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Love Lost and Love Found

Love Lost and Love Found

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I remember the first time I met Pastor Jim Snow.  Kim and I were just starting to go out together and she brought me to a Sterling United Methodist Church picnic at Claude Moore Park in Sterling. As a kid, in my experience attending Sunday School at the Lutheran Church of the Reformation in West Long Branch New Jersey, pastors always wore long black robes, collars, and were a bit intimidating.  Jim on the other hand had a mustache, was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt and a driver’s hat and he was cracking jokes.  And best of all, I was able to call him “Jim”!

Kim had two requirements of me if I wanted to get to know her better, she wanted to be courted and I had to go to church.

I was prepared to do whatever it took.

The first time I attended church at Sterling UMC, I remember we sat about four rows back from the front on the center aisle on the left side. I think I wanted to sit on the end in case I had a panic attack. I don’t think that at the time I had attended church as a worshipper in thirty years. Hayley and Alexa were raised in the synagogue so I had spent some time in temple.  But church, only for weddings and funerals.

I remember looking up at the ceiling and hoping the roof didn’t cave in.  But when it was over, also I remember feeling good, like I had been lost, but now I was found.

I was supposed to be in this place.

We would continue to go to church as our relationship developed and I would continue to push my comfort levels as I got reintroduced.

I had never in my life taken communion and my hand would shake as I took the cup and raised it to my lips.

In April of 2000 Kim and I stood at the rail with our hands on Donny and Savannah as they were confirmed.

And thankfully, I met the requirements imposed on me as a suitor and our courtship worked out, because we had it all arranged for Jim Snow to marry Kim and I on the first day of July that year.  But Jim’s cancer had other plans and he passed away that spring.  Instead, we were married by Lee Crosby on his first official day as a pastor.  And with Alexa, Hayley, Donny, and Savannah beside us, we stood in front of the cross and were married.

We  continued to go to church and I continued to get reacquainted with being a Christian.

For a brief period, because we wanted Donny and Savannah to be active in Youth Group, we started attending Herndon UMC because the kids had school friends in that group.  But whenever I could, if for some reason I found myself alone on a Sunday morning, I would dip back into Sterling UMC and sit in the back row. It felt more like home.

I had never been baptized so in January of 2002 I requested of our pastor at the time, Alan Reifsnyder to join the church and be baptized on the next available date.  On January 27, 2002 in front of my family, except for Donny who was away that weekend, but including my parents and my new church family, I was baptized at the age of forty five.

In June of that year we met the new pastor Ralph Goodman and his family, who would be starting on the first day of July.  Donny was really excited because Ralph had two very pretty daughters.

Not too long after that, on July 23, 2002 Kim and I would stand at the rail again and place our hands on Donny, this time for the last time. A tragic accident had taken Donny’s life on Friday, July 19th.  On that Tuesday we celebrated Donny’s life and gave his spirit up to God.  The church overflowed with people that day.  Even the Sterling Volunteer Fire Department came because mysteriously the fire alarm went off in the middle of the service.

Ralph Goodman, in his first month on the job, walked that walk with Kim and I, and with the Herndon community that surrounded Donny.  He joined the impromptu gatherings of grieving kids, walked the neighborhood, spent time at “the rock” at Herndon High School.  For that we will be forever grateful. I cried on his last day preaching at Sterling UMC.

A life event like that couldn’t be survived without friends, family, church family, and most important, God and faith.  To this day however I struggle to attend funerals at the church and generally find myself staying as busy in the background as I can, and fighting back tears whenever I hear “Amazing Grace.”

But with Jesus and Kim’s faith as our rock we kept moving, becoming more active in church.

My level of comfort was greatly tested when Kim and Savannah signed up to participate in a week long mission trip to Jamaica and Savannah dropped out at the last minute.

“Curt will go” Kim said.

“But Kim, I don’t want to go on a mission trip” I pleaded.

But all she would say is “Then you need to pray about.”

So, I did.

But my prayers weren’t answered.  I found myself in Jamaica that summer.

And in the end, it was a life changing experience.

And we even went back the following year.

 

Our church life continued.  We would share our Jamaica experiences with Pastor Randy Duncan and his wife Robin and get to know them better.  Randy came to Sterling after Ralph left and remained for eleven years, the years Kim and I were most active in the church.

I would have another “first” at the rail when we took Cameron up for Communion for the first time.  He took the bread, but when offered the cup he said politely “no thank you, I don’t like grape juice.” The server told him “that’s okay, you don’t have to drink it.”  But after some hesitation he did anyway, and when we returned to our pew in the back, he asked Kim and I if he could say another prayer. Then he had us bow our heads and fold our hands and Cameron prayed “Dear God, thank you for bringing me back to church, Amen.”

I cried that day too.

On Easter Sunday April 16, 2017, I was a proud dad whose family practically filled the whole pew.  Savannah and Cameron were there.  Hayley and her new family with her husband and two stepchildren were with us too.  Pastor Steve Vineyard delivered the sermon called “Who Will Roll Away the Stone,” the stone representing the heavy weight keeping us from facing all those tough things we had going on in our lives. A month or so later I would get a phone call from Hayley asking for my assistance to help her get out of the physically and emotionally abusive marriage she was in.  Hayley attributed the courage she needed to make that decision to Pastor Steve’s sermon that Easter Sunday.  “Who Will Roll Away the Stone” may have saved Hayley’s life.

In October of 2021 our entire family would return to the rail once again and witness the wedding of Savannah and Leon performed by Pastor Linda Monroe.

Kim and I have been less active the last few years.  The Pandemic, trying to care for aging parents in different states, the challenges sometimes of working and worshipping in the same place.

 

But I was blessed to have been given a second chance in life to find love in this church.

The love of a new marriage.

The love of a new blended family.

The love realized in the experiences of my kids, the joyful ones and the sad ones, and learning love overcomes the sad ones.

The love of a church family I had never experienced.

And most importantly, the Love of God.

 

For me, Love was lost, but then I found it again.

I was lost, and somehow, I was found.

Because God’s Love and God’s Grace,

Are Amazing.

 

 

 

 

Postscript:

On the six Tuesdays during the period of Lent, I am participating in a daily writing that we are doing at my church, Sterling United Methodist Church.  The daily themes are based on one word each day and some associated scripture.  Today’s word is Love.  If you would like to keep up with the posts from others click on this link in the postscript.

 

Bullet Works

Bullet Works

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As he went along, he saw a man blind from birth.  His disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

“Neither this man nor his parents sinned,” said Jesus, “but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him.  As long as it is day, we must do the works of him who sent me. Night is coming, when no one can work.  While I am in the world, I am the light of the world.” (John 9:1-5)

 

If you know me, you know I am big fan of horse racing. In the world of horse racing when you talk about works, it is referring to the training runs, the workouts the horse performs typically in the mornings.  For instance, the trainer may have the horse “work” four furlongs (a half mile) to keep the horse in good condition in between races.  These works are typically timed and published for handicappers.  A bullet work occurs when a horse runs the fastest work of all the horses training that particular morning.

Bullet works are good works.

 

Afleet Alex like all other thoroughbreds born in 2002, as far as the racing world is concerned, turned three years old on January 1, 2005.  After winning a couple of Grade One stakes races as a two year old,  he went on to win the Arkansas Derby and qualify to be eligible for the Kentucky Derby.

In the traffic of the Kentucky Derby Afleet Alex finished third.  Two weeks later in the Preakness Stakes, Afleet Alex, stumbled at the top of the stretch and nearly dropped to his knees with his nose almost going into the dirt, but miraculously he recovered.  Jeremy Rose, the jockey, had no idea how he was able to remain on the horse.  He did, and not only did they manage to recover, but they also went on to win the Preakness Stakes by almost 5 lengths.

Three weeks later Afleet Alex would win the Belmont Stakes, the third leg of the Triple Crown by exploding in the final turn and winning by seven lengths.

Three of the children of the ownership syndicate of Afleet Alex were named Alex or Alexandria which is   how the son of Northern Afleet and grandson of Afleet earned the Alex portion of his name.

 

Alexandra “Alex” Scott was born in January of 1996.  Shortly before her first birthday Alex was diagnosed with neuroblastoma, a type of childhood cancer.   In the year 2000 after her fourth birthday, she received a stem cell transplant and told her mother if she if she got out of the hospital, she wanted to have a lemonade stand.  She wanted to give the money she earned to the doctors to “help other kids, like they helped me.”

Later that year she held her first lemonade stand and raised $2000.

Despite her battle with cancer Alex and her family would continue to hold lemonade stands to raise money to fight childhood cancer.  As news spread about the little girl with neuroblastoma who was dedicating her frail life to raising money to help other sick children like her, more lemonade stands popped up with the proceeds going to Alex’s cause.

The owners of Afleet Alex had become aware of the efforts of young Alex and her lemonade stand by reading an article in a local newspaper one day.  They felt some connection between their Alex and the little girl working to help fight cancer and they began to donate a portion of Afleet Alex’s winnings to Alex’s Lemonade Stand.  At first the donations were anonymous but as Afleet Alex became more successful a partnership was established and little Alex’s cause was shared with the world.

In August of 2004 Alex passed away at the age of eight years old. Up to the time of her death, her charity had raised more than one million dollars.

But even after her death, Alex’s parents continued the Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation  Through their association with the owner’s of Afleet Alex they were invited to set up Alex’s Lemonade Stand at the 2005 Kentucky Derby, the Preakness, and the Belmont thus exposing the foundation to world.

 

After winning the Belmont it was determined that Afleet Alex had a leg injury that would end his racing career and he was retired to Gainseway Farm in Lexington, Kentucky.

When Afleet Alex stumbled and jockey Jeremy Rose surely should have been thrown from that horse, he would say “An angel kept me safe.”  That angel in his mind was little Alex.

Alexandra Scott was very special, and to many so was Afleet Alex.

One of the owners tells a story of a visit to Gainseway Farm where she found two women openly weeping while standing in front of Afleet Alex.  They were sisters and one of the sisters had recently been diagnosed with cancer.  They had driven all the way from Maine to see this horse.  The owner explained that the sister with cancer truly believed that if she could just touch the horse, she would be cured.

 

We don’t know why Alex Scott developed the cancer that took her life after just eight short years.  But as the scripture above explains it wasn’t because she sinned, or her parents sinned.  With her cancer Alex recognized the need to help other sick kids and the doctors working to find a cure.  She answered her call to perform good works.  As a team, the two Alex’s raised a lot of money to help to find cures for pediatric cancers. You might say the works of God were displayed in the efforts and generosity of the pairing of Alexandra Scott and her family with the owners of this horse and Afleet Alex himself though surely, he didn’t understand how much his work mattered in the cause.  But others, like the sister who thought touching him might cure her cancer, understood how special he was.

I have read that Methodists believe “Faith is necessary to salvation unconditionally. Good works are necessary only conditionally, that is if there is time and opportunity.”  We might find some comfort in that since we don’t always have the time or the opportunity to serve at certain stages of our lives, yet our faith remains strong.

For Alexandra night came sooner than expected, but she made the best of her opportunity.

“As long as it is day, we must do the works of Him…”

And they did.

You might even call them bullet works.

 

 

To find out more about Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation or to donate here is a link.

 

Afleet Alex
Photo of me and my son in law Namaan in the Paddock at Gulfstream Park with other owners of Iron Works this past Sunday.

Postscript:

On the six Tuesdays during the period of Lent, I am participating in a daily writing that we are doing at my church, Sterling United Methodist Church.  The daily themes are based on one word each day and some associated scripture.  Today’s word is Works.  If you would like to keep up with the posts from others click on this link in the postscript.

Spring

Spring

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Jesus answered, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst.  Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.”    (John 4:13-14)

 

Spring.

A word that can have many interpretations and meanings.

A mechanical spring tightly coiled ready to burst out with energy at any moment or one that is stretched and returns back to the shape it started from.

Maybe it is the time to “spring” forward providing more hours of daylight and more time for outdoor activities such as exercise.

Or maybe for you it brings to life images of daffodils, digging in the dirt, planting your gardens, and cutting the grass.

Or for you it might be pollen and allergies.

Since I have grown to dislike winter so much, I have used the analogy of winter for me to be like Jesus’ time in the wilderness and spring marking the end of my wandering.

Or maybe it makes you think of the reason I am writing this…Lent, the Holy Week, and Easter.

 

The Merriam Webster dictionary defines spring in many ways as well.  As a transitive verb and an intransitive verb, or as a noun.

I don’t know all about that transitive and intransitive stuff so my simple mind will stick to the noun.

The act of moving forward.

A time or season of growth or development.

A device that recovers its original shape when released after being distorted.

A source of supply as it applies to water from the ground or action or motion.

 

The days and the events leading up to what we now call Good Friday and Easter in Jerusalem may have felt like a coiled spring ready to burst out at any moment.

And for the world there was little chance it would ever return to the shape it was before.

It was the fulfillment of prophecy.

Jesus’ mission on earth was winding down.

He had shown them many signs, yet still for some, their eyes were blinded and their hearts hardened.

But we know the story.

We know how it ends.

We also know that was just the beginning.

The spring of water Jesus describes is not one found in Merriam Webster.  Being born again in the spirit, drinking the water that has us never thirsting again.

“A spring of water welling up to eternal life.”

Spring.

 

 

Postscript:

On Tuesdays during the period of Lent, I am participating in a daily writing that we are doing at my church, Sterling United Methodist Church.  The daily themes are based on one word each day and some associated scripture.  Today’s word is spring.  If you would like to keep up with the posts from others click on this link in the postscript.

Funambulism

Funambulism

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I have written before about my “word of the day” that comes in my email every day.  One day last week the word was Funambulism.

Okay so I admit I had no idea what this word meant, but it looked like a really fun word.

Right?

Fun…ambulism.

So, I knew what “fun” was…I mean I do, I can be fun sometimes.

And then I looked up “ambulism,” and learned that meant “a disorder involving walking.”

Ah okay, I thought, having trouble walking after having too much fun, that makes sense to me.

Fun-ambulism.

Even I may have funambulated once or twice before in my life.

 

But then, to my disappointment, I got deeper into my email and learned the word wasn’t funambulism at all, it was funambulism pronounced fyoo-NAM-byə-lizm.

And this funambulism meant “the art of walking on a tightrope.”

 

Back in November, I was repairing a picnic table the kids used on the playground at the church by replacing the top and benches with pressure-treated wood after the original plastic parts had broken.

During the process of attaching one of the boards, I hit my left thumb with my hammer just below the thumbnail.

Even though I was at church, I reacted pretty much as you might expect anyone who has hit their left thumb with a hammer to react.

Only I asked for forgiveness after.

Anyway, I finished the table and after the pain went away, I forgot about the incident with my thumb and the hammer.

Until one day, as my thumbnail began to grow, the blood blistery kind of thing that shows up under your nail after you hit it with a hammer began to take shape.

Sitting at the bar of the Hard Rock Café at Baltimore’s Inner Harbor on New Year’s Day as we ate dinner while preparing to go watch the Steelers versus the Ravens game at M & T Bank Stadium, I realized I had something very unusual looking on my thumb.

“Kim,” I said,  “look at my thumb…who does that look like to you?

“Oh my gosh,” she said, “Donald Trump!  You have Donald Trump on your thumb!”

I did.

I had a caricature of Donald Trump, blood blistered tattooed on my thumbnail!

Not that there is anything wrong with that.

But I realized that to share this remarkable occurrence, was kind of like funambulism!

Because let’s face it, there are a lot of people out there I am sure, and some might even be reading this, that would probably like to tell me where to stick that thumb with the Donald Trump image on it!

But I would have to decline because that’s not nice and I need that thumb, and in fact, that might cause some of that ambulism I was discussing earlier since it would be hard to walk like that.

And the sad thing is, trying to write something that mentions Donald Trump, or anything political, or anything that might mention the differences we might have with one another really is kind of like funambulism.

It is like the art of walking a tightrope.

And that’s too bad.

 

 

Here is the table
Happy New Year

Happy New Year

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Though the holidays were officially over, with the weekend coming and a couple more loved ones still to visit, she dipped into a Harris Teeter to pick up a few things.  She took her place in line at the self-checkout behind an older woman who was already scanning her groceries.  With the help of a young clerk the old woman carefully took her items out of her handbasket and slid them over the scanner and into her bag.

She watched as the old lady, barely skin and bones and looking disheveled in a tassel cap, an old sweater, and baggy sweatpants continued slowly processing her groceries.

Three tomatoes, not even in a bag and all on one stem, half a loaf of bread, lunch meat, and a half gallon of ice cream.  When the total approached twenty-five dollars, the old woman told the young clerk “tell me when I get to thirty dollars.”

Soon after, the clerk put the lunch meat aside because it was going to put her over her thirty-dollar limit.

The woman in line observing all this thought back to a time when she was younger and a struggling single mom of a couple of young kids.  She would take her calculator with her when she would go grocery shopping to stay within her budget.

“Ma’am, can I just pay for your groceries?” she asked the old woman.

Hearing the offer and turning towards the voice, a bit surprised she replied “Would you? I am 90 years old, and things are getting harder.”

“Ma’am I am blessed, and I would like to help you,” and with all the old women’s groceries now scanned and in the bags, she swiped her card and paid the bill.

After checking out her own items and leaving the store, she looked for the old woman, but she was gone.

 

Yesterday was January 10th.

I have come to realize January 10th is the real New Year’s Day in my house.

It’s not always obvious, you can’t always feel it, and sometimes for short periods maybe even you forget it exists.  It seems to surface when you least expect it and sadly and sometimes inexcusably, it might even go unnoticed.

And it’s particularly ugly and insidious starting sometime before Thanksgiving and ending in early January where it lives deep in your expectations of joy and happiness, and the inner peace we search for in the story of the birth of a child, then in the anticipation of the new beginnings and opportunities of a new year.

And as hard as you try to deny its effects, no amount of wine or eggnog, happy or sentimental seasonal movie binging, or decorations and holiday celebrations are going to keep that thing under wraps.

It’s called grief.

And it doesn’t matter how many awesome sons-in-law, grandchildren, or kids you are blessed with, there is still always going to be one missing.

And sometimes even a bonehead husband and father like me who should know better doesn’t always read the signs at the right times or know when it’s time to take a step back; because sometimes it takes me until January 10th to realize that was the reason that the joy schedules didn’t always match up, that the attempt at the special moment fell flat, and mentioning that Santa Claus had come didn’t quite have the impact expected.

 

On Monday, January 9, on what would have been Donny’s 36th birthday, Kim put up a nice post on her Facebook page remembering Donny.  She received many nice comments, many of those coming from others who had also lost children.

I have read them all, several times really.

Comments like “Thinking of you Kim.  Donny was one of a kind.  Much love to you and your family.”

Donny was one of a kind.

And like the good person who helped the old lady in the Harris Teeter that day by paying for her groceries, Donny was a good person too.

And though situations like this always bring to mind the old adage “why do bad things happen to good people,” the truth is, bad things can happen to anyone.

But there really are good people we know or have known, in our lives.

And that brings to mind another old adage and just goes to show you, sometimes…

The apple doesn’t always fall far from the tree.

 

 

Postscript:

I have referenced this before and Kim mentioned it in her Facebook post, these words were sent to us twenty years ago and remain displayed in our kitchen:

“no matter how tough life gets, if you can see the shore of heaven, and draw strength from Christ, you’ll make it”.

On January 10th we made a nice dinner, poured some champagne in our year 2000 anniversary flutes, and toasted Happy New Year.

Let the new year now begin.

Happy New Year!

What’s At Stake Is the Democracy Stupid!

What’s At Stake Is the Democracy Stupid!

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For the time will come when people will not put up with sound doctrine. Instead, to suit their own desires, they will gather around them a great number of teachers to say what their itching ears want to hear.  They will turn their ears away from the truth and turn aside to myths.  But you, keep your head in all situations, endure hardship, do the work …

 

2 Timothy 4:3-5

 

Mary (not her real name) tells the story of her 70-year-old mom, a retired schoolteacher, who just went back to work out of necessity.

Joe (also not his real name), is an African American man who understands Mary’s story. He and his wife were retired but are also now back working because they need to.

The conversations of average Americans in a waiting room of a doctor’s office.

Conversations, in this case, telling the stories of Americans who have worked hard all their lives to earn the ability to take a pause in their later years and relax, now finding it necessary to return to work.

 

I heard a good sermon recently.

It was about the importance of sound doctrine.

Teachings that agree with the Bible.

Something that is not so popular anymore.

The preacher went on to say that sound doctrine is important because it promotes health and holiness and in fact could be considered a matter of life and death.

That good works are the mark of sound doctrine and that actions we believe are good make the world a better place.

Sound doctrine gives us the ability to determine truth from falsehood.

 

The preacher spoke about the devaluation of prayer.

When people stop praying, we suffer.  The world suffers.

Because to some degree, humans have relied on prayer to maintain their mental status.

A world without prayer is bleak, and leads to stress, and possibly destructive behaviors.

When we are experiencing stress, prayer gives us that all-important ability to pause, and allow God’s perspective to determine what we do from there.

Because human thriving is declining.

And we need to pray about it.

 

I don’t like to write about politics, frankly, I am not qualified.  But that never stops other people from talking or writing about it.

But never the less, in my case I think I will write about prayer instead, which I also may not be qualified to write about, but I will anyway.

 

There is an election coming up fairly soon.

An election where nothing short of our democracy itself is at stake.

I listened to the President’s speech the other evening.

Though I thought it was a bit bizarre, it certainly would have played well in any time slot on MSNBC.

I have been listening to MSNBC lately.

It was kind of a tired topic, given all the other piles of doo-doo we are up to our necks in right now; more about Trump, more about January 6th, and more about how election integrity will threaten our democracy.

And how the rest of us dumbasses aren’t getting it.

Democracy is what is at stake stupid!

 

Democracy.

 

A government by the people…

 

The rule of the majority…

 

A government in which the supreme power is vested in the people and exercised by them directly or indirectly through a system of representation usually involving periodically held free elections…

A political unit that has a democratic government…

The common people especially when constituting the source of political authority…

The absence of hereditary or arbitrary class distinctions or privileges…

The word democracy most often refers to a form of government in which people choose leaders by voting…

 

A democratic system of government is a form of government in which supreme power is vested in the people and exercised by them directly or indirectly through a system of representation usually involving periodic free elections…

 

I don’t know about where you folks live, but I am pretty sure I live in a democracy, and in a few days that will be proven because a democracy is  “a form of government in which people choose leaders by voting.”

 

And unless you are going to allow yourself to be led by the nose into believing something otherwise, our democracy is not at stake.

In fact, I think that those who would tell us that our democracy is at stake might be the ones putting our democracy at stake.  It sounds to me like they might be encouraging a one-party system of rule, they might be the ones attempting to seize control, trying to restrict our rights, arrest anyone who disagrees, and control the narrative.

 

I may be a dumbass, but I am not stupid.

And neither are you.

And we may have a generation or two without the life experiences or the knowledge of history to the extent to be able to discern what is right or wrong, good or evil, and not beyond the limits of our rights as Americans.

We have had civil unrest before in this country.  January 6th was a mob that included some right-wing nut cases and bad actors doing what Abbie Hoffman would explain as seizing an opportunity.  But I would bet the majority of those people were simply regular folks armed with nothing more than their cell phones, with their worst intentions grabbing a selfie to post on social media later that evening.

“The attempted coup that almost threatened our democracy” was neither an attempted coup nor a threat to our democracy.  Yet there are a lot of people in very influential roles that would try to have us believe that, or worse, have us believe that they believe that.

President Biden mentioned the brutal attack on Paul Pelosi and made the parallel between that unfortunate incident and the events of January 6 as a further example of a threat to our democracy.

 

I don’t know, I don’t really think that guy represented the sentiments of the average American.  In fact, he is not even an American, he is a Canadian.  A guy who once lived in a storage unit and was “consumed by darkness.”  Mental illness at least in this man’s case, does not threaten our democracy.

Our country has experienced Presidential assassinations like John Kennedy; Presidential candidates assassinated like Robert Kennedy; attempted assassinations like Ronald Reagan; and prominent  Civil Rights activists like Martin Luther King assassinated.  None of these events threatened our democracy, they may have in fact strengthened our resolve.

But you might be expected to think otherwise.

And then there was guy on MSNBC the other day who questioned the “fact whether we will be a democracy in the future, whether our children will be arrested and conceivably killed.” This was proposed by MSNBC commentator Michael Beschloss.

Scary stuff.

All made up to scare us into lining up the right way.

 

But I am supposed to be writing about prayer.

About taking a pause.

About doing good works that make the world a better place to live.

About remembering the words of 2 Timothy:

And you, keep your head in all situations, endure hardship, do the work …

About the wisdom of the message that if your ears itch, don’t just surround yourself with those that will tell you what you want to hear.

Take some chances, do the work.  If you don’t find your sound doctrine in the Bible, maybe you will find it somewhere else, from someone you know and respect, your parents maybe.

And if you do find your sound doctrine in MSNBC, maybe try listening to Foxnews.

Or if it’s Foxnews, maybe try listening to MSNBC.

And before you vote, take a pause.

Pray about it, or meditate on it, or do whatever it takes to make you thrive and be less stressed.

Then vote for whatever you think is the common sense thing to do for you, your family, and your country.

Because we are a government by the people.

We are a democracy, and in a democracy, we the people, shouldn’t feel threatened.

 

 

Postscript:

This afternoon, feeling empowered and patriotic, I did my due diligence, I paused, I prayed, and I voted.  No one offered me a bottle of water or a glass of wine, and though I was disappointed, I understood, that could be interpreted as coercion.  They verified I was who I was, and where I lived by me showing my driver’s license and handed me a ballot.

The photo above was taken from a post in April 2020 around the fourth week of our covid shutdown. A reminder of different times indeed.

Another Beautiful October Day

Another Beautiful October Day

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Bittersweet.

That is how I view it.

Though it was a beautiful morning, the fog lay eerily on the calm river surface.  A sign that the now cold night air is clashing with the still warmer waters of this tiny finger of the Chesapeake Bay. But in the developing bright sunshine of this late October day, it doesn’t take long for the mist to clear.

Activity on the water this time of the year is slow to materialize.  The crabbers are gone, the trotlines and crab pots, now replaced by a lone work boat dropping eel pots instead.

The purple martins, one of the early messengers of the approaching spring, are also gone, having already made their migration south to winter in Brazil. The three purple martin houses now sitting atop their high poles vacant in the wind.

Optimistically I baited the crab pots and threw them in for one last attempt to hold on to the summer and enjoy its flavors.  But only two crabs were interested in my chicken necks on this day.

Hardly the crab feast I had hoped for.

I let them go.

Stealing some words from Bowie, I realized I couldn’t trace time, but I could be sure that time would change me.

There is no fighting that.

Giving in,  I lowered the martin houses to protect them from the cold winds to come.

I brought in the crab pots.

Removing the traces and putting an end to another season.

 

 

Winter will soon be upon us.

The sunset, which at the peak of the summer would be straight up the river, now has shifted to the left as it begins its descent earlier than I would like.

The shorter days invite the darkness in sooner than I am ready and I pack up my fishing gear after catching one small perch to put the finishing touches on my day and probably my fishing year.

It was another beautiful October day.

In contrast to the gloom looming in my winter fears, the flowers I planted sometime around Mother’s Day, still stand tall and exhibit their bright colors, awaiting the frost soon to come.

Who knows what the next six months will bring?

Until then I will keep warm and wait for the day when the first martin returns.

And I will pray that in that six months, time doesn’t change me too much.

And I will be allowed to write about another beautiful day, in another season, in another year, in time.

 

The morning fog
Reminders of the spring remain
The Wall of Sound

The Wall of Sound

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I whistle a lot.

And sometimes I sing or hum instead of whistling, but mostly I whistle.

My wife tells me she can always locate me in a store or antique shop by hearing me whistle.

At my work, the joke is similar.  If you want to know where Curt is just listen,  you will hear him.

But the truth is you are only hearing the whistle.

What is actually going on in my head is completely different.

There is a large production occurring in my head.

Like Phil Spector’s “Wall of Sound.”

There might be a horn section jumping in, an awesome guitar riff busting through, or the drums banging it out.

It’s hard to whistle the drum accompaniment.

And the vocals are amazing if I must say so myself.

All in my head.

Only I know what is really going on.

Only I can say what is really going on in my head.

You can only hear the whistle.

 

I read somewhere that Monday, October 10 is World Mental Health Day.  A day “to raise awareness of mental health issues around the world and to mobilize efforts in support of mental health,” according to the World Health Association.

I guess mental health has a stigma that ironically further feeds the issue of mental health.

And if you think about it, you don’t have to think too hard to find the insidious ways it creeps into all of our lives to some degree.  But you may not always characterize it as a mental health problem.

But it is.

And it is all around us

It is called life.

And I am not suggesting to minimize the seriousness of those who would be clinically diagnosed with mental health issues, I just think we have a more prevalent problem than we might care to admit.

 

It might be a teenager you know struggling with family issues, or bullying, or self-esteem.

Or someone you know wrestling with an addiction or a substance abuse problem.

Maybe it’s a relationship going bad or a marriage that is breaking apart.

It could be someone you know experiencing physical abuse in a relationship, and too scared to get out.

Maybe it’s a person suffering from the grief of losing a child or a grandchild.

Or a sibling.

Or a parent.

It could be someone suffering from the anxiety associated with PTSD caused by witnessing a horrible experience that no one else could ever really understand.

It might be watching someone go through the effects of aging or experiencing that yourself, or an illness maybe.

Maybe it’s a person experiencing job stress or instability.

Or financial burdens.

Maybe you just lived through a hurricane.

Or it might even be a person who whistles, even on days when he doesn’t really feel like whistling.

 

The World Health Organization says that “about one in eight people in the world live with a mental disorder.”

I would venture to say that maybe seven of those eight people are dealing with something that is causing stress, anxiety, depression, or sadness.

We don’t know for sure.

We don’t know what is really going on inside their heads.

Because we can only hear the whistle.

 

But it’s not anyone’s fault really.

Like my “wall of sound,” you couldn’t have known about that until just now.

You wouldn’t have learned about the grand production going on in my head if I hadn’t just written it down.

And shared it.

 

Sharing is sometimes hard.

So maybe fostering an environment that is more conducive to sharing is a good idea.

Listening deeper, if that is possible.

Encouraging writing instead of talking, because sometimes it is easier to express the hard things in written words.

Embracing your faith.

I couldn’t imagine going through some of my life’s events without my faith.

Knowing we are loved.

And loved unconditionally.

 

And sometimes, it even helps to whistle.

 

My brother Carl, with three of his grandsons.
A Laurel View

A Laurel View

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Johnstown is a small city in western Pennsylvania about 56 miles east of Pittsburgh.  It sits nestled in the Laurel Mountains in the steep valley where the Conemaugh River meets the Stonycreek River. Once known for its coal, iron, and steel production, the evidence of those heydays now lie as empty relics over sprawling blocks of the once thriving city.  A victim of at least three major floods, one in 1889, one in 1936, and the last in 1977, it is now in a struggle to stage its comeback.

Old Orchard Way is at the top of the hill as you climb steeply up Sell Street.  On the corner, at 102 Old Orchard Way is the house as we have been told, that Arlene Ober’s grandfather built.  At the bottom of the hill on Sell Street near the intersection of Franklin stands the Roxbury Church of the Brethren, a beautiful old building of stone, large windows, and heavy wooden doors.  A young Arlene Ober would walk down that hill every Sunday, even in the cold and the snow and ice of the western Pennsylvania winters, hurrying so as not to be late for Sunday school.

Just inside those large, heavy wooden entrance doors that take you into the vestibule and then to the sanctuary, is a small sign on the left that marks the Heritage Room.  On the walls are old photos, newspaper articles, and even a vintage quilt that is proof that this was once a large and vibrant congregation.  In the corner is a mannequin of an early Brethren woman in what was the traditional dress of the time.   Another photo we saw on the piano in the sanctuary was of a large group that included young people and children, dated 1938, that no doubt included a young Arlene Ober, though it was beyond our ability to discern.

 

Kim and I were back in western PA for the weekend.  Kim’s mom Faye lives at Laurel View Village, a retirement community and assisted living in Davidsville, Pennsylvania just west of Johnstown. Named appropriately for its location along the Laurel Highlands and the scenic view of the Laurel Mountains, it’s a wonderful place. Saturday morning was the Que Classic (pronounced “kwee”) a 5 and 10 K walk and run held at the Quemahoning Dam, where the proceeds were to benefit Laurel View Village. So, wanting to support the cause, we signed up for the 5K, and though our running days are behind us, we managed to mix it up a bit and cross the finish line running.

Kim’s mom lives in an area designated as “personal care” meaning those residents are independent but require a little more assistance with activities of daily living. The more often we go up, the closer we get to the residents, Faye’s friends, and neighbors.  Sadly many, we have learned, have little contact with their families so they love to share their stories when the opportunity presents itself.  Once striking up a conversation, you can expect that out of the pockets of the attachments on their walkers, will come photos and other items that help to provide perspective to the details of their families and their lives before Laurel View Village.

Like our friend Arlene, many have Brethren roots, in fact, Kim’s family was raised or are still members of the Church of the Brethren.   I remember during the early years of our relationship and marriage I got pretty comfortable with my father-in-law preaching and sharing his beliefs with me, as a good dad should have, while he vetted me out on my position on the Big Guy.  The Brethren only have communion twice a year, it is called the Love Feast, and it involves the washing of one another’s feet, just as Jesus did at the Last Supper.  I was blessed to have shared that experience with my father-in-law once before he passed away.

 

Kim and Arlene (her married name Pfost), now relocated to Northern Virginia and practicing Methodists, would occasionally attend the local Dranesville Church of the Brethren for the Love Feast.  And even though there was a great difference in age since Arlene was born in 1935, they had plenty of similar experiences to share, like Camp Harmony in Kim’s Somerset County PA, a summer camp for Brethren youth that is still active and both Kim and Arlene attended as kids.

Before Arlene passed away last May, knowing we were beginning to make frequent visits to the Davidsville and the Johnstown area, she asked Kim if she would return the commemorative Roxbury Church of the Brethren plate that she had, back to the church of her childhood.  She said to go in the front door and there was a small room to the left containing the history of her church, and that is where she wanted it to remain.

This past Sunday, Kim and I returned Arlene’s plate to Roxbury.

Though it was Sunday morning, there was only one car in the parking lot.  We found the front doors unlocked and entered the vestibule and viewed the large and beautiful old sanctuary.  We saw the door on the left to the area that Arlene had described and eventually, I wandered around and found the church office.  In the office was an elderly woman and a more middle-aged man named Jim Mosholder.  I began to explain about Arlene and the reason for our surprise visit, and now with Kim present,  plate in hand, she told the story of Arlene’s request.  Kim presented the plate to Mr. Mosholder along with a bit of written history of Arlene’s life.

We spent some time in the Heritage Room viewing and reading and imagining the church as Arlene would have as a child.  On the wall was that very large quilt with hundreds of names of members sewn onto it.  Somewhere on that quilt of familiar western Pennsylvania names like Mishler, Ream, and Mosholder were the names of Sara Ober and Blodwen Ober.  Blodwen Ober was Arlene’s mother.  Sara, the best I could determine was Arlene’s sister who died in infancy.

The sign in the vestibule next to the entrance doors with the changeable numbers indicated the current number on the Sunday school roll as twenty-one, and the attendance the last two Sundays was five and seven.

But Roxbury Church of the Brethren is still surviving.

 

Arlene and our friends at Laurel View are of the generation of my mother and father and Kim’s mother and father.  We are blessed to have learned and be able to retell the stories our parents have shared and in some cases are still sharing.

We continue to have the honor and the joy of being able to share in the lives of Faye’s new friends and hear their stories.

For Kim and me, Arlene was a blessing.  It was a privilege to have known Arlene as a friend and a member of our church family and to have been able to be a part of her life and share that experience to a small degree.   This past Sunday I think we felt like we brought some closure to Arlene’s Johnstown memories and our commitment to our friend. Kim, who was unable to attend Arlene’s funeral due to an out-of-town business meeting,  felt at peace, walking the same walk up those steps and through the doors of the church that Arlene had described to her, coming down that hill to attend Sunday school.

 

Sunday afternoon I was reading a silly story on social media that was meant to be humorous, but it was the last line that made me think about Arlene:

“Life isn’t about how to survive the storm, but how to dance in the rain.”

Our friend Arlene, danced.

 

Roxbury Church of the Brethren

 

102 Old Orchard Way

 

Kim with “Roxie” an example of a Brethren woman of the past

 

The sanctuary

 

Kim with Jim Mosholder

 

The quilt in the Heritage Room

 

The quilt has the names of Blodwen Ober and Sara Ober.

 

The weekly attendance

 

Arlene on the left, with our friend Karen at my Kentucky Derby party in 2019. Arlene loved to watch the horse races.

 

The feature photo above is a selfie taken at the end of the Que Classic.

This was Kim and I crossing the finish line, and yes it looks like I am about to plant my face in the pavement, thankfully that did not happen.
Where The Choo Choo Go

Where The Choo Choo Go

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I have been home these past five days.

Quarantined, under house arrest, battling and recovering from my first bout of Covid-19.

In fact, I should probably apologize for my last post which I should have never posted because I was going down like the Titanic with a temperature of 103 as I was trying to write.  But not wanting to waste the time already invested I hit the publish button.

Sorry.

Though being sick is no fun, there is something oddly relaxing about being in this situation.  I can’t see anyone, no one wants to see me; I am forbidden until I meet certain criteria to return to work; so other than seeing my wife who has been sleeping in another room I am just home chilling.

Needless to say, with nothing better to do, I watched TV, listened to podcasts, watched some races, and slept a lot.

Well, mostly I slept a lot.

I could argue that Mike Lindell commercials, Balance of Nature commercials, and especially The Gutfeld Show, are all three good reasons to turn off Fox News and watch CNN.

So, I did, I watched some CNN.

And, I began listening to the Barak Obama and Bruce Springsteen podcast Renegades: Born in the USA.

Somehow this news overload got me thinking first about our Vice Presidents and how they really got to be Vice Presidents. You can’t really argue it was their qualifications to govern as our current example proves, more than their ability to gain votes for the Presidential candidate.

I imagined Obama sitting around with his team trying to find the most racist old white guy Democrat to balance out his ticket and maybe gain some votes from other racist old white guys of all parties.

And Trump probably chose Mike Pence to help grab the evangelical vote and help balance out his negatives.

Of course, the most obvious example of this would be Kamala Harris, this time balancing out the old racist white guy with potentially the first female Vice President of color. That was a ringer in my opinion.  The slam dunk. And it seems to have worked out well. At least in terms of the election result.

 

Looking back though, there was no way, in my opinion, Joe Biden was going to be allowed to lose that election regardless of whether you thought he was the best candidate or the worst candidate.

So then I began to wonder, now that we are in this mess with really no solution in sight to resolve it, does anyone who worked so hard to get us here have any regrets?

I thought about the Renegades, Barak Obama and Bruce Springsteen, having listened to some of their podcasts.  And couldn’t help but imagine what they might be thinking off the microphone.

But not only that.

Barak and Bruce…somehow the idea of the two of them working together conjured up more of a familiar visual for me.  I thought about the parallels to another population who needed saving, though fictitious, and imagined a conversation like this:

“Hey Boss, I think we are in some deep do-do.”

“Yeah Mr. Boss, it doesn’t look we are having a house party tonight anymore does it?”

“So Boss, what should we do?  We helped to get ourselves into this mess, how do we get out of it.”

“Well Mr. Boss, maybe it’s time for a new sheriff in Washington to save the country. I got a plan.”

“Okay Boss, let’s hear it.”

“We’ll work up a Number 6 on ’em.”

“A Number 6”? I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that one, Boss.”

Well, Mr. Boss, that’s where we go a-ridin’ into Washington, a-whompin’ and a-whumpin’ on my motorcycle, and then we…”

 

Kind of like Blazing Saddles and saving the poor people of Rock Ridge right?

Blazing Saddles, the 1974 movie by Mel Brooks that satirized racism and bigotry.  Brooks used humor to exemplify the extremely stupid behaviors of those who practiced it both in the historical context of white people settling in the west and their mistreatment of immigrant groups such as the Chinese and the Irish; the African Americans; and also the attitudes and treatment towards Native Americans; but also to show the idiocy of the bigotry of modern times.

It is fairly well accepted that Blazing Saddles would not have been able to be made today.

But I imagined a modern-day politically correct version, focused only on saving the country, not having anything to do with racism. This dynamic duo the “Renegades,” Barak and Bruce ‘a-ridin’ into Washington, D.C on Bruce’s motorcycle wearing cowboy and motorcycle boots on a mission to rescue the U.S.A.  from sure collapse.

With Barak Obama acting as the Sheriff Bart character.

And Bruce Springsteen would be like Jim, the “The Waco Kid” his trusty partner, but in this case maybe we would have to call him “The Jersey Kid” or the “The Asbury Kid.”

And Joe Biden to be the perfect Gabby Johnson.

And though it may be a stretch but maybe only to some degree, Kamala Harris playing a Governor William J. Le Petomane like part.

Then how about Nancy Pelosi as a Californian Lili Von Shtupp (“a wed wose, how womantic”).

Of course, the villain, the Hedley Lamarr role would have to be Donald Trump as evil as he is alleged to be.

 

Yeah, wouldn’t it be great if we could write a script with someone…anyone, riding into Washington, setting the government straight and our national policies, and once their work is complete, ride humbly off on their motorcycle into the Jersey Turnpike skyline?

I have said before I don’t want to nor am I capable of writing about politics, at least not seriously.

I even proposed to support Mickey Mouse for President in the 2016 election.

And as silly as the idea of a Sheriff Barak and “The Asbury Kid” saving our country sounds, I am praying for a miracle, any miracle, even one this crazy.

Because the reality is, just like Mongo, when asked why it was important where the Choo Choo go:

“Don’t know. Mongo only a pawn in the game of life.”

 

That’s me too, I don’t know either for I, am only a pawn in the game of life too.

 

It may be time to break out the paddle boards.

 

 

“He conquered fear and he conquered hate.

He turned our night into day.

He made his blazing saddle

A torch to light the way.”

(from the theme song “Blazing Saddles,” sounds like something worth praying for? I rooting for this guy)