.

One day in March, Santana came to town. He brought his guitars, his band and a whole lot of songs.

Teach an Old Bird to Tweet?

2009-03-31T21:54:00.014-04:00

Twitter.

In a sort of Rorschach inkblots reaction to words read or heard, does Tweety Bird flit into your imagination? If your mind replayed the “tawt I taw a puddy tat” phrase, please consider again. Twitter is being applied in interesting and relevant ways.

As I understand, short 140-character messages called tweets are sent, often including a link to a website. Increasingly, Twitter is part of the suite of tools used by new journalists. With planes going down -either gently into the Hudson or with fatal consequences – cellphone photographers are catching the breaking news shots and using mobile devices to post to the Internet, then sending dispatches (ala "wire services" of yesteryear in the news industry) via Twitter.

From there, mainstream media runs with the stories. (Intrigued by new journalism, yes. But I don't mean to "dis" the traditional newsgatherers.)

These short text bursts remind me of Steve.

A family practice physician, Steve has at least TWO responsibilities when we send a medical team out in response to disaster or dire healthcare needs. It's medicine by day, media work at dusk. From farflung places like Solomon Islands after a tsunami or Pakistan as surrounding mountains rumbled with quake aftershocks, the photographs made their way to us via the Internet.

The Subject line. Everything Steve wants to say --a few words to three sentences --ends up in the Subject line of his e-mail messages. (What, Internet providers give him a rate break for this???)

Situated on separate continents, we recently set up his profile on a site called FTP (file transfer protocol) to send photos. From Accra, Ghana, Steve's all-in-the-Subject-line showed up in my e-mail Inbox the same time as I was working on a different problem in the virtual classroom I was to attend a few days later.

Not an impatient man, Steve would quip “gone to lunch?” when I grew quiet too long. (I was busy with Luther in the classroom.) But everything worked and Steve was soon sharing photos of the medical team photos on the ground in Africa. Nice job Steve.

His last Subject had four phrases, ending with “thanks for sticking with an old bird to get him to fly.” Forty-one characters. Short enough.

He could have even sent it as a Tweet.

Do you Twitter? Receive daily prayer requests and other updates from HCJB Global by following our Twitter feed at www.twitter.com/hcjb.

Where's the "Book" on Facebook?

2009-03-27T12:04:00.011-04:00

In a corporate cubicle, some young whizbang computer or marketing genius is conceiving of a name for the newest Web 2.0 program.

Seemingly nonsensical at first glance, such as the word Google* (search engine) or Joomla (a web page structure), it will be in common language in five years or less . . . maybe two years.

If all our pronouns haven't already been exhausted(I-tunes, You Tube, Meebo, etc. etc.) another "I", "You" or "Me" will be pressed into service to market the product to the many "me´s" of our world. Maybe not "We" although "Oui" is apparently selling.

Think back to a time, not very long ago, when Google meant . . . . . nothing. Now it is even a verb. In the not-too-distant past, if you wrote a book your manuscript worked its way through a general editor, a copy editor, various proofreaders who heavily invested their time to help you clearly express your ideas.You, your spouse and maybe your kids were practically married to the project. Hard work for months or years.

History, my fellow anachronism, history. That was the age of the book; this is the age of Facebook, with 175 million accounts.

How to take a name and make it a brand? Hmmm. I don’t know. How to make Java (not the coffee), Adobe (not the bricks) communicate a message saying “quality” to consumers? If I knew, I would be rich.

And I would run right out and buy Garage Band for our kids . . . and an Apple.

Next time, let's talk Twitter.

*10 to the 100^th power

The Fruit in the Fridge!

2009-03-21T21:29:00.014-04:00

Quite literally, there has been something growing in our refrigerator. For a few months. An educational endeavor of notable merit, Science Fair is over for another year.

Want maximum storage life for your foods? Use a glass container. This was our son’s conclusion after storing small pieces of fruit in plastic, glass and tin containers as well as in zip-lock plastic bags, Saran wrap and wrapped in tin foil. Dutifully, he noted when mold first began growing on the fruit and after how many days or weeks of storage.

I transported the large, tri-fold, plywood display board home. It was a long walk home, with frequent stops.

We were enlisted for more than our fruit and fridge, for the camera and computer were in frequent use. We burned a CD of countless photos (I found our memory card full while making a video of Oye Como Va being played at the concert) and together we carried the decorated display board back to school and set it up.

It looked very sharp for the Science Fair.

He got a prize. His friend got the grand prize (trophy AND a day off from school) for a study about magnetism. Other studies varied; potatoes will root more quickly when hydrated with which liquid? Can a flower’s color be changed by watering it with Coca Cola? (No, but it can die.)

A Science Fair project or two ago --we've finished our fifth now-- we learned that it is no easy trick to take your blood pressure as another son conducted his own experiments. His study evaluated the effects of different styles of music on a listener’s blood pressure.

I know what drives up a parent’s blood pressure -- I write tongue in cheek . . . sort of . . . Science Fair!

Not the Historic Newspapers I Wanted

2009-03-11T07:30:00.014-04:00

This wasn’t what I had in mind for a collection of historic front pages of newspapers.

No, not at all. Newspapers covering big stories, yes. But not newspapers reporting their own demise.

With Ken’s departure from our radio staff a decade ago, I inherited his historic front pages from the Louisville-Courier Journal.

I hasten to add, these are replicas, not originals. Antiquarians would otherwise paper this blog entry with reproach when I tell them I had these historic front pages made into placemats by laminating them.

Our children have engaged us in some lively dinner table conversations about Lincoln’s assassination, Nixon’s resignation or the devastation of bombs dropped on Hiroshima.

Though the collection is still small, I feel more urgency as the mainstream media creaks, groans and gasps, even as people speak in glowing terms of how Internet news will replace it (and pay its way?)

My favorite is Quito’s El Comercio from early February 1997: Ecuador Wakes Up to Three Presidents. At the radio studios and newsroom we had stayed with the story throughout the night the president was removed by Congress, with succession to the Executive in dispute in the wee hours.

This past January I grabbed some Barak Obama print editions (the way I wanted to collect newspapers) and a friend in New York City tried for Nat Hentoff’s au revoir in the Village Voice. In Feburary, Harold scored in Colorado: I now possess a final edition of the Rocky Mountain News he picked up for me. (It won’t end up in plastic.)

Predictions are grim, such as that of Emily Morrell, who writes for UPI, a wire service that once had bureaus throughout the world. Citing former reporter Mark Potts, she says, "In the next five years the newspaper industry will be dead."

Gee, I could soon end up with several dozen historic newspapers. But it won’t be a collection that I am proud of.

Feb 1997 front page.Used with permission of El Comercio Group

Listen to live radio coverage of this 1997 event

Listen to a short devotional offered to listeners during the program.

What Would You Like to Be?

2009-03-09T10:00:00.006-04:00

We invite you to consider this:

Be something of purpose

represent Someone who has a purpose

for every one of us.

Be the hands and voice of Jesus.

The video is short, just 3 1/2 minutes.

But it could change the rest of your life.

Brief Encounters with People on the Grijalva River

2009-03-05T23:11:00.025-05:00

It's been a year and a half since our trip to Mexico's Tabasco state to provide medical care to flood victims. Finally, a photo display of people on the Grijalva River.

The liquid eyes of Ignacio, haunting almost.

Brothers Angel, Sergio and Jose Daniel at a campsite on the road.

Domingo demonstrates that river crawdad can be eaten straight out of the boiling water.

Boy baling rain water from the family boat.

Ermeselda made a meal for us after our work.

His shoulder a parrot perch and a couple dozen alligators in a concrete bin beside the house.

To push the story of our medical teams forward, another medical team is now in Sierra Leone, Africa. Please see our friend Nate's accounts of their work in neighboring Ghana at this blog site.

The World magazine story of our Tabasco flood response (January 08) is here.

Saturday Hike into Pululahua Crater for a Picnic Lunch

2009-02-25T21:59:00.010-05:00

His Work In Cambodia Amid Great Challenges

2009-02-20T16:49:00.008-05:00

Is healing possible for a small country in southeast Asia?

Janine is in Cambodia, promoting Spotlight Listeners` Clubs. She writes, “ The enthusiasm for the clubs seems high, please pray they do something with it..”

The high-profile trial of Comrade Duch is also going on there now. During the Khmer Rouge reign of terror in the 1970s, he ordered the executions of 12,000 to 15,000 people. A “Killing Fields” survivor, François Bizot, explores possibilities of forgiveness briefly in his op/ed piece, “My Savior, Their Killer.”

Against this dark backdrop, God is at work in Cambodia. In the 1970s revolution to establish utopia, the Khmer Rouge set about eradicating religion. Now these former fighters (Comrade Duch included) profess faith in Jesus Christ.

If you look closely you'll see a tear streaking down her cheek. The KR recorded many of its victims with photos. She knew what was about to happen to her. -Janine

In a similar trial 10 years ago of Ta Mok (“The Butcher”) in Cambodia, who should emerge as the Khmer Rouge leader’s defense attorney? Benson Samay, whose own wife and 12-year-old daughter were killed by the Khmer Rouge.

I do not know Samay´s motivation. If he could serve the executioner, imagine what God can do in lives of perpetrators and victims who have embraced Christ! Where sin abounds, grace much more abounds.

If clubs get going in Cambodia . . . people (many who lost loved ones in the “Killing Fields”, I´m sure) will have SO MUCH to talk about.

photos provided by Janine. To go to her blog click her name above or click here.

This Time She Got Flowers

2009-02-18T22:11:00.004-05:00

I've always been captured by stories of gangsters. So when we moved to Chicago as newlyweds, I took my new wife to the scene of the Valentine’s Day Massacre.

For Valentine’s Day. Wasn’t that romantic?? (Please see the video of men in “the doghouse” for giving their wives unromantic gifts like vacuum cleaners or tummy exercisers.)

Recently, I picked up a copy of the book, They Called Me Devil by George Meyer, the alleged wheelman when Al Capone’s gang - some dressed as policemen – machine gunned several members of Bugsy Moran’s gang. Years later in prison, Meyer came to personal faith in Jesus, providing a happy detour to an otherwise pointless existence marked by fleeting pleasures and great pain.

No big romantic, still I have learned something since we walked the small park at Chicago’s north Clark Street, where the shootings occurred 80 years ago in a garage. Kathy got flowers.

At the price of just $3 for 25 roses, it almost felt like stealing.

HCJB Global-Australia Staff Safe Despite Devastating Bushfires

2009-02-13T16:49:00.001-05:00

Sources: BBC, Breaking Christian News, Baptist World Alliance, Associated Press, HCJB Global

With a climbing death toll from bushfires in southeastern Australia, HCJB Global-Australia’s staff reported that they are safe.

Record-high temperatures that reached 115 F last weekend, followed by shifting winds, contributed to devastating fires, killing more than 181 people, destroying at least 1,033 homes and blackening more than 1,200 square miles, according to the Victoria fire service. An estimated 5,000 people are reported as homeless. Across Victoria, 450 people have been treated for injuries, according to medical officials and emergency departments.

Victoria Premier John Brumby referred to the fires as the “largest natural disaster in our state’s history and Australia’s history.” He described entire communities wiped from existence by “what people would describe as literally a fireball that just came over the hills and devoured everything before them.”

News reports cite officials as suspecting that some fires were intentionally set, provoking Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd’s description of the calamity as “mass murder.”

“None of our staff have lost homes, but we know of people who have died in the fires,” said Peter Penford, studio manager at HCJB Global-Australia.

“It’s been devastating for parts of my community,” added Dale Stagg, who recently began duties as director of the HCJB Global-Australia World Office in Melbourne. “We live near one of the major fire areas. We believe that 18 families from our Christian school have lost their homes.”

Stagg said Melbourne-area ministries in Kinglake and Marysville have suffered material losses. “At least 35 people died in Kinglake. Everyone is just in a state of disbelief,” he said. ”We believe that the death toll could be well beyond 200 from the Victorian fires. Our prayers are many, and rain would be nice!”

Blazes continue to sweep across Victoria. In many areas, residents remain on alert as more than a dozen fires continue burning uncontrolled. Some 100 police are investigating the fires, and some are being treated as arson. Task Force Phoenix will work with the state’s coroners’ office, fire and health authorities to investigate all fire-related deaths.

In Australia, deliberately lighting a fire which results in death carries a sentence of up to 25 years in prison, while intentionally or recklessly causing a bushfire carries a 15-year maximum sentence.

More than 100 people have been admitted to hospitals across Victoria with burns, at least 20 in a critical condition and nine on life support or in intensive care. Heather Clelland, director of Alfred Hospital in Melbourne, said 21 burn victims were admitted earlier this week with “classic burn patterns that we are seeing are mostly due to people who have been forced to run through flames or have been exposed to extremely high radiant heat temperatures.”

Nick Bryant of the BBC reported the mood as somber at Victoria state relief centers with many people searching for loved ones among the survivors. Prime Minister Rudd has announced an aid package of $10 million (US$6.6 million).

Three closely related Baptist bodies (Baptcare, the Baptist Union of Victoria and the Baptist Union of Australia) have established an Emergency Bushfire Relief Fund with an initial grant of $50,000 (US$33,000). The fund will be used primarily for food, clothing, accommodation and personal needs, as well as for bereavement counseling. In addition, Baptist churches in Victoria are being used as emergency shelters, and local congregations are offering pastoral care to victims.

“We are safe,” said Eric Skattebo, a former radio producer with HCJB Global-Australia. “Our eastern suburb of Melbourne (Mount Evelyn) has not been directly affected” but his home is only 10 to 15 minutes from one of the major fires. He also referred to nearby Marysville, saying “each autumn we would travel there to see the beautiful change of leaves and visit friends at a Christian retreat center. Sadly, this town is no more. The headline reads, ‘Marysville Wiped from the Map as Inferno Shows No Mercy.’”

HCJB Global-Australia operates a shortwave station in Kununurra, reaching across the Asia Pacific Region with programs in 20 languages. Studios at the office in Melbourne are used to record programs in English and Oromo, a language spoken in Ethiopia.

View The Video, Catch the Vision

2009-02-11T14:38:00.007-05:00

This will take you three and a half minutes (once the video loads).

Awhile back we showed you a tower going down. So what else is "going down" or what else is happening? What´s going on? We´re happy to tell you a LOT is going on, and we want to show you a recently-produced video.

Different delivery system. Different audience.

The same purpose. The same message. The same Name.

Mr. Lincoln a Copperhead? Well no, but . . .

2009-02-09T17:19:00.006-05:00

Abraham Lincoln
February 12, 1809- April 15, 1865

For years, pennies of copper bore on the “heads” side of the coin the inscription of none other than Abraham Lincoln. Would this have made President Lincoln a latent “Copperhead”?

The Copperhead Democrats were Lincoln's political enemies. Northerners, they opposed the war against the South. Considered lethal to the war cause, they were dubbed “Copperheads” after the venomous snake. With time, they accepted the moniker, sporting copper coins on their lapels to proclaim their sentiments. (More than a century earlier in England, the Methodists had been named by their detractors as well.)

The most prominent of the Copperheads was Clement Vallandigham, a congressman from Ohio. Formerly an editor of the Dayton Empire newspaper, Vallandigham was a powerful orator.

Lincoln had placed General Ambrose Burnside in charge in Ohio, and the general was aghast at the outright dissent being expressed against the war and against the president. Burnside issued General Order No. 38, threatening penalties to anyone expressing public sympathy for the Confederacy. In a speech at Mt. Vernon, Ohio, Vallandigham challenged General Order No. 38, provoking his arrest by soldiers at his home in the wee hours.

After Vallandigham's arrest by military officials, his supporters burned down the Dayton Empire's rival newspaper, the Republican. Vallandigham was denied a writ of habeas corpus* and a military court convicted him of "uttering disloyal sentiments" and attempting to hinder the prosecution of the war. Initially sentenced to prison until the close of the war, Vallandigham's sentence was changed. Lincoln ordered him exiled to the Confederate states.

One biography describes how Vallandigham, “unintentionally aided the war effort by becoming a symbol of treasonous activity.” A Copperhead who unintentionally aided the war effort. An interesting twist of history, no?

An irony too, that we see Lincoln's likeness on copper pennies.

In one cents, Mr. Lincoln was a Copperhead.

*writ of habeas corpus recognizes the right of a citizen to know on what charges he or she is jailed. Lincoln suspended writ of habeas corpus several times during the war. President Jefferson Davis did so in the Confederate states until this power was withdrawn by the Confederate Congress.

Photos provided for free at this site:

Hentoff Layoff Won’t Silence the Man in the Skunk Suit

2009-01-19T22:10:00.012-05:00

Nat Hentoff, now formerly a Village Voice writer, never figured as a master of the understatement in my thinking. He is outspoken, direct and forthright in his hard hitting columns.

Hentoff’s five decades with the New York alternative weekly ended with a telephone call from his editor. Two other Voice writers were also let go on December 30.

Reacting to the layoff, he told the New York Times, “I’m 83 and a half. You’d think they’d have let me go silently.”

Understatement!

Let him go silently? How could it have been done?

With other recent grasping (and gasping) strategies in the newspaper industry, I shouldn’t be surprised by the Hentoff Layoff. But you don’t let a journalist of his stature go silently. He has been making noise for 50 years.

And for good causes, not the least of which is First Amendment freedoms. The rights of free speech and religion are foundational. He understands this, writing and speaking of it frequently.

Take a stance, then take what comes -- that’s Hentoff. His pro-life stance in the 1980s encouraged those of us peacefully occupying the sidewalks in front of abortion facility doorways. He didn’t share our theology (he’s a self declared atheist) but saw the rightness of defending life at personal risk.

He expects the free world to use its freedoms to speak out for those less fortunate. His writing makes people uncomfortable – puts on his skunk suit and goes to a garden party, as one of his editor's once said. He makes me uncomfortable – the kind of itch that shouldn’t go away in a world of injustices.

He told the Times “in all due immodesty,” that he will be missed by Village Voice readers. What Immodesty? Of course they will miss him. In the same spirit, Hentoff’s closing column isn’t about himself; he again throws accolades to his mentors: I.F. Stone and George Seldes.

The good news: he’s not retiring. May he live – and fight – til’ he’s 100.

Top photo by permission of N. Hentoff

Liner notes in 1960s long play record "The Golden Flute of Yusef Lateef". Hentoff's book, At the Jazz Band Ball: 60 Years on the Jazz Scene is expected this year.

Autumn to Our Hearts, Not Spring

2009-01-11T17:19:00.005-05:00

If you want to enjoy every laugh, you have to cry every tear.

                                         -Kahlil Gibran

                                                                                            Jan 6,1883 – April 10,1931

For its sunshine, flowers and perfect weather, Quito is known as the land of eternal spring.

It wasn’t named by a foreigner living here, obviously. There is always a piece of us that is dying.

We live in a transient community. Somebody is always leaving, and this brings autumn to our hearts, not spring.

After a while, I’d try to make friends and as soon as I did, sure enough we’d have to move out again.
Finally I decided not to let anyone get close enough to hurt me again . . . I guess I’m still doing that.

                                                                             Major Margeret “Hotlips” Houlihan on the

                                                                            TV sitcom M*A*S*H

We enjoy the laughter as we watch old episodes of M*A*S*H. And yes, sometimes tears. Theirs is a wartime
setting, a mobile surgical hospital, and different from our situation. But we relate to some of the story lines, the
characters’ struggles,  of this television program.

A spring several years ago, Kathy lost three friends. An ocean would soon separate her from Ros (it was
pre-Facebook, a veritable lifetime ago). Susan was dying; her journey to Jesus occurred while we were in the
States that summer.

Her friend/mentor/surrogate mother, Lois, had invested lifetimes in us, which included hosting and nursing
Kathy as she recovered from hepatitis. Lois helped not only Kathy, but our whole family. Lois too was leaving.
How much can one heart endure?

Greg put it this while preaching awhile back, “Long-term friendships here are unusual. We in Ecuador who are
not Ecuadorians come and go a lot.”

“In some cases,” he said, “We will never see them again this side of eternity . . . and that’s hard to take.” Just
like Major Houlihan, people find a way not to take it. He’s been told, ‘I don’t make close friends anymore. They
all leave and it hurts too much.’



Fortunately, Kathy hasn’t quit or
shut down emotionally.  Today,
he has confidants, casual friends
and a friend list on Facebook.
With the social networking on the
Internet, she is connecting often
with former Quito friends.

Death . . . then life . . . then
another death. And life again
as friendships are renewed.

These are the seasons, this
is is the life we choose.

As we serve the One.

Who left heaven for us.

A Favor: Bring Me a Small Drum

2009-01-05T23:03:00.012-05:00

Exchange in Sheila's office in Ecuador:

Ralph: Think you could bring me a small drum when you go to Ghana?
Sheila: Sure, I can do that.

E-mail message three weeks later . . .

Ralph: Is Sheila still in Ghana? Could you help her select a djembe drum?
Lee: We're going shopping tomorrow and it's on our list.

A week after that in Sheila's office

Sheila: Lee sent this for you. (Hands me a djembe drum key ring, then reveals it's only a joke.)
Sheila: Show me what you had in mind. Show me how tall.

I hold my hand eight inches above her desk. From behind the desk, he pulls out a drum about three times as tall as what I'd indicated. (See photo. Sheila is at the right with her hand on the drum. Sharon is on the left.)

Sheila: Lee told me 'I know this is what Ralph would want.' (Lee doesn't do anything in a small way.)

Result: A nicer drum than I'd ever imagined.

Consequence: Received an e-mailed favor request from Sheila which ended with "Remember the drum."

Conclusion: Drumtalk (different drum sounds heard over long distances) may work just as well as talking and e-mail messages to get your point across.

Please check out the editorial (Africa, but broader and more significant than above story) by Matthew Parris.

15 Seconds to the Ground

2009-01-02T16:07:00.004-05:00

Falling, gathering velocity, cables whistling.

In relative silence the tower fell, its descent punctuated only by onlookers’ comments.

“Cayo mal . . . cayo mal.” (It fell badly . . . it fell down wrong.”)

The transmission lines to a nearby antenna array were ripped down by the tower, but workers quickly repaired those lines for the next day's radio programming.

In 15 seconds it was over as the tower cut through the sky and crashed to the ground. Horizontal, mangled and bent, it belied the hundreds of man-hours invested decades earlier. At 416 feet tall, it had served as HCJB Global Voice’s tallest at the international transmitter site in Ecuador, and also the highest tower supporting the parabolic screen behind the steerable antenna.

Loud was the silence in the Andean pasture in a valley near Quito where the tower now lay on the grass. Loud also had been the signals emanating from its antenna, sending a powerful radio voice that proclaimed refuge, security and strength in Jesus Christ to people in distant locations: the Middle East, Japan, and the former U.S.S.R to name a few.

(Please see the full story at this blog site.)

Christmas Party at a City Dump

2008-12-28T14:49:00.017-05:00

More info at this site:

Conversation, Invitation, Integration, Congregation

2008-12-28T07:59:00.009-05:00

Cradling the bass on my lap, I peer across the top of the music stand to watch Analizbeth tuck her violin under her chin. Sliding across the strings, her bow releases from the instrument the strains of a beautiful melody.

Her sister, Jessica, is at the piano. On guitar, Beth leads the worship band, and with Gabriel also at guitar, the team consists of more than half Ecuadorians.

Pastor Len has publicly credited Spotlight Listeners´ Club with flinging open the English-speaking church’s doors to the Quito community. The face of the congregation has changed with regular English-conversation evenings at church.

Analizbeth, Jessica and Gabriel (also Jonathan and Juan Pablo, violinist and drummer respectively) all are under 30. Just like much of Ecuador and much of Latin America is under age 30. Is it any wonder then, that the EFC group, “20-Somethings”, is experiencing burgeoning growth? Gaining a life of its own, the group is changing the church’s body life.

I think of another Ecuadorian, William, and his involvement in the 20´s group, in discipleship and Bible study. I think of his participation in my conversation group many months ago at Spotlight. He has since moved on to other outreaches at the church. This is integration, even as Spotlight Listeners’ Club continues to stand welcoming new people at the church doors on alternate Wednesdays.

Other Spotlight Listeners' Club coordinators say:

We are meeting once per week (just completed our 7th today) and have an average of about 25 women, plus 8-10 conversation partners each week. We also have a childcare program that can accommodate 12+ babies/toddlers. Our population is primarily Japanese with a few Korean and Arabic women. -Michigan, USA

The Spotlight Club is going absolutely GREAT! It is truly amazing. We are going to have our 8th week tonight (we meet once a week. Of course some of the students have asked for more nights but for right now I think I am going to have to try to stay with just one. We have had some wonderful volunteers and each week we have any where from 8 to 16 "students" come to the club. We can see it gradually growing and it is wonderful. -North Carolina, USA

Those that volunteered did a great job. I had stressed speaking slowly and clearly and had two young women for the basic group that were very creative and excited about what they were doing. The one advanced group leader did a fantastic job as did the leaders (husband and wife about our age) in the middle group. We did the program on Thanksgiving celebrations. We had people at this Spotlight that were originally from Peru, Honduras and Mexico. -Georgia, USA