NOW Living Downtown!

Lessons in progress in the neighborhood..

2011-07-06T13:31:00.000-07:00

When I read "The Wisdom of Stability" recently, the key concept that stuck with me was "Stay put. Pay attention. Learn from where you ARE." I paired that thought with the native American writer, Terry Tempest-Williams who wrote, "stay in one place long enough to know the sound of the bird in the morning, the call of the coyote near your window, the arc of the tree, bending near your door..." (from, "The Radical Act of Staying at Home.") I've been thinking about this for quite a while--and these writings have been helping me to crystallize my thoughts--of my home, my neighborhood, why I live here, why I stay here. Yes, I can go elsewhere-I have opportunity and the means, and the relationships to move to another place: Savannah, Charleston, Georgetown, New Orleans, Dallas, Memphis, Providence, back to LA, SF or OC--or, if I were to dream with my wallet, Monterey, Big Sur, Santa Barbara, Palm Springs.
I choose Fresno, I choose Lowell, I choose 1440 E. Divisadero, my little lot next to the law office and the Galvan's, near Miguel, Teresa and the kids. Behind Marjoree Mason, across from YFC and the day care.
I stay here because I need to learn more about the world from here. I need to explore my own world here- interior, exterior. This place makes me think about race, class, communication, giving and mercy every day. My neighbors and I talk about trees--our trees. We are excited about our meager crops of eggplant, tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, plums, figs, pomegranates and onions. None of us have much, but some have more than others--and we learn to share with those who have less. Each day adds to our accounts of trust and trustworthiness. We look at each other with eyes of care and trust. We turn over our keys, our work, our lives to each other.
We celebrate good fortune, good deals, good fireworks, good food.
We have "stayed put" long enough to know the comings and goings of our kids and their friends. We know the names of the dogs and cars. Sally, Fred, Snowball, Muffin, Boots, Taffy.
We speak English and Spanish and 'hood.
There is an interconnectedness that is inexplicable. In the most practical of ways, we depend on one another, and I am the primary recipient.
I learn to ask for help, to receive, to give, to share, to open, to extend my open hand.
This place has changed the way I view my life, and I don't think it would have happened had I not been here, home.
"Learn to love the people around you, see them with the eyes of God, and accept them as God does." -Sr. Aquinata Bockmann
"In whatever place you find yourself, do not easily leave it." Abba Antony
"stability helps us to do the necessary foundation work so that we can pay close attention to what is going on around us, and adapt to changing conditions without losing our sense of place....It does not limit us but encloses us within God's love, so that with the psalmist we can say: "the boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; I have a goodly heritage." Ps. 16:6 Kathleen Norris

Bill Reese is Dead.

2011-03-13T11:14:00.000-07:00

This past week, for the first time in a long time, I thought about Bill Reese, or "Preacher Bill, " as he liked to be called. It was a fleeting thought, along the lines of "I wonder if he is still living." I knew that his wife, "Miss Fanny," had Alzheimer's and was being cared for by her daughters, and that their 3 daughters had experienced great amounts of pain and tragedy in their lives-from divorces to the death of husbands in various accidents. I grew up with 2 of the girls--they were as close as sisters to me, staying with us when their parents traveled to revivals and other church meetings. My mother sewed their clothes for them for most of their childhood, and Miss Fanny taught piano to my brother and me sometimes (but, we learned mostly from Mrs. Stiles, a saint.)

I wondered how Bill Reese lived with himself. He had conned older people out of their possessions, land, cars, antiques, and had built himself a "barn" to house his booty. He was the worst image of stereotypical southern "baptist" fundamentalist blowhard scheister preacher. I began to question his theology as soon as I could read the Bible for myself, and as soon as I had a decent vocabulary, I began to question his sermons and his wife's lessons. To say that he was racist, xenophobic, homophobic, nationalistic, misogynistic and often unintelligible would be kind. He was beyond all of those things, because he preached them with a loud voice, and he proliferated a network of "preachers" and "churches" which reached through the southeast like a flesh-eating bacteria. His words were/are destructive and evil, but, whenever family members mention him, they do so with distaste, but, with a hint of forgiveness for the "good" that he may have done. If he did any "good, " it was to cause many to vow to never be like this man, never think the way he thought, and never treat people with such disrespect as he.
His tool for submission was public humiliation, and the threat of "dis-fellowship" to church members. Along the lines of shunning, this was the worst possible wound for southern small town hearts. He was a master of plotting family members against family members, and my brother's own divorce and remarriage are stained with Reese's imprint.
He founded and lead a cult, loosely based on independent, fundamentalist Bible teaching, very loosely connected to Bob Jones University and the "Bible Baptist Fellowship." He, and others, taught that everyone is doing to hell except those who are a part of HIS church and churches like his. Catholics and Jews especially. Southern Baptists and Northern Baptists. Presbyterians and Lutherans definitely. Episcopalians, no question (they are just like Catholics, often called "the Roman Church that worships the Whore of Babylon.") His cult made him a wealthy man, and he used intimidation and manipulation to gain trust and gather contributions and converts.
He was persuasive, but, more manipulative. A kool aid event or other mass suicide would surprise me, and I have spent my life expecting that result from his influence. For a person or a family to leave the cult, they put themselves at a certain risk-economically, socially, and in their relationships with those still in the cult.
I feared him, and I feared the influence he held over my family.
I escaped when I was 17, and received letters and telephone calls from he and his wife telling me of my impending damnation, how I would burn in endless fire, how God would punish me for the rest of my days, which they prayed would be short. At 17, and 18 I heard words from these 2 people that I have never heard since, and words which should never be spoken to another human being. The scars have taken years to heal, and are continuing to heal.
I do the work that I do, especially with churches, to continually remind myself and those with whom I connect, that the Church should be a place of healing, not hurting. Leaders should be menders and equippers, not tyrants and dictators. Organizations should be held to higher standards, especially when they have a foundation in Faith. Families are more important than institutions, even churches, and words can be weapons, especially when wielded by mad men.

My mother told me that Bill Reese died this week. He died alone in his "barn" of his belongings. He had become paranoid about losing his possessions to theft, and so he had moved into his barn to keep an eye on his things. This is where he died. He was 78.
His wife has lost her mind. She cannot remember her children and grandchildren.
They were mean, selfish, dishonest and evil people.
A forgiving God has his hands full.

The Lump.

2010-06-26T15:01:00.001-07:00

On Tuesday I first felt the lump. It was small, about the size of a cherry, and it did not cause me to pause, but, just to think, "um, that's interesting. On Wednesday, the lump had grown some. Again, just an "um." On Thursday, the lump had grown some more. Now, it was beginning to be uncomfortable, and I could tell that there was a lump in my groin, and it began to cause me concern. On Friday, the lump had grown to about the size of a golf ball, and I took a long soak in the tub, hot water, hoping that the size would reduce, that the discomfort would subside. I called Kaiser and made an appointment--took the first spot available, because all of the information on the websites says, "see your doctor." It's not ominous, but, I've read--and heard the tales of "catching it fast," and horror tales of not catching it fast enough--not being diligent enough, and worse. I called Joan. She's had breast cancer--and she knows the fear of "the lump." She was calming and reassuring. If it's bad, it would not grow that fast. It could be a lot of things (the websites offered 38 possibilities.) I will go to the doctor, I will take some tests. I will not freak out. I have been through worse--but, that "worse" was when I was out of it--when I didn't experience the waiting, the fear, the unknown.
It is Saturday, the lump has grown to lemon size--I will soon run out of fruit size analogies, I expect. It is not painful, but, it is uncomfortable. I will not review the WebMD or Men's Health sites, I will go about my day--I will go on our little trip, I will wait....
and, I will be frightened--because faith does not necessarily preclude fear. I have faith that it will "turn out OK," but, I do not expect that the process will be a walk in the park.
The lump continues to grow, and writing about it helps--and I know that no one in my family has read this blog, or will read this blog--so, I will not set off alarms with my mother, who has just experienced the death of her older brother last week.
I do not go through this alone, of that I am certain. My brain hemorrhage forever imprinted on me that I will not experience some of life's worst parts--alone.
So, Lord, I'd rather not have this lump. I would like to be able to take a couple of pills and have it vanish, and call Joan, and Gabe, and Mark...and say, "it was just one of those things that happens to men my age." But, if it isn't, I'll have to adjust to a new way of thinking about the lump.

Call it what it Is

2010-06-12T15:46:00.000-07:00

A guy stopped in front of my house to say hello, and he told me that he and his wife were thinking about moving into the neighborhood--that they had found a really good deal on a fixer upper a couple of streets over. No surprise, the surprise would be that he had found a lousy deal on a house that didn't need to be fixed--because our neighborhood has a surplus of houses that need some attention before they deteriorate from neglect. He said that they were considering opening a day care--that they had no experience in day care, didn't have kids, and that they'd have to research it alot--but, he said, "that's our way of getting in and being able to do some evangelism." I think he then waited for my applause, or nod, or an "amen." For a moment, I was just stunned that he had said it out loud. Yes, there are a myriad of reasons to move anywhere--and evangelism is as good a reason as any, I suppose--but, don't be subversive about it. If you are moving here because you care about this neighborhood, and you care about the kids and families here, then, welcome. If you are going to pretend to care (or set up a business that says you care), and you are going to use that as your "tent-maker" cover, then, please go elsewhere.
Here are some of the reasons for moving to the Lowell neighborhood that I have heard:
Great house that I can afford.
Good platform to raise support for my ministry.
There is much need in the neighborhood, and I have much to offer.
No better offers.
I was raised in Lowell, and I want to raise my kids there/here.
My friends are moving there, and we can continue what we started.
God told me.
I did some work on a project there, and fell in love with the people.

Some of those reasons are better than others, some are paternalistic and parochial, and some are selfish, some are selfless--but, to assume that every person who moves to Lowell, especially those who are practicing christians, has the same motivation is incorrect.
Those who are christian cannot be lumped into the same barrel--and there are as many stripes as there are barrels. To assume that we are all evangelical, all evangelistic, all conservative, all republican, all supporters of certain organizations, all affiliated with the same groups, clubs, agencies, is to further exasperate the problems in Lowell. Those assumptions have not been correct for the past 20 years, and they are becoming more and more wrong as time passes. As housing prices decline, and as Lowell improves due to the assistance of City Hall, more and more people will be drawn to live in Lowell: but, if any one group assumes that they have a "lock" on Lowell, that they speak for Lowell, that they are the "heart" of Lowell, then, the "new" Lowell will move further and further away from that mindset: and establish a new mindset, and if it is implied that the "old" way of thinking is evangelical christian, then, when that mindset is rejected, e.c. will be rejected in the same bath water. There is that danger for any faith-based organization working in Lowell, that their "methods" are nothing more than a shill to do what their "mission" demands. To "love your neighbors" in Lowell will demand that you love ALL your neighbors, that you include them in your activities, events, meals, meetings, gatherings and decision-making. You will not agree with them, approve of their lifestyle, believe as they believe, but you ARE their neighbor, and you can't escape the call to love them. The audacity to try to evangelize your neighbors without loving them first, is well, audacious: but not in a good way. People can code it all they want, call if "neighborhood transformation," "community development," or some catchy mnemonic device with the same letter, but, if it's evangelism, and you mean it: then call it what it is. To do less is dishonest and dishonoring to the very message you present.

God Bless Haiti...

2010-01-22T20:29:00.000-08:00

The images of the devastation seem to keep coming, each one worse than the one before. The children, the women, the young men screaming in pain..bodies in the streets, people begging for water--and fighting for food. A country with no infrastructure before the earthquake, now, seemingly without hope of ever having any type of infrastructure--even to get the supplies or food, water, medicine, shelter--to the millions in danger of dying.
I, like so many others, are conscious of their plight--and, think about them as I go through my day. In my impatience with the rain showers all week, I think of those who have no shelter from the elements who are old, sick, dying--and the rain doesn't seem to be such an inconvenience.
God loves Haiti, God loves the Haitian people. God will rescue them, God will save them. God will prompt those with gifts, skills, tools, time and energy to go and help--to feed, clothe, care, heal..the God who shakes the earth can now take care of the aftermath of the shaking--this my Hope, God Bless Haiti is my prayer.

Practical Ways to Love Your Neighbor...

2010-01-10T13:42:00.000-08:00

If the "greatest commandment" is to Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and the second is like this..to Love your neighbor has yourself..." then, how do I practically do that second part?
What does Loving My Neighbor look like in MY neighborhood today?
Here are some practical (and somewhat random) ways:
1. Fix up and maintain your house so that you ADD to your property value, and RAISE the property value of your neighbors. Love them with a fresh coat of paint, good, pretty landscaping, onon-obtrusive plantings, complementary colors. Give your house curb appeal, but don't make your neighbor's houses look bad in the process.
2. Keep your music and other noise level down. It's hard to love your neighbor when you're keeping them awake. More true in apartments and condos than houses. Parties and group gatherings at your house send a message (and if your neighbors aren't invited, that doesn't look good)-your small goup parking and noise may be counter-productive to the message you want to send to your neighbors.
3. Mind your pets. Keep the poo and pee off of your neighbor's lawns and yards. Spay and neuter your cats and dogs. Keep the barking and cat-fighting at a minimum.
4. Share the goods! When you buy in bulk at Costco or Sam's Club, ask your neighbors what they need and then share your bounty (literally) with them. Develop a coupon sharing process, discount books, online deals--if you don't need diapers, share the coupons with neighbors who do.
5. Curb your children. If your kids are out of control, why would your neighbors want to be around you? If THEIR kids are out of control, the way that you respond to them is speaking volumes. Know their names, their grades, their hobbies, and contribute to the positive activities in their life. (I've helped build a skateboard ramp, tossed balls back in their yards, helped name dinosaurs, and helped stock a neighborhood library with games, books and toys).
6. Spend time talking to your neighbors. Open your house to hosting neighborhood watch meetings, and other neighborhood groups (if you don't have Neighborhood Watch--Start one!) Give yourself time and space to talk to your neighbors almost every day.
7. Host your neighbors IN your home, on your porch, at your table, at game night, TV parties, movie nights, Bible Studies, potlucks, birthday/anniversary parties. Let your neighbors see you with your friends and family--and let them KNOW you (then, you can KNOW them!)
8. Develop a "neighborhood resource list" of professionals, organizations, helpful services, City departments, that you can call and offer as help. Include AA, plumbers, electricians, garbage pickup, sewage, utilities, crisis hotlines, local law enforcement (that you know by name), City Council staff for your district..YOU should be the person who knows how to find help!
9. Celebrate Holidays AT HOME. Be the best house on the block for Halloween candy, Valentines hearts, fly your flag on Flag Day and 4th of July, Memorial Day, Veteran's Day. Let your neighbors know that you are alive, aware and engaged.
10. Engage. Do NOT isolate yourself from your neighbors, especially if your neighbors are a different color, faith, age, economic status, sexual orientation, language, political party or nationality than you and your family. (except Texans--it's ok to avoid them:)
You can't love 'em if your don't know 'em--and your can't know 'em if you don't OPEN your heart, your gate and your doors...

3 Decades...

2009-12-16T08:16:00.000-08:00

On Dec. 16, 1979, I knelt on the steps of First Baptist Church, Garland, Texas, and felt hands being laid on me--the hands of pastors, deacons, teachers and the small hands of children. Roger McDonald and John Kramp had spoken words and I was commissioned to TEACH, and this was my ordination. From there, I spent time with my family, and then went and stood in a classroom at Southwestern to teach a class, "Introducation to Children's Ministry."
And that's where I've been for the past 30 years--in the classroom. I have taught--and been taught at Southwestern, Biola, Golden Gate, Occidental, Simpson, Univ. of Inner Mongolia, Fresno Pacific and CSU-Fresno. My life and career has been spent between the university and the church. This life of professor/minister. The 2 roles, for me, are the same. You listen. You teach. You listen again. You assign. You review. You listen. You lead.
Tonight, I will go to Bakersfield, and I will teach. Again.
I do not know how much longer I will be able to teach, but, I want to do this for as long as I can, as best I can. I am grateful, and I am blessed.

Potluck with the Neighbors...getting over myself

2009-12-06T21:51:00.001-08:00

Tonight I hosted a neighborhood potluck. Apparently, this potluck has been happening several times each month for 15 years, but, this was the first one that I have hosted--or attended. I like the people, alot, some of these people are good friends, but, most of them I only know by name and by sight--and I recognize that we live in the same Downtown neighborhood--but, I'm not sure that I really know them.
But, here they were, about 25 neighbors, sitting in my living room, dining room and hanging out in the kitchen. It was good--and, because we share a common faith in Christ, we prayed for our neighbors and our neighborhood. We prayed for families, for kids, for decisions, for houses, for projects--but, we sat together and voiced prayers for people who are NOT far away, not on another continent, but, right next door-literally. It was good, and it was right.
No, I am not a fan of the "relocator" moniker--I think it doesn't adequately describe who we are, or what we do. It's too much about real estate and location, imho, but it is the term that brought this group of neighbors to bring salad, rice, brownies and chocolates to my table--and, it's the phrase that INITIALLY helped us voice our prayers together.
I'm not crazy about it, but, I think this will not be my last neighborhood potluck.

the screams...

2009-12-05T15:16:00.000-08:00

I live in an amazing place-I love living here, I love the house, the landscape, the proximity to things that are happening, the short commutes to work, the lack of traffic like that in LA and SF-the variety of ethnic food that is available, and the sounds of "living" close to other people who are different in background from me..
BUT, the screaming.
Living between a battered women's shelter, a daycare, a community center, a law office and a large extended family--I hear screaming almost every day. Sometimes, I can tell that the screams are happy-a game of chase, some kids playing monsters or ninjas, balloons, joy; but, more often, the screams sound terrifying. I do not fault the kids at the shelter for screaming. I assume that is what they have always known, that they have heard so much screaming that it's the only way that they know to get attention and to communicate-I hear that. I can usually tell when a new woman has come to the shelter by the unfamiliar screams of her kids. The boys seem to scream as much as the girls. I hear the crying and the screaming from the mothers themselves, too. The 6am cell phone conversations from the playground, which are supposed to be private, but, I hear the cussing, and yelling, and the pain of relationships that have lost hope. My heart breaks for both parties on the line, and I have come to even pity the abuser-and the abused. But, the kids hear the voices and the tone of voices, and they repeat the screaming. I watched a 5 year old boy use a plastic bat to beat a plastic snowman today--as he screamed vulgarities as loud as he could: and I knew that this is all that he could do, all that he had to voice, all that he had to offer--for now.
I hear the screams from the daycare-typical screams of 2,3,4 year olds-and some of the same terror in some of their voices--I know when a mother is leaving usually, because the calls for "momma" or "nooooooo" are as loud as if they were in my own house.
Maybe I hear the screams because my own home is so quiet. The cats barely utter a word. The music is quiet, the rooms are filled with art and books and quiet conversation. Sometimes I want the kids next door to come and experience the quiet--to understand that there are ways to communicate without volume.
Does my life scream anything?

Please postpone Tomorrow.

2009-09-10T21:02:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is September 11. It happens every year, and each year, I yearn for it to be easier, for the memories to be less vivid, for the pain to be less....real. I don't want to remember, I don't want to relive, I don't want it to be Sept. 11. The pain in my stomach seems to encircle my heart, and pound in my head, and come out in my eyes. As much as I reject them, the memories of the day swirl in me. The morning drive to the airport, the humidity in the air. The delays, the change of plans. The change of planes. The announcement of "a national emergency." The voice of Sue--who says that Jennifer says there is trouble. "Where are you?" "on a plane." "dear God, this can't be happening."
The landing in El Paso. The sight of tanks and army personnel on the field. The quiet of the terminal. The silence and tears around the bar TV's. The hush. Hearing women cry out loud.
The panic. "No rental cars." No more flights. We don't know, sir, we don't know anything.
Should I pray? Pray out loud?
Our father....
The Lord is our strength, and our salvation.

The bus to the Motel 6. Far away from the airport. No, I have no money--no, these boys have no ID, no money. We just need a room--we'll figure out how to pay you.
Room 314. My laptop--cutting in and out. CNN, Fox, ABC--all the same images over and over and over and over.
Matt calls. "are you watching TV?" yes. Turn it off. Now, really, turn it off.
No.
Dear God, NO.
That...is...was...
Mark Bingham?
My Mark Bingham? But, I just saw him... just said "see ya later" he just grabbed my arm and said "with you."
There must be some mistake. Of course, not everyone died--they couldn't. Who else?
Todd Beamer?
Jeremy Glick?
Nicole Miller?
No tears. None.
Disbelief.
I don't know when I've eaten. I don't know when I've been to the bathroom. I don't know when I've slept.
Sue, on the phone. Come home. Get back. I'll stay on the phone.
My mother is safe. My brother is safe. My nephews are safe. For now. The atomic plant is near their houses. A target. I have never had those thoughts, that fear before. I do now.
I wanted to go to a church and pray. I called the baptist church that I had worked with, had done an assessment...and, I should have known by the assessment, the answering machine gave me the service times, told me that Awanas were starting, told me that the wednesday night meal required reservations. That would not be a place to go and pray. They were probably in a bunker, too.
From the motel patio, I heard songs in Spanish, and crying, wailing, praying. I was silent.

I walked three blocks to Applebees. Maybe if I ate, I would feel...something.
This could not be real. As I walked in, a Mexican family was surrounding a child. The pinata was there, but, unbroken. The faces were covered with tears, and fear. And, they began to sing "Happy Birthday." The entire restaurant--filled with displaced air travelers--began to sing "Happy Birthday!" As if to say damn it, YOU WILL have a HAPPY birthday! On this day of unbearable sadness--this child WILL have a happy birthday. We sang as if it were a battle cry. A fight song. A rally. Total strangers hugged the birthday girl, hugged each other, and the waiters offered free margaritas. I thought I should, but, then, I could not imagine anything to celebrate at that moment. Nothing. Mark was dead.
I lay on the bed. An entire day. I could not move.
Then, I heard the voice again. Come home.
I began to call to find a rental car. American Express travel, and Mary said that there was one car in Las Cruces, New Mexico. I am in El Paso.
The man from San Diego shared the cab with me to the bus station. We took the bus, the silent, smelly, hot bus to Las Cruces. I walked to the Avis office. I did not say anything. The man asked if I was the person that Mary had called about. I nodded. He gave me a hug. He said, "I'm sorry." He gave me the keys, and told me to leave the car at any Avis at an airport. I did not sign a contract.
I began to drive across the desert. The sun was streaking across the mountains. The redness of the hills, the rainbows, the sun beaming directly into the car. The radio--playing endless patriotic music...and Amazing Grace...and How Great Thou Art. The voices, the names, the search, the anguish. 16 hours in a non-rented rental car. Calling everyone I knew on my phone. Telling them I loved them. Asking if they are OK. Everyone says they are OK. Everyone is not OK.
I arrive at my little house on Maroa, and my neighbors come out to my driveway, and, they cry, and they hug me, and they welcome me home. Paula says," we knew you were on the east coast..we knew you were coming home on Tuesday morning. We thought..."
And, she cried. Her husband, Matt, hugged me, and cried. Their son, little Matt, hugged me tightly. I told them that my friend was dead. They said, "we know."
And, so, tonight... the 10th of September, I do not want to go to sleep: because, if I sleep, I will wake, and it will be September 11, and for the 8th year, I will remember, and relive, and be saddened all over again. But, I will not be afraid, and I will not be alone.
Sue will be on the phone, Jonathan will send me a text, saying that he is thinking of me today, because he knows that it is hard. And, it is. God, it is hard.
I will think of Alice, and how she lost her only son, her dearly, very loved, lovely son. I will think of Lisa, and how she lost Todd, and how the kids lost their dad.
I will think about the other Don Simmons. The one who was killed in the Pentagon. The man, a civilian, with whom I shared a name, who died at his desk. I will remember reading my own name in the list of victims.
So, I would like to postpone tomorrow, or, even more, I would cancel tomorrow, but, I will be forced to remember it again--on Sunday, when I will have to take off my shoes to board another airplane, and stand in a line, and throw away my water. I will hurt again, but, I will not cry.

Changing the Language--It Matters!

2009-09-02T21:20:00.000-07:00

One of the comments that I heard repeated often when I was teaching in Inner Mongolia, ROC, was "when the Chinese wanted to take over Mongolia, and make it Chinese, they outlawed the language of Mongolia, and made Mandarin the official language." In culture after culture, when cultural change was desired, a change in language was necessary. In the US, some would argue that immigrants can never fully embrace the United States culture without speaking English (which is problematic, since the actual "original languageS of the United States were Cherokee, Choctaw, Iroquois, Seminole, Miwok...). But, I digress: I would like to see the culture change to elminate the use of the following words:
1. Nonprofit. First, most people spell it with a HYPHEN, which, it does NOT have. Nonprofit is the term used to describe what an organization does NOT do, not what an organization DOES. It's like calling a hospital a Nondisease facility, instead of a hospital. Or, calling a school a Non-ignorance facility. It just doesn't work that way. I would suggest (along with an army of other professionals in the field...) that we substitute the term COMMUNITY-BENEFIT organization. CBO for short, which could be confused with Community-Based organization, which is OK, too--but, Community Benefit Organization tells the story much better, and even draws curiosity, which is not a bad thing. The IRS coined the phrase nonprofit, and, it's been assumed by the sector, but, since when does the IRS get to create language? Should they not be doing audits, collecting taxes or something?
Word 2: VOLUNTEER. Yep, I hate the word. I try not to use it. It is usually defined as a person who performs a service or a task without getting paid for the performance of the service or task. But, there are many "paid volunteers," such as VISTA, Americorps, RSVP, etc. In the church, the term doesn't make any sense at all. We would do better to refer to people as paid or unpaid, but, that leads one to think that the compensation is the only thing that matters in the equation. In church, people who serve should be referred to as ministers, aka servants. Pay is not the issue: calling and gifting IS. Churches do a theological and Biblical disservice to people who serve without pay in $$ by calling them the V. word. Jesus did NOT seek volunteers, he called people that he knew were gifted, created specifically for the service, and who really had not choice but to follow. It's true still: those who serve in community-based organizations and churches are not volunteers, as is commonly used, but, are the designated, the called, and you could not PAY them enough--ever, to do what they do. Pay is NOT a matter of justice, and paying them for doing repetitive work, or work that other staff do not want to do is a misuse of the gifts of those who show up and are willing to serve. No organization has EVER gotten better service from a person because they paid them$--but, quite the contrary. Bill Hybels is incorrect in his assumption that "volunteers should be paid to do the repetitive work..." But, then again, Bill Hybels and WillowCreek is about 15 years (maybe 20+) behind in their thinking about unpaid service, equipping and engaging people to do amazing service. In the recent "Defining Moments" on "volunteerism" the only thing that was defining was that Charlene and Vernon Armitage knew a heck of alot more about engaging people in service--to the church AND the community, that Hybels has ever known. In this area, he's out of touch with the research, language and current best practices of engaging people. Of course, I have not found him (or others like him) to be open to learning about the profession or the sector, because they assume that since they have been able to build a big church, they must be doing it right. I'm not confused by the "crowd syndrome." Volunteer needs to go away as a noun--but, we need to understand the term better as a verb.
Word 3: Recruit. We recruit to have people do things that they would not choose to do on their own. The military recruits. Athletic teams recruit. The church and community benefit organizations should stop recruiting and learn to do what Jesus did: INVITE and ENGAGE.
There is something wrong with the recruitment mindset: it says that the task is more important that the person. It says "I've got to get this done, and it doesn't matter WHO does it, or what happens to them in the process: the TASK matter! Recruitment is about getting things done. Inviting is about getting People done.
Today, I was thinking that if we believe that Jesus recruited, he did it more like a coach, and not like a colonel. He identified who he wanted, he saw them trained, he knew what was in them, THEN, he approached them and invited them: like Pat Hill watches a high school player, goes to his games, talks to his parents, THEN, makes an offer--
a colonel (or a military recruiter) takes whoever walks in--THEN puts them through the paces, basic training, and if they don't cut it, they are done...and find a job elsewhere. Not what I see as a grace-filled way to engage people. But, then again: what is the end goal? The task, or the person?
When I refer to female students at Fresno State, I am careful to refer to them as women, not as girls. How I use the language shapes how I view them. They are women, and that matters.
I do not teach "colored" students, Orientals, or other ethnic terms: how I define people shapes my view of them, and the view of themselves.
Community Benefit organizations.
Unpaid staff.
Invite/Engage.
Older adult.
Women.
"I once called you slaves, but now I call you Friends..." Jesus.

The Best Things in Life...

2009-08-22T17:47:00.000-07:00

As much as a part of me protests, my body cannot seem to sleep any later than 8:15 am--even, and especially, on the weekends--when, my memory of being a teenager and my 20's could sometimes find me clinging to my pillow well after noon--and then a nap was required, especially on weekends. My mind seems to signal that I need to rise and go look in my backyard, to see if the birds are congregating at the feeders, to see if "Roy," the hummingbird, and his girl, Joy, have returned--or Buzz, yep, the bee, or Snoop, the large grey pigeon, or the nasty mockingbird. The palette of nature in my backyard is amazing, seeing that I live in the heart of the city, near major thoroughfares, a large, noisy hospital, and can hear the Amtrak horns several times each day and night. But, the birds, bees, squirrels, hummingbirds, worms--and cats don't seem to know their proper geography. They feast on the fertile soil, of centuries of past farmers and orchards..and play among the roses, lilies, wisteria, plums, figs, jasmine, lavender, lilacs and iris that have found a healthy home in the small plot of land on Divisadero.
All of the old poems about gardens, those that I rejected because of their hokiness and smaltz, now, I get it... I understand...I feel the presence of God, and good in my garden... in the things that I planted, but that the earth grew. As I picked figs from my trees today, and tasted the sweetness dripping down my chin...and, as I nibbled on the lavender and mint...I felt the kinship with planters and growers of the ages...and especially in this fertile Valley.
As I sat with my coffee, and breathed in the morning air, with the sound of finches, mockingbirds and thrush around the gurgling fountain...and watched Roy signal to Joy that there was a prize in the Bottlebrush branch...I thought, who can sleep?

Death Makes the News

2009-06-25T20:28:00.000-07:00

Death seems to leave people speechless, and then, it seems to make them verbose.
On this day, I tend to believe the old wives tale that deaths come in "3s"--but, it seems to have come in 4's here, too--and, I know probably thousands more.
This is not a eulogy for Ed McMahon, although, I did grow up with him on the late night TV screen, first in vblack and white, then, in full color. Ed seemed like my friend, the friend I couldn't talk about, since I wasn't supposed to be up that late watching television, so, I watched Ed & Johnny in the dark, alone. They made me laugh, and taught me a new vocabulary, and gave me ideas, and introduced me to the broader world. They were grown men who had a friendship. They talked to one another, they joked, they even cried together--and they weren't related. For many little boys like me, they may have modeled something that we didn't see around our neighborhoods--male friendships.
Farah Fawcett. I wasn't a Charlie's Angels fan--except for Kate Jackson, but, I did recall her acting in "The Burning Bed," and how it exposed me to the reality of domestic violence in a shattering way-that it really happens, frequently, in hiding, and that it is real--and, that we can do something about it--and that we should look for the signs, and confront abusers, and tell.
Michael Jackson. For years, he and I were the same age, then, at his death, he is three years younger. Maybe it's the skin-whitening, the hair, the eyes, the sequined glove. Eccentric, talented, tragic, no doubt lonely--people called him "beloved," but I don't think he knew that. His poor children, his legacy tarnished, his talent diminished. The only Michael Jackson record I ever owned was "Rocking Robin, " and that was the Jackson 5. I somehow missed the Thriller crusade--and, "Billy Jean" seemed to be borderline abusive in the video. His death, at 50 (or 53) is a loss of his great talent.
There was another death this week, the death of an infant to SIDS. Unexplainable, painful, heartbreaking. The young family may never be the same. They are surrounded by their loving family, friends, their caring Church-my church, and this little boy will not receive a headline, a 48 Hour special, or a mention on Dateline--but, he matters--and he may be the greatest loss of the week, because of the loss of the potential of his life. God's choice to take him is not understandable, almost unbearable. This little one-on the earth for only a few months, was loved and adored--and, will be missed--in ways that sear your heart. His death will not make the news, but, his death will display how much the Loving Father wraps us in His hand and comforts, wipes the tears, heals.
Sleep in heavenly peace.

May I Suggest...

2009-06-14T00:08:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I went to Fresno State, and saw the new film about Garrison Keillor, "The Man on the Radio in the Red Shoes." It was well done, inspiring, funny, entertaining, and profound. I did not expect to use so many positive adjectives. I like Keillor, I've always liked "Prairie Home Companion." It's been on the air since 1974, and I have fond memories of listening to PHC in college, grad school in my first teaching jobs. For years, I said that I wouldn't know know anything if it weren't for NPR, and Garrison Keillor was a major part of my knowledge. I loved the "ordinary" people he interviewed, the simplicity of the music, the heart in his stories, the vivid storytelling, his use of language, and his passion for poetry. I wanted, and still want, to write like him, to tell stories like him, and to be the southern/central california/baptist version of Garrison Keillor. That probably will not happen, but, I'm not done dreaming...
One line in the movie--and, I calculated that he was 65 years old when he made this statement, he said "I am moving into the most productive period of my life. I am amazed that I am accomplishing more--and working faster than I ever have...this is the best time of my life." Were I not sitting in a full auditorium, I would have shouted my agreement. YES, I get that!
Me, too---I am accomplishing more, working faster.. with some sort of urgency, that isn't that kind of "stress urgency," but, a positive kind of driving urgency that makes me wake up earlier in the morning (or, it could be the diuretics and being 53)--and "get to it."
There is a song, and I listen to it almost daily. I have it in 3 versions on my iPod. The lyrics..."may I suggest, may I suggest to you, may I suggest this is the best part of your life. "
So, with Garrison Keillor, may I suggest...this is the best part of your life?

Some Fresno thoughts...

2009-05-28T13:24:00.000-07:00

The commute across the street to the Dickey Youth Center was one of the best--and, I was able to speak to the Leadership Fresno class about Ruby Payne's "Framework of Poverty." Talking to a group of middle class people, about class differences between poverty, middle class and wealth. It was personal, because I was speaking with a backdrop of my own neighborhood, standing where I had a clear view of my own house. I could use examples of my own neighbors, but, I did not want my neighbors, my friends, or my neighborhood to be the "check that I keep cashing," or to be the great punchline to my little message. This is MY life here, too. This is the LIFE of my neighbors, they are not sermon illustrations, or calls to action, or emotional tools, they are people, with lives that matter.
I will return in a few hours to give that "call to action." I will ask people to get off the proverbial bus, to engage rather than just be exposed. I will suggest that they touch, rather than react. I will suggest that they should move, rather than stagnate and simply "feel" concerned.
In my 8 years here in Fresno, I have seen very, very few organizations, and even fewer churches make any significant difference in the lives of my neighbors, or in the lives of people living in poverty anywhere in this city. Few. Rare. Exceptionally rare. There is a god-knows too much talk about "transformation," with no transformative actions. There are classes and seminars and chats and forums and luncheons, breakfasts and dinners about the needs, but, little consequential action>which just seems to intensify the problem, and magnify the need. For all the talk about an "asset-based approach," the often well-meaning "sages" of Fresno transformation have yet to make a dent. Yeah, I know, I'm included in that tribe--as much as I would like to delete myself from that grouping--I don't want to be known as a "former..." or as an "at large" or definitely DO not call me a "relocator." I LOCATED with the intention to stay--if I was a "RE..." anything, then, I could have the option to RE...again. But, I don't think that I do. I am NOT a relocator. I am an investor. My house, my savings, my profession, my values, my life. Invested here on Divisadero St., Cultural Arts District, Lowell Neighborhood, Downtown Fresno, Central San Joaquin Valley, California. I put my stake here, and I was asked to come here "for the rest of my life." I don't think they meant it with that invitation, or ever thought that I would. But, I am here. (essentially, now deal with it. )
The transformation tribe never quite understood "equipping." They just didn't "get it." Maybe they were chasing skirt too much, maybe they were allowing others, even their beloved pastors, to be distracted by lust and money, or the "lust for money." But, they didn't and don't have the theological framework to understand Ephesians 4:11, 12, or the moxie to do something with it. In equipping, you are required to give away your power, to yield your influence, to release your own agenda for the agenda of others. You have to stop being fascinated by your own influence and agenda, and live for another's glory and agenda. In many ways, you must yield your dreams for the dreams of others. Buying an old house and moving into a lower class neighborhood is no more than a sham if there is no equipping of your neighbors to be able to leave the neighborhood and take their kids to better schools, safer, quieter streets, and real community.
The failed nonp;rofits in Fresno, many led by so-called "faith-based" leaders were failed by this ego, failed by this lack of yielding, failed by the vice-grip of control and "good ol boyism", even if the good ol boys were/are the white/black evangelicals and quasi-evangelical episcopalians and armenians. These organizations failed due to lack of LEADERSHIP, not lack of funding. There is a consistency of names on those board rosters--some of the same names were on each of those boards. It stems back to more than the "mennonite mafia," but to the tiny cluster of larger than life egos that started some organizations in Fresno many years ago. They see themselves as the rscuers and heroes, they cannot relinquish the control. They still have their hands of influence in city hall, though that is diminishing daily. They still strut their stuff at their monthly luncheons.
So, what is my call to action this afternoon?
If you have never been a part of a board of directors before, then, we want you.
If you have never stepped up to serve on a commission before, we want you.
if your name has never been in the Bee, or you have never been asked to pray before a council meeting or a Grizzlies game. We want you.
If you name is unpronouncable. We want you.
If the words "tolerance" and "pluralism" have a positive place in your vocabulary, we want you.
We don't just want you, we NEED you.
Get off the bus--and do something.

and once again, you rise...

2009-05-27T21:27:00.000-07:00

Seems odd to think now that I am launching into a new endeavor in my life--at this point in my life. I have peers who are knee-deep in their retirement planning, even in this economy, and who seem to be moving strongly in that direction, and I'm stepping into phase 2 (or is this phase 3?)
Teaching in the American Humanics program with Dr. Matthew Jendian is a gift--and it feels like life, it feels like another chance, it feels...well, right.
I have admired the program that Matt has bred at Fresno State-the quality of students, the practical process, the academic rigor, the hire-ability of the graduates, and when I began to teach one course, I was grateful, at 2 courses, I was amazed, and now at 3+, I am astounded.
I am accustomed to the classroom-I feel like I was born there, and I am approaching the 30 year point of teaching in higher education. Some days, I am nervous, and tenuous, and fearful. Most days, I pray and pray and pray that I will not screw up, that I will remember all that I need to remember, and that I will be a better listener than talker. I want to connect with at least one student on a deep, thinking level. I don't want to frustrate the learning, but, enhance it.
Gosh, I was teaching when I was a kid--and, all I ever wanted to be was a teacher. I didn't really care where/what/who I taught, I just wanted to teach. And, teach, I did. In Aiken, Charleston, Ft. Worth, Garland, Anaheim, LaMirada, Mill Valley, Indonesia, Inner Mongolia, Fresno...and, I have taught Marketing, Economics, Bible, education, speech, communication, small groups, teaching methods, early childhood education, child/family/community, History of Education, Philanthropy, Grantwriting, grantwriting, grantwriting... I get to continue.
Do people really get to spend their lives doing exactly what they wanted to do when they grow up?
After the brain hemorrhage, the episode, I somehow felt that I would probably never teach again. I thought I would plutz, sputter, ramble, get lost, ramble more, chase rabbits, lose track..and, admittedly, I probably do all of that--but, at the end, I look at the faces, and see the eyes, and glimpse at the minds--and, I got to do it again--I get to teach.
It sounds so cliche, but, I never think about possessing the "gift of teaching." I think of teaching AS the great gift TO me. The pleasure of communicating truth, and sometimes theory, and sometimes stories, and sometimes dreams--to others.
I recall Leon. A first grader at Ladson Elementary in Ladson, SC. A low-country poor, poor school. I was the "man teacher" in first grade. The black kids were still trying to adjust to the school, in 1976, SC wasn't that far away from it's history of educational apartheid, and, I had spent my summer in Charleston at Sacred Heart School, teaching music as the "white teacher." I had learned "Stoned in Love with You" from my students, and I had taught them "Bill Grogan's Goat" and an Appalachian Carol--they had taught me to eat shrimp--shell and all, and to drink cheap beer after a Mass in Creole and Gullah, and they had taught me to....breathe deeply before I spoke, and to look intently at their faces, and they had taught me... to be a teacher. Leon called me "Mr. Cinnamon" and other names, and he completed my degree in education--by giving me a real, live student in which to focus my efforts and gifts. Leon to Zenobia to Chuck to Ramey to Todd to Charity to Matthew to Quincy to Amardeep to Philip. Decades of names and faces, and lives that have intersected with mine. The "man teacher," the white one.
I walked in the footsteps of Pat Conroy and Carole Ricketts. I read Parker Palmer. I breathed in the Charleston air, and exhaled all that I had learned from loving parents and a life surrounded by faith and food and family. I was foreign there, but, I learned to love being the foreigner, the "white one" the "man teacher."
And, today, in Fresno, again, I am foreign, I am the white one, the man teacher--and it feels so right, again.
When I thought it was over, once again, I rise to teach.

January 1, the rest of life

2009-01-01T14:42:00.000-08:00

The fireworks were distant last night, and the celebratory cheers were muffled by the Tule fog and the Fresno gestapo PD--but, still, midnight came, and with a toast of Moet Chandon, and poor Dick Clark on television (please, stop rolling him out and making his suffering a public spectacle)- and, it was quiet and warm in my house. We toasted the new year, each other, the cats, and then hobbled off to bed--looking to wake up in 2009, and wondering, hoping, that things would be different this morning. There are signs of hope--and, I will cling to the signs--despite the army mounting to discourage and take it away; I choose to hope.
I am hopeful about my city, Fresno. With a new mayor, some new council members and a new downtown Czar and team, there is some hope that some of the old forces of influence may be losing their grip. The pseudo-"christian" voices of Fresno have damaged enough lives, insulted neighborhoods, run rough-shod over ethnic voices, and disenfranchised more than any atheist tyrant could ever possibly do--all in the name of god, (or, the "no-name")--
While their sexual harassment, misogynism, homophobia, racism and entitlement attitudes go unchecked by the press and the church, my hope is that the new mayor will abandon their causes and be deaf to their influence. With the fall of some of their organizations, I have hope that more rational thinking will prevail, and the "faith-based" charade for grant $ has run it's divisive course. The great tragedy was that good people were caught up in the torrent, and well-meaning people have been damaged and become disenchanted. Move over, and move on.
I am hopeful for the country. The election of the first African-American president in my lifetime. When I think about the fact that I attended segregated schools up until the 4th grade, and I still remember "colored" restrooms, water fountains, restaurants and even divided sidewalks; I am hopeful that President Obama will help to escort in a new era of reconciliation. With foreclosed houses all around my neighborhood, and more and more homeless people scavaging my garbage cans and trash, and with clinics and social services being shuttered, I choose to believe that a change in Washington may also indicate some change on Divisadero Street. I'm not naive, and I've lived long enough to know that the President can't change everything, but, I also remember hearing President Kennedy when I was in the second grade-=-and, I saw how the adults reacted to his call for service--and, I stood with hundreds of VISTA and Americorps volunteers as we were commissioned by President Clinton--I know what vision can do: and I know that when a leader articulates vision and hope, people ARE different.
I have hope that the Church will move more toward the 2 great commissions, and begin to look externally and be less self-centered, and remove the mirrors, in favor of windows.
I have hope that I can finally write the book that is in my head. I want to write the book that will impact people's lives, not just sell books. I want to write the words that my heart seems to scream, but, I cannot say. I want to tell the truth. I want to write a hopeful book, a book that will bring change, and a book that is necessary.
I want to change some things in my life:
less clutter
reconciliation
focus
consequential involvement
deepened spirituality without sacrificing practicality
more diverse friendships
stewardship of time and resources
and, yeah, I want to attract more birds to my backyard--
I want to finish the barn...and not go deeply into debt doing it..
I want to deepen my relationships with my cousins and their families
I want to ride my bike in the sunshine more often
plant a mandarin orange tree...
I want to invite people to speak into my life..and listen...and act.
I want to give away more.
I want to be kind.

So, it's January 1, the rest of my life.

When you don't think it's possible, look what happens!

2008-12-03T20:18:00.000-08:00

There is no way that I could have predicted what my life would be like today. Content, satisfied, healthy, loved, challenged and growing. I'm not sure what I thought it would be like, but, this far surpasses what I had hoped for and prayed for: maybe there's something in that (sound's virtually Biblical.) Creative Potential Consulting and Training had a stellar month in October, and and even better week in early November. I surprised myself by the schedule, the variety of audiences, the travel connections, the new friendships, and the fun. I could not have left the house and felt confident had it not been for Gabe--making sure the cats--both new and old-- were cared for, mail received, house protected. I didn't have to think about what was "here" when I was "there." I never realized how my anxiousness affected my productivity and creativity.
Knoxville, with Andy and the Compassion Coalition churches, then to Costa Mesa, and the CASA group--what fun to be in a room full of people my age and OLDER, and feel embraced, welcomed, and KIN. Those relationships may last quite a while, and I was energized by their feedback and gentle comments.
Being back in Orange County was refreshing, and I loved walking around Balboa Island with "other" Donnie W., and recalling my 20's when I was running around Newport and Laguna Beach--was I really that young? Was I really that energetic? I know I wasn't "thin" but, I know I wasn't as fat:)
Then, from Orange County to Colorado Springs, and the C&MA Externally Focused Learning Community. They were progressive at the same time as shackled by the past. I was simultaneously encouraged and saddened by the group--
but, happy to offer what I had learned, and what I KNOW.
I am still astounded by how many churches and church leaders never seem to consider that people are NOT tools to do their bidding, but, the people ARE the ministry to which we are called.
Amazing that well-meaning churches treat their people with such disregard, all in the name of God and the gospel. Most churches never think about it that much: they simply program their people to death, and then wonder why people don't serve, why they fall through the cracks, why they have an assumed 80/20 problem. Frankly, I don't blame the 80% when I see how some churches regard their people: I wouldn't want to serve there either.
I returned to dive into teaching at Fresno State,
and to celebrate our 1 year anniversary: Sequoia Brewing Company, front table by the door, chicken pizza, conversation: I don't deserve such love....
Teaching at Fresno State: again, a surprise, to be able to engage with undergraduates in a subject that I know, where I feel confident, and doing what I love. Their projects are fun, and Dr. J. is a class act, more energy than most; and productive. I'll be back next semester, continuing to gain my footing again, and feeling more and more confident. I'm not sure if my confidence was zapped by the hemorrhage, or by the 1x1 junk (talk about a great vision with no skill)--but, it's good to regain it, and to be in an arena where I feel valued.
Visiting Mom over Thanksgiving was good, pleasant. She is aging daily, almost too quickly, and the loss of Dan has been more difficult on her than losing Dad. She seems painfully lonely, and alone. Her church friends seem inauthentic and distant, and my brother , according to her, is absent from her life. Kyle and Rachel are pregnant with another grand-neice or nephew for me, and they will be good parents. That house will be quiet for that child, and they will raise a good kid.
I miss being with my grand-neices, and I regret that I have never met the newest little one, Keeleigh Jo. Cheyenne and Tesa are growing up apart from me, and that is sad.
There is a phrase, "the universe is conspiring for your good..." and, I would say, "God is conspiring for your good..." and,
I believe it:
I feel loved, very much loved--tonnage,
I feel valued;
my heart is warmed by the companionship I never anticipated, but always had dreamed of;
I feel like the Mac who has found his cheese.
It's a good december, and I have enough.

5 Years and Still Ticking!

2008-08-09T19:16:00.000-07:00

August 10, 2008 marks the 5 year anniversary of my brain bleed/hemorrhage/episode. There is a laundry list of emotions: awe, gratitude, confoundment, amazed, thrilled, humbled, appreciative, proud, and even more grateful.
I will drive by my former house on Maroa tomorrow, see my old neighbors, go to St. Agnes, walk to the CICU, drive over to San Joaquin Rehab, and I can guarantee tears, memories, emotion. I have to stack those Ebenezars, and I have to return to the places and be grateful in person.
I will think of Matthew and Gordon, and the fear they must have had in finding me and calling 911, I will think of Sue, leaving her family at the table in Los Angeles and driving to Fresno, I will think of Jim, and his vigilence, generosity and presence, Kurt/H. and the 1x1 crew, Felicia and the roses, those who prayed, called, visited, stood vigil, cried, and endured the long stay in CICU and San Joaquin, and the rehab at home. For keeping my job, for paying me, for driving me to doctors, clinics, rehab, drugstore and grocery runs, walks around the block-kicking the golden leaves and loving the little Terrace neighborhood, listening to me cry, rant, over-talk, and keeping me sane. Allowing me to drivel, concoct worst-case scenarios, miss my mom and grandneices--
Thank you notes don't seem to cut it. Trying to articulate the gratitude never measures up to the depth of giving.
So, I say thank you with my work: doing what I can with what I know I can do, with what I can handle.
In Jeremiah 29:11, I like that it begins with, "The Lord says:--and then goes on to remind the prophet that God knows the plans he has for him, plans for good, for a FUTURE, for success, and not for "folly." In essence, God knows your creative potential. God knows mine, and, he knew it on Aug. 10 2003, and he knows it 5 years later. Plans for good.
I have to believe, that God is conspiring for my good, for my success, for my future.
Deepened faith, a more clear sober view of my weakness(S), greater tenacity, a tad more patience, and a genuine broken heart: all are the byproducts of my brain bleed; not just the medications, the diet, the exercise, the limited periphery, the driving hesitancy-those may be the evidences of how much God loves me--enough to remind me that "I once was blind, but, now I see," and that I'm not DONE yet.
Now, I wake up, and God and I have this discussion: am I going to be ALIVE today? Yes, I am, and I'm going to have WORK to do today, work that will be honest, and necessary, and fulfilling, and transforming, and good. And, God says, Get up and GO.
Kevin, Lisa, Dieter, Harry, Debbie: you all know EXACTLY how I feel--this needs no translation. As fellow travelers on the road, and as members of the "fellowship of the scar," on my 5 year anniversary, I pray that you will be encouraged and HOPEfull for your own anniversary of living, too. Surely, God is conspiring for your success, too.
With Great Hope,
Don

You can take your Body on vacation, but your mind may need to get away--

2008-08-06T19:49:00.000-07:00

I've just returned from 8 days of being away from home, vacation, and although I didn't venture that far away, just 2 hours north of San Francisco, I attempted to go far away from my every day routine. I tried to stay off of the laptop, to not be tied to reading emails, doing work, thinking about consulting, teaching, training, writing, thinking--but, it was difficult. I realized that it was more difficult than ever to turn off the switch, and just relax. I took my bike, and took 2 books, Frances May's "A Year in the World" and David Sedaris' "When you are Engulfed in Flames." They were for my mental distraction, as was my fully-loaded iPod. But, for the first 2-3 days, distractions didn't seem to do the trick.
I was riding my bike through Armstrong Woods State Park, one of the gems of all parks, whisking through the giant redwoods, and finding a secluded picnic table, where I sat and read=and listened to the birds, and the sound of children laughing, and told myself to be quiet, to rest, to relax, to let it all go.
I reread the words of Jesus, "come to me, all who are heavy burdened, and rest, for my yoke is easy, and my burden is light," still, nothing. I read it again, I prayed it, I thought it, I visualized it, I prayed it some more. I wanted to dump all of my thoughts in the river--and, then, I knew that what I needed to do was to stop trying SO hard to relax, and well, just relax.
So, I started.
A walk by the river, a stroll by the little shops, morning coffee on the deck watching the canoes, kayaks, gulls and hummingbirds. A massage (an amazing massage--with special emphasis on my shoulders and neck=-Thanks, Masada!) and, music, and laughter, and sketching in my new sketchbook.
I relaxed. I could not fix anything from there, could not fix any relationships, or damaged friendships, or pay big bills, or find new work, or restore or preserve anything. All I could do, and, all I should do, was rest. I read my books, listened to the music, breathed in the river and ocean air. Slept as much as I wanted, ate well, drank well, had conversations with old friends, laughed.
I looked at Margaret's garden, and thought of my own garden: and, then I rested knowing that I could return to my own plot of beauty on the earth, to my own garden, planted with my own hands. I dreamed of planting, and digging, and touching the soil. I thought about the smell of my land, the pleasure of watering. The feel of the blistering sun. Maybe I wasn't relaxing there, because I'm not relaxing here: in my own space. I could rest better at home, and, then, on the 8th day, we pulled in front of the house, and, I felt my body loosen, and my heart beat slowed, and then, I relaxed.

Random Cool Stuff

2008-06-21T22:46:00.000-07:00

1. Best mini-cheesecakes and Red Velvet cupcakes (and peanut butter/caramel/macadamia cheesecake) www.indulgencefresno.com getting married in the valley? gotta call Chris!
2. Funky day spa-my friend Carole's NEW day spa in Prather, on the way up the mountain to Shaver Lake: A Mountain Escape Day Spa--massages, ahhhhh, facials, pedicures, pampering-
3. Clever, artistic T-shirts: www.threadless.com Thanks, Gabe for introducing me to the world of Threadless-my closet will never be the same!
4. The cast recording from "Young at Heart," singing "Fix You." Breaks my heart every time I hear it.
5. www.weddingpastorsusa.com my friend Bill's baby--and it's touching the lives of hundreds of couples who don't have a church or a pastor on one of the most important events of their life.
6. My hammock in my backyard under the weeping willow tree. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
7. Patrick Contreras, American Gypsy: who knew the violin could be so latin and so HOT?!
8. Reading David Sedaris: just makes me laugh (outloud on planes.)
9. Frances Mayes, A Year in the World. Makes me hungry and stirs the wanderlust.
10. Neolia body wash and soap. One of life's simple pleasures.
11. Lemongrass chicken on brown rice at Au Lac, vegetarian restaurant on Van Ness and McKinley.
12. Stephen's Bike Shop--for the service, the attitude, my Giant Cypress.
13. Fresno State Bulldog Baseball: storming Omaha.
14. Fern Grove Cottages, Guernville, CA: funky, homey, warm, perfect little cabins under a canopy of giant Redwoods--across from the Russian River. Innkeeper's Margaret and Michael, and their homemade granola and scones in the mornings, coffee at the common table, cooled bottles of wine waiting for me, kindness and comfort. www.ferngrovecottages.com
15. Nina Simone singing "I think it's going to rain today." Can you hear crying in her voice?
16. Julia Morgan architecture.

Time Donors and Challenging Entitlement

2008-06-21T22:09:00.000-07:00

There probably was some angst when the students enrolled in BIB 300B read the syllabus and saw that they were to complete a community service project and write a reflection paper on it. Angst, not because they didn't want to do it, but, just the angst that comes with adult learners trying to juggle a fast-track degree completion program, jobs, family, church and other life responsibilities. But, they do it--and today in their final class, I benefit from hearing about their service. Sorting and screening books to give to prisoners, packing food bags, making meals for the homeless, working in a food-packing house to prepare food for needy families, gleaning, working in a daycare, serving a meal to families, coaching kids: a long list of tasks that would ordinarily costs thousands. The investment of time that these adult students have made is impressive, and the learning that comes from the service can never really be estimated. I asked them "tell me what you did," and then I asked, "what did you REALLY do?" the second question gave the more revealing responses. They used the phrase "I donated my time... or, I gave my time.." and the emphasis was on the donation of time. They talked about being fulfilled, being touched, being humbled, learning, being challenged, feeling good--and doing the right thing. They talked about serving those with no voice, and we discussed the truly voiceless in our community: who cannot speak for themselves? who needs the voice of the vocal, the articulate, the educated, the privileged? This led to a discussion about "standing in the gap" for those who are disenfranchised in our community.
I was reminded of the small town in Wisconsin that was beset with a wave of "new nazism." There were nazi marches, nazie protests, a new nazi presence. The Jewish families in the town were scared and intimidated. Some of them defiantly posted the star of David in their window, and suffered graffitti, taunts, insults and vandalism--even some violence. The travesty continued for weeks, until some Christians in the town decided to stand in solidarity with their Jewish neighbors and the Christians also posted the Star of David in their windows. Soon, most of the town (with the exception of the new nazis) posted the Jewish symbol proudly in their window. Following the murder of Matthew Shephard in Laramie, some citizens there purchased gay flags and hung them in their shops and at their homes, though not gay, they stood in solidarity with their gay neighbors who were also scared and intimidated.
I thought about how these students today, in the same way, had "raised their flag" with homeless people, with prisoners, with widows and orphans, with the disenfranchised. With their service, they stood in "solidarity" with the poor, and by doing so, they became enriched.
I read recently where a local evangelical minister was asked to give the benediction at a city event for the mayor. A close friend of the outgoing mayor, the minister apparenlty failed to remember that this was a "civic" prayer, and would be voicing a prayer for people of many faiths and non-faiths. From the report in the newspaper, his prayer was less than "multi-faith." Another missed opportunity to display the Christian virtue (fruit of the Spirit) of humility--since christianity (little c) is the dominant faith tradition in this country--and especially in this city, it would have been appropriate to YIELD the language and voice of the prayer to one that was not a part of the dominant faith, race and language. This was a CIVIC prayer, not an invocation in an evangelical church--and civic prayers, though heartfelt and sincere, should also recognize the privilege that they are voiced publically--and, if the prayers of Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Bahai' and other minority religions are silenced: then, ALL of our prayers are silenced. (I've never held to the notion of a christian nation: I believe in the notion of CHRISTIANS who live in a given nation, because a "geography" cannot be christian any more than a bookstore, radio station, tshirt or bumper sticker: it's a denotation for PEOPLE, not a mass of land.) I'm willing to stand up for prayer in schools when we can establish prayer in HOMES first. But, I digress.....
IMHO, we must challenge the attitude of "entitlement," whether it's an entitlement to a voice in prayer, entitlement to political access, entitlement to gov't funding, entitlement to "peace and quiet," or entitlement to power and position. As I understand Romans 3:23, all that we are entitled to is death: the rest is a gift from God. If we do not stand in solidarity with those who are hated, disenfranchised, taunted, libeled, the odd, the unlucky, the outcasts: we set ourselves up to an attitude of entitlement: and thats the tragedy.
I witnessed the stories of student time donors today: and, because of that, I want to stand in solidarity with those who serve and those who yield.

The View from Amtrak #718

2008-05-28T14:01:00.000-07:00

Leaving the train in Emeryville, CA, the train feels like it will not only be pleasant, but, provide the opportunity to read, take a nap, listen to music, eat something--and see life along the backside of Hwy. 99-- stopping in Richmond, Martinez, Antioch, Stockton, Modesto, Merced, Madera, then into Fresno. The train moves slowly most of the time, but, not slow enough to really examine the landscape, to see signs or buildings or landmarks closely. What you do see is lots of houses--rows and rows of developments, and you see the backyards of these houses. First, the architecture is nothing to brag about--it's stucco and wood in it's worst light. Since most of the houses that abut to the train tracks are on the lower end of the income scale, then, what the traveler gets to see is really some of the worst effects of bad planning, bad economic policy, bad architecture, bad landscaping, and generally a rather "bad" way to live your life. I lost count of the number of homes that were boarded up--with lawns un-mowed, weeds grown up against the houses. Pools left to breed mosquitoes and drownings, and houses that looked welcoming to crackwhores and dealers.
I thought about "environmental justice." What justice is there for the people who live near the train tracks? Is it the last resort of affordable housing? Since I am within easy ear-shot of the trains, including the train I'm on--then,is there a way to think about the houses near train tracks that illuminates any social significance? Which came first, the trains or the poverty? Did the neighborhoods once have hope before the train tracks (and freeways) were built? Did wealthier, more educated people band together to keep the tracks far from their homes and neighborhoods, or, did it just happen this way? I have no memory of train tracks in my neighborhood growing up, nor in any neighborhood I've lived in since--until Fresno, where it seems that train tracks and trains are unavoidable.
Looking out from my upper window--I could see kids playing in the grassless yards-- swinging on WalMart swing sets, making kid play noises against the rattle and hum of the train-- and I saw them smile and laugh when the train whistle blew. We were Thomas, and we were the Engine that could. On the train were people who were refugees from gas prices, savvy travelers, and we were families going to see grandmothers and sailors leaving for the Gulf.
We rode THROUGH the lives of these train-track denizens--and, I thought about the conversations that the parents in these houses have with their kids. "Don't play chicken with the train." "Get away from the tracks." "Don't leave anything ON the tracks." I thought of the times I've placed my ear to a train track in SC, and how I"ve walked on the tracks in SC, GA, TX and CA.
I know the sound of trains--from my bedroom, I can tell if the train is going north of south. I know the difference in a train whistle, being freight or Amtrak. I dream of taking long, cross country train rides and waking in posh sleeping cars to coffee in china cups. I have boarded trains in China, France, Papua New Guinea, Germany, Holland, Australia and Ireland. I like the pace and the view of the train. I like to hear the porter call "all aboard." I like the connection that the tracks make with the dirt.
All this: but, still I have never had my heart broken for the people who must live near the tracks--or those who did live near the tracks, who lost their home to the bank, or Countrywide, or some unsrupulous lender who tricked them into easy home-ownership.
This train will take me home, so, as I look out my train window, I wonder where those people will go, when they can no longer call these track-tract homes--home.

Photos--favorite places, favorite people

2008-05-14T21:12:00.000-07:00

Fermata in the Winter-(thanks for the sofa, Whites--and for the photo, Skivvy!)

2008-05-14T21:03:00.000-07:00

Every Now and Then You Have to Make a List...

2008-05-14T20:31:00.000-07:00

1. Nonprofit, no matter what Microsoft Word spell check says, does NOT have a hyphen in it. You may want to check with Yale University, Program on NONPROFIT Organizations, or University of San Francisco, Masters in Nonprofit Organizational Management, or on the hundreds of textbooks that spell it correctly--without the hy-phen. When I read a newsletter or an article from a nonprofit organization, and they spell nonprofit with the dreaded hyphen, it immediately tells me that the leader most likely does not possess a formal education in nonprofit organizational management. Elitist? Yes. Ab-so-lute-ly.
2. When an organization (or a church) has done it's work, and the brightest spots are in the rear-view mirror, then, that organization should say a graceful goodbye. There are far too many organizations (particularly faith-based) who try to recreate their glory days with some romantic notion that they can again do great things. They can't. Have a going-away party, and allow those with fresh ideas, clear vision, and sustainable plans and intelligent management to take your place in the nonprofit landscape of the community. It does a disservice to all nonprofits and churches for one ineffective (formerly semi-effective) organization to zap the good will, philanthropy and creative energy from the other organizations that are striving to do the right thing. Close shop, let your programs find new homes with healthy organizations (or go on their own) and find work in one of the other sectors. You're not bad people, you are just trying to lead a poorly executed idea without widespread community support. IF the community wants you, the community will find a way to keep you alive and healthy (i.e., Community Food Bank, Girl Scouts, Red Cross, Children's Hospitals, Habitat for Humanity, Volunteer Center) if not, please leave the playground.
3. A good idea is not enough to get philanthropic funding. A GREAT idea with measurable impact and sustainable prospects is what it takes, and those are few and far between.
4. If you are going to make your living talking about being a civic-minded, neighborly, transformational agent, you have to stay at home more often.
Your neighbors will be the first to tell you--you travel too much, and if you are not present, you can't really do much good. The first step to community transformation is NOT good ideas, it's actual physical presence. (Especially if you're going to be a relocator--you really have to LOCATE and shine locally.)
5. Racism can rear it's ugly head in the most unlikely places.
6. There really isn't a great candidate for Mayor of Fresno who will bring real change to this city--even the female candidate has a list of the "old boy's club" that makes me shutter. If I wanted Alan Autry in a pantsuit, he may have probably done it himself.
7. There are parts of Fresno that people who work for the City would rather forget, and they do.
8. Screaming and being shrill will get you noticed, but it may not bring about significant change.
9. The 9 year old boy next door will always tell you the truth about your life. He watches it more carefully than you do.
10. If the church was really the CHURCH, would be need as many?
11. The greenest buildings are the ones already built. Preserving and restoring old buildings is not just good sense economically, it's morally necessary.
12. Days of Service and big splashy days of service can sometimes do more damage than help--it's like the circus comes to town, and the poor people don't have the good tickets, so they watch from the sidelines while the middle-class white people "help."
13. Most nonprofits and churches undervalue and underestimate volunteers.
14. If I was ever held responsible for what my childhood pastor said, I would be in serious do-do.
15. My mother gets smarter as we both grow older, and both of our stories get longer.
16. Living alone for most of my life has left some serious marks on me.
17. Mexican women are beautiful when they are angry.
18. I have enough.
19. Maintaining a loving relationship is the hardest work in the world.
20. There is no such thing as "too many flowers in your yard."
21. Never underestimate the power of the porch swing.
22. 22 items on a list is plenty. Stop.

Philanthropy, and Learning to be Philanthropic

2008-04-13T22:52:00.000-07:00

Fresno State, and Dr. Matthew Jendian, have created a bit of genuis: the American Humanics program which prepares students for careers in the nonprofit sector. The course that I am privileged to teach, "Philanthropy and Grant-Making" is not a capstone course, but, it does provide students with an inside look of how Philanthropy works in America, and, in real-life terms, gives them a real experience with being philanthropic. Fidelity Funds provided the program with a grant, and it was matched by Campus Compact and by the Fresno Regional Foundation. The students formed 3 boards, did research, and site visits to determine what organizations would receive their funds. Some of the nonprofits never made it past the first cut, and many organizations lost out on the funding because their websites were incomplete: blatantly incomplete. On some of the nonprofit sites (if they had one, which was the first cut), did not have the name of the excecutive director or phone number, fax number or other pertinent information that would have assisted a potential funder, much less a normal donor, to find them, ask questions, and make a contribution. The websites were fuzzy on information, mission, purpose, what they actually DO, how many people they serve, how long they have been around, the names and titles of staff members (or, if they have staff members), and even with nonprofit "sunshine" laws in CA, some information on their budget. Some of the phone numbers were incorrect, and many had no way to contact them by email. Searching for information was like fishing in the dark: you KNOW they will want the bait, but, they made the process very difficult. Dr. J. and I searched for the information along with the students, and we were surprised (and somewhat embarrassed for the organizations) that had such a shoddy public face. THEN, as the students sought to make appointments with the Executives, they wer given the run-around, had unreturned calls, had changed and missed appointments, and were treated with little deference: certainly NOT treated as potential donors nor volunteers. The students deserved better from the nonprofits, and, gratefully, they were gracious to the nonprofits. The students narrowed their choices down to a smaller number, and those organizations were invited to do oral presentations before the students made their final choices. The organizations were not very well prepared for the presentations, and did not take the opportunity seriously, and provided no handouts, did not prepare any specialized powerpoint presentations, and even seemed clueless when the students asked the questions. One agency, a battered women's shelter, told the students that she "could not do evaluations of the outcomes because of issues of confidentiality." Hogwash (or BS) is exactly how the students read it--accurately. After hearing the presentations, I'm not sure I would want to send any volunteers to any of the organizations, and definitely will look for other options to donate. Apparently these nonprofits do not see these students as vital to their future, do not recognize the importance of social networking and their reputation in the community. These students will not "bad mouth" the agencies, but, when these students complete their nonprofit certificates, I don't believe they will look to these agencies to find employment, since the agencies, with few exeptions, were not organizations where they would want to invest their careers. The agencies were focused on their need, and few could demonstrate measurable outcomes. Even fewer were interested in building and maintaining a partnership with these students and the American Humanics program. I am not sure if this is due to poor leadership, lack of preparation, poor communication: really, it doesn't matter. These students ARE donors, and, no intelligent, professional organization should treat donors (or potential donors) or volunteers, in the way that these students were treated.
All of these nonprofits and their staffs (especially the executive directors) should enroll in the American Humanics program at Fresno State: maybe then they will make the grade.

Neighbors, Funerals, and The Non-neighbor church

2008-04-07T18:20:00.000-07:00

As I type this, I hear the voices and laughter of friends and family of my next door neighbors. Steve and Kelly (and their kids Ashley, William, Stevie, Josh and Alaya) live in the front house, and Louisa, Alex, little Alex and Dominick live in the garage in the back: with the exception of Alex, who died a week ago. Alex Andrew Gomes was 32 years old, and died from a heart attack. He was in the bay area for a Union training program, and apparently was being chased by a Macy's security guard in Pleasanton, and once caught, he began to shake and died instantly. His years of drug abuse and his 429 lbs. contributed to his death, absolutely, which, in no way lessens the loss and the sadness for his family and friends.
Most of my conversations with Alex were about his desire to "get back on track," to find steady work, to use his hands, to take care of Louisa and the boys, to get back into his own house and out of Kelly's garage. He laughed easily and often, and with the weight of the world on his shoulders, he had an easy smile and was very likeable. He and I kidded about weight, about parking in front of our houses, about food--he once stopped at my fence and told me that he envied my life--no family, no cares, just being able to sit on the porch and swing--but, then, he paused and said, "maybe it's not so good--you don't have a wife and kids to love on, and to love you back, so, nope, maybe I wouldn't trade places--but, every now and then I may need to come over to your house for some peace and quiet."
I loved that conversation. I remember every breath of it--it made me think about my life and his, and how similar we were, but, different: but what we had in common was our neighborhood. There is a power in that word that I cannot fully comprehend.
So, in the past week, I have learned how difficult it is to secure a large body from a morgue in another county. I have learned how much it cost to transport a large body, the cost of a large coffin, of cremation, of a funeral home, of a viewing, a viewing room, flowers, hearses.
Alex and Louisa had very little, and all of these costs were more than they had. Louisa told me that they took the $320.00 to pay the morgue out of Alex's wallet in the police station. When they returned home with Alex's van, the repo man was waiting, and their car was repossessed the next day. As Louisa sat making a music cd to play at his memorial service, their power was turned off for non-payment. To quote a line from Beth Henley's "Crimes of the Heart," "they weren't having a very good day. At all."
The family held a car wash to raise money for the cremation and the other death expenses. It's something that happens alot here in Fresno, when poor families have a death, sometimes as a result of drugs and other crime, the family holds donation car washes to raise the necessary cash. It is not uncommon to see the young widows, mothers, and children of the dead holding signs with the deceased picture on them, and begging people to come and have their car washed. For this community, it is as much a part of the death ritual as sitting in a wake or "shua" in other cultures. I took my car to be washed, helped wash my own car, and paid far more than I would at White Glove car wash. That's what neighbors do here. We help, we wash, we pay, too.
Alex and Louisa had been loosely connected to Bethany Inner City Church, which meets in the World Impact building down the street from our houses. Pastor Jonathan Villalobos leads the church. They are a rag-tag bunch, reaching many people in my neighborhood. Those with addictions, with criminal records, with ankle bracelets, the very poor, gangbangers--Bethany is the neighborhood church, and Alex and Louisa had been on several retreats with them, and were a part of some small groups at the church. Jonathan met with Louisa and planned the service, and contacted a mortician to take care of the body, and to get it from point A to point B. Jonathan and Bethany stepped in and helped, and my own church, The Well, brought by some food, and did some emergency work on the house that Alex and Louisa owned, that had been used as a boarding house and was being heavily fined by code enforcement. Bethany and The Well did meaningful acts in the difficult time. Artie, from the Well, made efforts to stop by and visit, and did a good job of representing the Church to the Gomes.
Jonathan arranged for the memorial service to be held at 1st Presbyterian Church, the church that is one block away, and has a large facility-a sanctuary, fellowship hall, parking lot, bathrooms, the works. The service was held in the youth room, #104.
I left my house early to go over and help--I stopped by Kelly and Steve's to get them, and 2 of the kids asked to walk over with me.. They asked, "where is the church?" I said, oh, it's just over at First Presbyterian, you know.... but, they did NOT know where 1st Presbyterian was--the largest church in our community, and by far the wealthiest, was unknown to my neighborhood children. Joshua and Faith are in second grade at Lowell, and they are a part of the YFC kid's club, the Lowell Kid's club, sometimes go to Wise Old Owl (the IV program) and Saturday Sports, led by The Well. These kids seem to be served by every church and ministry around, with the exception of First Pres. We literally live in the shadow of the steeple of 1st Pres., but, the church has had NO direct impact on the lives of these kids.
We walked across the patio of the church, and over 80 people crowded into the small youth room, with murals on the wall, and folding chairs set up among the pin-ball and foosball games. The Coke machine rattled throughout the Lord's Prayer and scripture reading. By all appearances, these folks were comfortable in this room, and thought nothing of the environment, but, I could not help but think, "why aren't we in the sanctuary?" "where is the church staff to welcome this group of neighbors?" "why isn't someone from this church here to mourn the loss of one of THEIR neighbors also?" Perhaps they were debating Amendment 0, or C, or deciding their denominational future, but, they, were not present, even in their own building.
(I'm amazed at the number of churches who feel that they have done their part by allowing another group to "use" their facility--as if the presence of an outside group satisfies the requirement of community participation. Use of a facility without the actual presence of the Body of people is alot like borrowing a casket...)
My thinking is that, like Alex, this church has become fat (and lazy.) They have all that they need, they have a large "drive-by" congregation--folks that DRIVE BY the neighborhood to get to their "patrolled" parking lot. The staff of this church has probably driven by Alex and Louisa's house hundreds of times, but, never stopped. They even have a mission's director, who, I'm sure cares about the neighborhood, but may have lot touch with the actual "neighbor" They even have a "pastor-at-large" who may be so "at large" that no one in the neighborhood knows what he does, or where he does it, but, it's obvious, NOT in this neighborhood.
Maybe 1st Pres. USED to care, used to be in touch with it's neighbors. I hear that they made a big deal about their decision to STAY downtown, that's very different from the decision to actually BE PRESENT in the downtown neighborhood that is our home.
At Alex's service, there was a row of women who are all nurse's aides at Hope Manor, the board and care facility wher Kelly works, and is on the next bloci. I noticed them,and wondered, "what difference would it make if this church ceased to be on this corner?" From this experience, they would know that the folding chairs are uncomfortable, the room is messy, and they crowded 80 people into a 45 person room, but, the disappearance of this church would have little impact on many of the people who live nearby.
I'm sad about the death of Alex, and I'm disappointed that a church did not represent the Church well. What gives me hope is the voice of a young man (from Bethany) who said, "wasn't this a cool service." Yes, it was a cool service--and, I thought about his comment as I walked home. These folks thought it was a cool service. The disappointment is ONLY in my heart and mind. This is the way that I, a person who does not live in poverty, looks at the situation. Then, it hit me: BAM, really hit me, "Blessed (happy) are the POOR, for they shall inherit the Kingdom..." and, I realize that the change in the non-neighbor church had to come in ME, that I needed to become POOR, like my neighbors, and God had used 1st Pres. to remind me of the soil of my own heart. Maybe I'm so ready to point out their failures because they amplify my own.
God bless my neighbors, and God have mercy on those of us who call ourselves "neighbors" but miss the mark.

Craving Fish sticks: OR, Becoming My Father

2008-04-04T21:52:00.000-07:00

It is friday, and, as with almost EVERY Friday, I was craving fish sticks today-- not the tasty Gorton's gourmet kind, but, the real "stick"--still a bit frozen, barely resembling fish, crying out for tartar sauce, needing to be buried in cocktail sauce--but, still, it's FRIDAY, and my body seems to want them: that really needs to be examined, and, yes, I know that it is a deeply rooted impulse, created at Eustic Park Elementary, roughly around 1962, when, in deference to Catholics who could eat only fish on friday, served ONLY fishsticks as the school lunch on fridays. Always the same-fishsticks, cole slaw, tater tots, and a chocolate Moo Bar for dessert-served with the carton of milk on the laminate tray. Now, 45 years later, I want the SAME exact lunch/or dinner, and I'm both surprised, amused, and just a little troubled by the desire: it is a major indicator that I am becoming my Father.
I'm really not sure if my father ever ate fish sticks on fridays, or, if he ever ate school lunches when he was attending the Garfield, Georgia schools in the 30's and 40's. BUT, what I deeply know is that my father lived in a routine, and craved consistency as much as I crave fishsticks on friday.
At his memorial service, where I did the eulogy, I met several people that my father had befriended on his travels as a seed rep for Tri-Chek Seed, he had befriended them at the motels, coffee shops, gas stations, country stores feed and seed stores, porches and diners along his route.
A few years before Dad had his stroke, I spent a couple of days with him "on his route." He was quite a conversationalist, much more than he was a salesman. He would take his seed catalogs into a feed and seed store in the small farming towns of SC and GA, and would spend time talking to the men gathered around the counters and wood-stoves in the stores. They sometimes were whittling, chewing tobacco, smoking, drinking: He would find out what they were planning on growing, listen to their stories, tell them jokes and stories, laugh at his own jokes and theirs, and then write up an order: maybe. Today, you would say he built "relational capital," but, mostly he cut the fool, and laughed his way into a sale of soybeans or corn or grass.
After being with him on his first stop, I realized that he could actually complete the transaction in less than 10 minutes, but, Dad would take hours on each stop. His boss, Richard Gunter, liked my dad's approach, and almost everyone on his route "loved B." He told stories about my brother and I, his 2 grandsons, hunting, fishing, his "land" and talked football and cars. He wasn't exactly well-read or completely truthful, but, he had an opinion, but, mostly, I know that my dad genuinely loved people, and liked to be around them: BUT, he mostly liked the consistency of seeing the same people, in the same place, at the same time, and having the same conversation, in the same place at the same time. He slept in the same motels: The Red Roof Inn, mostly, most of the time in the same room, sat in the same place at the diners and coffee shops, and was served by the same waitresses, mostly named Mabel and Maude and Shirley. My dad did not like for his world to change, and did not like to be confronted with change. He wore mostly the same clothes all of his life, combed his hair the same way, used Vitalis and Aqua Velva, until he became attached to Aqua Net hairspray (which I found odd, but, comforting) and, usually had a toothpick in his mouth. He tipped, he laughed, he did not have an evil bone in his body, just a simple, quick smile and a goodness (that I miss terribly today.)
Tonight, Friday, I realized that what I was craving, like fish sticks, was a routine, a consistency, with the same people, in the same place, at the same time. I want a sameness. I go to the 5:00pm service at my church, and try to sit in about the same place (always on the right rear of the sanctuary) not to be stubborn, but, to feel secure in the routine. I love my house, and my neighborhood, and my car, and the sounds of the train and the smells of Mexican food and jasmine and exhaust.
After living in Aiken, Charleston, Ft. Worth, Garland, Dallas, Anaheim, Stanton, Huntington Beach, Long Beach, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Mill Valley, and Fresno: I want to be still, to be in a routine, even a RUT, and eat fish sticks on friday, go to garage sales and nurseries on Saturday, eat waffles on Sunday, eat Mexican on Monday.....I want to sit with the same people, OFTEN, and feel the comfort of not having to explain myself or apologize for myself or define myself.
Last week, I stood in front of over 1,000 people: not all at once, but, in classes at Fresno Pacific and Fresno State, and churches and committees and conferences: and, I looked at 1,000 faces: and, I wanted to run away some of the time, and look at the same faces over and over, even the face of my cat. I was not tired of being with people, I was tired of being with SO many people who did not know me, who did not know what my heart wanted to say, or how I felt, and how desperately I wanted them to understand HOPE and stuggle with questions that matter.
I like the consistency of my work in Knoxville: I go there once a month, pick up my rental car at the same airport in the same place, and drive to the same hotel, and eat at the same restaurant, and look at the same mountains, and talk to the same group of people from the same organization. Fish sticks, and I love this part of it. BUT, I am also glad that it is a limited contract, and in a year or so, I will NOT go back to Knoxville, but, will go to Atlanta and do the same thing. The difference between my father and me here is that he would still be going to Knoxville. Sometimes I think that I like the consistency because it offers safety, but, then, I am willing to take risks with people and places and food and ideas: maybe I want fish sticks served Vietnamese style or Armenian cocktail sauce.
So, for today, this friday, I want to eat with Gabe, hold my cat, listen to music, watch Letterman until the Top Ten list, sleep under beige jersey sheets, sleep on the right side of the bed (away from the clock) and get up and drink coffee and go to garage sales and nurseries. My fishsticks. I am my father.

Learning about Learning

2008-02-06T22:53:00.000-08:00

As I sat in the rear of the classroom at Fresno State, and listened to Dr. Timothy Kubal, professor of Sociology, lecture on "qualitative research," I thought about the practice of learning-and, though I was also the professor for the class, that, there I was, taking notes, listening, and trying my best to soak in every word, every thought, every idea--because I craved the new knowledge, I wanted to "put it all together" with the things that I have learned, or heard, before, and I wanted to lock the information in my mind--like a newly discovered treasure--and, yet, it was not even all that new--but, it was a new articulation of information that somewhere along the line of life, I had learned: so, I thought about learning.
When have we "learned" something?
When do we really KNOW? Is this epistemology about putting the information into a pragmatic, workable form, is is true that "learning is change?" If so, how does this information change me? Perhaps I was enjoying the new language-since my field is not sociology, but, education and theology--and, so, this new language, or this new articulation of truth fascinated me and prompted me to find more readings about qualitative research, and continue my learning- all, which made me realize, with some happiness, that I have a lot to learn about learning.

On Loneliness

2007-11-02T13:53:00.000-07:00

It's not every day that I even consider that I live my life alone, and the thought of "loneliness" does not creep into my mind so regularly as to cause me great concern. There are the times: the nights mostly, or those moments of standing before sheer beauty-of a place, of a sound, of a feeling, and wanting someone with whom to share that moment. As the Bishop Lang poem recounts, it's "someone in daily nearness to love." That is precisely it, the daily nearness: not in the spectacular, but in the mundane. It's the tuesday afternoons, not the Saturday mornings, that I recognize that I have either failed to maintain that kind of relationship, or lost them to death or disaster, or simply misplaced the relationship by neglect. At my age now, I am beginning to absolve myself of any guilt for not being in a loving relationship, with the excuse that it is too late now: who would want me now? Why would they possibly want someone as opinionated, stubborn, determined and worn as me? I moved to the "damaged" shelf a few years ago, and so I am suspect of anyone who shows interest, much to my own displeasure with that thought. I think of this poem nearly every day:

"in the quiet of his bachelor days,

of friends, he had many;

of work, he had too much,

but,

at the point when he walked through the door,

and went into that house,

and left friends and work at the garden gate;

it is lonely;

the absence of

someone

in daily nearness

to love.

And, brother,

it is lonely. "

Bishop Lang

And, my friends and my work, and my faith sustain me, and feed me-yes, much.

BUT, when at the garden gate-----there are not enough books, or songs, or prayers or websites, or movies or TV to fill that void.

I begin to miss, no, to LONG for those whom I have loved, and who have loved me. The faces I have kissed, the hands held, the sound of the other heartbeat next to mine- being missed, being remembered, being "real" to someone else. I feel my heart begin to crack open, and tears begin to well. So, then, in those moments: I am fully alive.

"to transform the emptiness of loneliness to the fullness of aloneness, that is the secret of life."

"to dare to live alone is the rarest courage; sure there are many who had rather meet their bitterest enemy in the field, than their own hearts in their closet."--Charles Caleb Colton

"Pray that your loneliness may spur you on to finding something to live for, great enough to die for." Dag Hammerskjold

"we are all lonely for something we don't know. We're lonely for how else to explain the curious feeling that goes around feeling like missing somebody we've never met? " David Foster Wallace

"Love is rare, life is strange, nothing lasts, people change.
Every time I've lost another lover, I call up my old friend,
and I say, let's get together, I'm under the weather,
another love has come to an end.
And she listens as I tell her my sad story,
and wonders at my taste in friends,
and we ponder why I do it, and the pain of getting through it,
and she laughs and says, "you'll do it again,"
but we sit in a bar and talk till 2,
about life and love,
as old friends do;
and tell each other what we've been through
how
love is rare,
life is strange
nothing lasts
people change.
And I ask her if her life is ever lonely,
and if she ever feels despair
and she says she's learned to love it,
cause that's really all part of it,
and it helps her feel the good times
when they are there.
Yes, we sit in the bar, and talk till 2,
about life and love as old friends do
and tell each other what we've been through
how love is rare,
life is strange,
nothing lasts,
people change;
And we wonder if I'll live with any lovers,
or spend my life alone,
and the bartender is dozing,
and it's getting time for closing,
and we figure that I'll go it
on my own
but, we'll meet the year we're 62,
and travel the world as old friends do
and tell each other what we've been through,
how
love is rare
life is strange
nothing lasts
people change.
Old friend.
-S. Sondheim

No, I do not become consumed by loneliness OFTEN, but, yes, there are times.
I can separate the moments of solitude, which I cherish, with those famines of loneliness.

Villa Fermata-- My home

2007-06-26T10:53:00.000-07:00

To Love where you Live....

2007-06-22T22:26:00.000-07:00

It's night's like tonight that I am reminded--clearly... that I love where I live. It's not JUST my house, my Fermata, that I love, although living in such a wonderful house, and being aware of the struggle, the sacrifice and the love that made my house possible is AMAZING, but, it's living in Downtown Fresno that I love. It was in the hight 90's today, but, tonight was in the 80's and had a wonderful warm breeze--a perfect warm summer wind. I rode my bike downt 2 blocks to the Arte Americas plaza, and heard Patrick Contreras and American Gypsy, with an amazing mandolin player, Emma Scow, and 2 little boys who played flamenco guitar, and flamenco dancers-- then, a great cuban pianist played salsa music, and people danced. The beutiful latin women with the long skirts and bare feet--twirling and gliding--is there anything more beautiful than a woman in a skirt and bare feet-- with glistening smiles and hair blowing in the wind?? and the handsome young me, in their shorts and flipflops, dancing with the white girls--then, the fathers dancing with their little daughters and granddaughters--the music was gentle and playful and full of life and love--- and I sat on my bike, just outside the fence, and "stole" the music---along with many of my neighbors and their children--and I LOVE where I live! The ride to the plaza draws me by houses built in the 10's and 20's and are stately and proud, and some are begging for someone to rescue them, to care for them--to restore them to their intented beauty--I heard laughter, and saw my neighbors sittin on their porches, and in their yards--also stealing the night and the music and the warm summer breeze. Dogs barking, train whistles crying, stars dazzling above--this is mine. HOME.

The Best we can Hope for...

2007-06-21T00:05:00.000-07:00

I like these words-- he states what I believe in a way that I often cannot "
"...religion tells us to accept God's will, to trust in Divine providence. This advice does not mean to give up and succumb to mediocrity or to get puffed up and lord it over others; it means to realistically face the facts and to do whatever we can to make the best of them. When we cultivate such a positive attitude, sometimes surprisingly good and totally unexpected outcomes result. Grappling with reality forces us to come up with creative alternatives. I find no other way to understand things. Life must be lived as it comes. There is no privileged way out. Belief in God does not take the challenge of living away. Religion and spirituality do not provide an inside track on life. Prayer to God does not merit miracles that remove life's difficulties. On the contrary, authentic religion and mature spirituality lead us to look life in the eye, to embrace it for what it is, and, with our best wits, our best intentions, and what like-minded companionship we can find, to make the most of it for ourselves and for everyone else.
from The Transcended Christian: Spiritual Lessons for the Twenty-first Century, Daniel Helminiak, 2007, Alyson Books.

I have been blessed to find those like-minded companions along the way-- I try to embrace life for what it is--wonderful, frightening, beautiful, tedious, breath-taking, in all it's everydayness of every day-- yes, this IS the best I can HOPE for--

Watching Jason---Changing my mind...

2007-05-02T16:57:00.000-07:00

It was just a simple sunday afternoon barbeque--I was tagging along with friends to a "friend of a friends" barbeque that was being held to welcome home a Marine from Iraq. That part of the invitation didn't phase me, what I was interested in was the fact that I would get to spend time with old friends, possibly make some new friends, eat a grilled burger, have a cold drink, and enjoy the San Diego sun on a beautiful sunday afternoon. No thoughts about meeting a marine, no conversations about the war, the politics of the war, or the president. All this, within earshot of the California Democratic Convention, where all of the Democratic candidates for President in the '08 election were campaigning and speaking-- all about their opposition to the war, and all are quick to add "but we support the troops." Yep, I oppose the war--vehemently, adamently, believing that we entered Iraq based on a lie, and our mission and purposes are not clear, nor noble, and we have lost over 3,000 children because of the lies that Dick Cheney and George Bush believed--and promulgated to the rest of us. As a teenager, I was an active protester against the war in Vietnam, which began on the day that I entered first grade, and "ended" on the day that I graduated from high school. I have lived my entire life with war in the background, as the soundtrack for my life. Though I have never been in the military, I have had numerous friends who have made the Navy, Coast Guard, Marines and Army their careers, and we remaind close, dear friends. It was just NOT for me--I chose to fight my battles on the streets of Los Angeles, San Francisco, Dallas and Fresno. Our people on American soil are not yet truly free: so, why would I need to go elsewhere to fight for our freedom? I fight at the ballot box, on the pages of our newspaper, magazines, blogs, and in speeches and in classrooms. I fight the bigger enemies of ignorance, intolerance, bigotry, hatred, poverty, isolation and apathy. My war is bigger, but, my army is dwindling. I work to elect those who fight with me/for me, and sometimes, that is a more difficult battle.
But, I digress-
On that afternoon, I waled in and met Jason, a 21 year old ( or so) Marine, proudly from Dallas, Texas, and a good baptist boy, strong, healthy with bright eyes and smile- and he had spent the past 18 months in Iraq, riding on those same Humvees that I see so often blown to bits on the news. He said he shook out sand from everything he owned--his face betrayed the sadness that lay under the surface. It was his birthday, too, and the happy birthdays seemed muted under what we wanted to say--"thank God you are alive." "Thank God it didn't happen to you."
I just wanted to look at him--a survivor, one of the "lucky ones." I wanted to take him in, and in some ways, I wanted him to be safe--very safe--and I wanted him to be happy. After the food and conversation, he brought out a box that he had sent to himself--a box of momentos from Iraq- an "Iraq Transition guide" with words and phrases- a couple of tools, a portable shower, a clasp of Thank you cards from school children. Letters, magazines, pictures--and as he took out heach item, he slowed down, and he looked at them, and he touched them with reverence--and a bit of awe. It was as if he was trying to imagine that he had actually BEEN there, had had to use these items, that they had really become a part of him. A gun clip, a light, a glove--all dusty with desert sand, all with the scent of heat and life on them-- and, he, with a bit of ceremony, took them out--looked at them, then, tucked them back into the box. To remember them, then, to forget them. No one of us said, "it must have been terrible." Our silence spoke that. No one of us said, "are you afraid to return." Our faces said that. Our touch, our laughter, our conversation, the giggles of the little kids at the party. Somehow, my view of Iraq was changed last sunday-- it is now real to me- not just images on the tv screen and sounds on the radio. It's boys like Jason. Bright, handsome, funny, intelligent, promise-filled, Jason--living his life--and, giving his life. All the more, I want to "study war no more." Stabilize Iraq, bring home our troops, find a diplomatic solution. Dear God, keep Jason, and those like him, safe in your arms.

It's in my blood-

2006-09-26T22:17:00.000-07:00

Thanks to a busy travel schedule, and some good planning, I was able to visit my mother and family in Aiken county, South Carolina for a few days. Along with having dinner with my brother and his wife, visiting and watching "Dancing with the Stars" with my nephew and his new bride, and having some pleasant lunches with my mother, she and I visited my oldest living relative. She is my Aunt Jenny Lou, who is the sister of my grandfather, on my father's side. She lives alone in a modest little house in North Augusta, SC. At 89 (she had a difficult time remembering her exact age), she is petite, dainty, gentle, and beautiful. She was waiting in a rocking chair on her front porch. She apparently had been sitting in the porch for hours since my mother's call earlier that day.
She called me by my father's name, she said how much I looked like my father.

I took long looks at her--I stared at her eyes, her face, her smile. I heard her words, her phrases, her cadence, her tone. I saw me... in her. I felt our family connection. I never felt that I had to be explained to her--she knew me, we were family. As I heard her talk about caring for other people, for giving her housekeeper small household items, for giving sacrificially, for trusting someone who was very different,
I thought, "well, no wonder I am the way I am. " It's in my blood--and for that I am grateful.

The 4th Anniversary of Dying/Living

2006-08-10T20:56:00.000-07:00

Today is the 4 year anniversary of my brain hemorrhage, or CVA (cerebral vascular accident), or brain bleed-or whatever happened, when the blood vessels in my brain decided to explode, and fill my brain with blood, and affect my eyesight, my balance, my memory, my spelling, my relationships, my faith, my career, myintegrity, my life. I don't know what to do with all of that. I am at a complete loss in knowing how to feel about it, how to process it, how to acknowledge it, how to respond/react-- loss. I see the experience equally as a good thing, and the most horrible thing in my life--ever. I am still pissed that it happened, still angry that it was my brain, my body, that won the hemorrhage lottery that night/day, and still angry with myself that I am unforgiving toward my brother and other family who did not come to my side- to my rescue. My therapist says that it is good to identify my feelings, name them, "claim them" and then work on them. So here they are: anger, unabashed, ANGER. Not the anger that eats at me, and churns in me slowly, but anger that is so close to the surface, I can feel it thumping and beating in my veins-and it scares me that the anger will hemorrhage and explode, too-- when I don't expect it, and hit me as hard as the episode. I am embarrassed today that I made so much of the experience in the days, weeks and months afterwards--that I told stories of how it made me feel, that I told about what I learned, what I felt, what I intuited--I am mortified that I released those feelings publically-even in front of congregations and audiences. Shame on me. No, I do not remember the experience, the days afterwards, the aftermath, the conversations, the feelings. It is all blurred--and I do not remember it as a "distant rumor." I do not recall the who, what, when or where of it. I don't want to remember it-it was horrible, and frightening, and terrible, and I faced it alone- yes, I know that were people around me who love and care for me- those who went to extreme trouble to be at my side, great sacrifice, when they were dealing with their own pain and the pain of their own families. For awhile, I built a romantic notion about the experience-about being circled by loving friends, circles of prayer and concern. I do not deny all of that--but, I did not experience that, but, I was the object of the prayer, and the center of that concern. I believe that the prayer and concern is what kept me alive, but I do not KNOW it. And today, 4 years later, I am angry that I do not KNOW that yet. I have relied on faith and belief and notions I learned from my mother and sunday school teachers and preachers and evangelists and counselors. I also learned that I could not be angry with God, that I could not express 100% of how I feel, especially in my inner-being. And today, 4 years later, inside of me, deep in me, I am angry-mad as hell, that I cannot see well, that I cannot stand well, that I sometimes forget important information, and that I am not always in control of my emotions all of the time. Yes, I am grateful to be alive-I know that there is no medical, logical reason for my survival--only the illogical, spiritual rationale. Medically, I died 4 years ago today, and I am wishing that I could have learned more from what that experience--still. Medically, I lived again 4 years ago today--I wish I could learn more from THAT experience too. Every time I put on my glasses, take a pill, sit with a therapist, cry uncontrollably, trip, fall, I am reminded that this is my life now, in the "fellowship of suffering," and I don't know what to do with that.

NOW Living Downtown!

2006-07-30T22:58:00.000-07:00

NOW Living Downtown! It was just another Sunday for me-I slept late, had my coffee, took a short walk, and did some work at the computer, finishing up an article, and doing some emails-traveling a lot doesn't allow me the pleasures of long emails these days-which probably is not such a bad thing for those who receive my emails-since it was HOT again, I put off doing my errands and driving until I was heading to church-around 4pm, went to church, sat with my friend Stephanie, held some babies after church, talked with friends, made some plans for the tuesday night party, and stopped by the grocery store on the way home- one of the beautiful things about having church services on sunday evening, is that usually I can go to church, stop and do my grocery shopping for the week, and still be home and done by 7:30pm-ready to have a relaxing night to prepare me for what the following week may hold. I did some shopping for the party, paper goods, sodas, beginning to buy the cheeses, etc.- and as I came home, I considered that I may have to make more than one trip with all the bags--also, I thought about the lack of space that I would probably encounter, even in my newly restored house, with the great kitchen, with lots and lots of cabinet space, up to the ceiling, and a great pantry-= and it is just ME living in the house (and the cat)- but, the cabinets are full-filled to the brim-overflowing--with all sorts of food-I don't know why or where it got started, but, I buy food as if there is a famine approaching. If one box of rice is good, 2 boxes are better. If one jar of fat-free mayonnaise is good, then 2 will save me a trip to buy more-The origin of my food buying habits is unknown-I certainly did not grow up in a house that was ever in need of food-we had plenty, and there was always extra, and we fed other people-visiting preachers, other families, missionaries, neighborhood kids, and even fed the dogs and cats with leftover table scraps-No, the food buying binges were all my doing-(can't blame this one on my genes)-to make matters worse, I have been overweight all of my life, not morbidly, but, more than pleasantly plump, and that extra tonnage has caused me my share of health problems, from hypertensive to heart murmurs and bad knees- so, even in my periods of shame-induced deeding, I buy diet, low-Cal, nonfat items-in bulk--with the fear that "one day I may not be able to get this high-fiber nonfat calcium filled thingy--the fear that one day I will be stone broke and unable to buy food, and, I will be able to go to my emergency polenta stash, or my emergency cajun jambalaya mix stash--and be rescued from a painful death by starvation. I know it's unlikely, and makes no sense, but, my brain works that way-(if I didn't have fear as a motivator, I'd only be left with guilt, shame and remorse, so, the fear works for me.) Back to Sunday night-I opened the pantry and realized that I was not going to be able to hoard any more dry goods or canned goods into the pantry. I MUST edit the food items. But, what would I do with 24 assorted boxes of Rice-A Roni? After all, it is the San Francisco treat? What if N. Korea DOES bomb the west coast, I could possibly open a San Francisco Treat Memorial Center and feed all of the minions who would reminisce about the tasty rice dishes. Microwave popcorn, canned mixed fruit, canned corn, canned beets, pumpkin pie filling, dressing mixes, cranberry sauces, pastas, tuna, granola, cereals, and more Rice-A Roni. I began to load the miasma into shopping bags. I had decided that I would make a trip to the Community Food Bank tomorrow afternoon and offer my own food bank to them, and if they rejected my generous hoard, I would cross the ecumenical divide and journey to Catholic Charities and sacrificially give the Sisters of the Holy Cross my goods. BUT, just as I was loading up the bags, I heard the neighbors talking in the yard next door. I wondered if they could use any of my foodstuffs? But, I did not think about that first-just how exactly do you offer your food from your pantry to an adult next door? a person that you will have to see again, and interact with again? My own self-talk tried to convince me that taking the bags of food to their door, leaving them there, and coming back home, to have them open the door and imagine that a kind food Santa or canned-goods fairy had left them a bounty of blessing. What if they didn't trust the food, and thought they may be poisoned with the anonymous food? After all, how often do shopping bags of Rice a Roni show up on your doorstep? And the canned peaches? Could this be fruit terrorists at work? Had the Jolly Green Giant finally crossed to the dark side? No, I decided to take 2 of the bags, with the most mundane of the foods, the pastas, over to the door, ring the doorbell, and hope that my neighbor Kelly answered-but, no, her husband and one of their kids answered-with one of the boys who is staying with them, also. Kelly and Steve inherited the house from her mother, who sometimes stays in the garage behind their house-they have a dagger who is 18, and is working to be a LVN, and 3 sons, a 13 year old, a10 yr. old, and an 8 year old-and, they are expecting child #5. Kelly is not young, late 30's, early 40's I would guess. Steve does not work due to a mental illness-the boys do not do well in school, and are often home due to suspensions or other punitive actions. But, they knew of a dad who was about to lose the custody of his 2 sons because he could not afford to pay the utilities and feed the boys- and, so, Kelly and Steve invited them to live in their house next door-2 more growing boys to feed, and a father who visits, on his bicycle, daily, and sometimes stays with them, because they have window air conditioning units. I stood at the door, and said, "would you guys like some food? I'm trying to lose some weight, and don't need all of this pasta and other stuff.. it really isn't good for me, cholesterol and all, and fat content--I stopped short of saying it wasn't healthy-because I wanted them to take the food off of my hands-because in that moment, I felt guilty for having so much, when I looked at them, and knew that they had so little. Steve began to take the bags-and the boys said that they would come over and get the rest of the bags from my house. I felt sad that my own embarrassment and shame could have prevented me from giving them the food, that they obviously wanted and needed- Steve said over and over.."You have no idea..." The boys wanted to begin to eat then--at the door-=-they were excited to look into the bags- I had been afraid to take the food over to them before-afraid not of embarrassing them, but embarrassing ME. The boys came over to the house, and first remarked that the house was cool, and greeted my cat, and said that they watch my cat in the windows--it made me feel safe with my neighbors to know that they watch my cat--and they said "your house is big-our house is small"--"do you have an upstairs?" "and it's just YOU who lives here?" I knew that at least 2 of the boys sleep on the living room floor at the house next door-I knew that someone had hit their AC units, and had damaged them so that they only blew air, not cold air-I wondered about how they must have felt when it was 113, and my empty house was chilled for the cat and the plants, and they ate cereal for their meals so that they would not have to turn on the huge gas stove to cook. It was only 5 minutes, and the thoughts I had, What would Jesus do? Ask them to stay over? Tell them to come back? Offer them ice tea? Apologize for having plenty when they were in need? Here I was, a man who is supposed to believe in a Christ who gave his life for those who did not have life, who talked about giving a drink of water, a coat, a bed--and, I am offering unwanted food items because my pantry is too full-because I was running out of room for MORE unnecessary food items. These were not "staples"--these were wants, desires, pleasures--and, I knew that Kelly and Steve would probably look at some of the boxes and cans and wonder "just what is this?" "Why would he buy so much Thai lemon-grass cous cous?" "What is Cous Cous?" And, the boys would wish I had put more cereal and peanut butter and even tuna or popcorn into those bags. After an hour of conversation with them, the transaction was done, and I returned to look for more items in my pantry, closets, refrigerator to give to the guys next door- I do not know how they eat each day- there is only a limited income to feed, house and clothe them all- at last count, there are 10 people who live in the house and garage next door, who may not always eat, and who are often hot, and who are expecting a new baby, and who are usually unable to buy food to feed their dog. It HURTS to know that this kind of poverty is next door to me, not because of my own ego or embarrassment, but because I am generally desensitized to it, and do not notice it, and do not actively try to discover the needs and meet them-as best I can. Eventually, my unwanted food donation will be done-discarded, or eaten, or given to the dog-- that does not matter-I wonder what they will do when the new baby arrives? I wonder how the boys get up and go to school in the morning, without so much as a poptart? I wonder if Kelly is able to eat well enough that the fetus will develop to be a healthy baby? I wonder if her elderly mother ever goes to sleep hungry, back in her garage? Did my hesitant gesture make any difference? Did I make any difference? I have more questions than answers--not a liberal guilt, but, over and over I think.. My neighbors are hungry... My neighbors are not well... And I LIVE HERE. God, does that matter to you? Living next door does not assauage my responsbility-just puts the situation within my daily reach- I see the face of poverty-daily, almost hourly- and, I am learning how to adapt, reconfigure, rearrange, rethink my own life- and my own habits, and my own wastefulness and my own selfishness--I cannot ignore the poverty, or wish it will go away, or hide it--it greets me, and mocks me, and cries out to me with anguish--As I handed the bag of food to Steve, he said "Don, you have no idea." Sadly, he is right.

Does Historic Preservation Really Matter?

2006-07-24T21:59:00.000-07:00

I mean really, ask yourself, does the preservation of historic structures-buildings, signs, landscaping, towers, canals- how does that matter when the world is burning? When HIV/AIDS still ravages continents, when poverty grips millions, why should anyone care about old buildings, where somethng important may or may not have occurred? Why should people of faith, particularly Christians, give a rip? As I sat on the City of Fresno Historic Preservation Commission tonight, the thoughts crossed my mind- and then, the responses flooded in just as fast- as we reluctantly voted to allow a demolition permit for a 100 year old farmhouse and gazebo, to make room for a daycare center for poor children in a rural neighborhood, I was torn, as were the other commissioners, with the choice-the owner of the property had searched for someone to move the house, but the cost was prohibitive, they had tried to work the house into the scheme of the center, but, still costs were high, they had done their best to find buyers, but, no go- so, we were asked to allow them to eventually demolish the house. A 2 story farmhouse, build of wood and river rock, with shutters decorated with crescents, with panelled ceilings, and staircases of wood, and a handmade porch wall and columns of river rocks, probably from the nearby King's or Merced rivers. It's a house that would cost millions in San Francisco or Los Angeles or San Diego- but, here, on the outskirts of Fresno, there are no takers-so, the wrecking ball will take aim, and a piece of architecture will fall-architecture that once housed families, mom's and dads and kids, and is surrounded by olive trees-probably harvested for oil or the fruit, and a cheerful gazebo, no doubt the site of former tea parties and courting and lazy afternoons in the San Joaquin sun-the house is not that unusual-a 4 square, colonial revival with prairie influence type, of which there are hundreds in the area. But, it IS a house-a house which could house a family, or several, and in these days of shortages of affordable housing, this house will disappear. Those same farm workers, whose children will attend the daycare, could live there-could make a home there. But, the world doesn't work like that-those farm workers will live in substandard apartments or trailers provided by big agriculture conglomerates, like Del Monte or Jolly Green Giant- and they will live in tight quarters, and fall to alchohol, drugs, prostitutes, illiteracy-not because they don't live in a house- but, because they will never be able to OWN a house, to have a place to call their own-a place to settle, to raise their kids-but, NOT in this house- I wonder if a foundation will be left when the house is demolished-will there be a "footprint" left? Will generations down the road point at the site and say "there used to be a beautiful, simple farm house there?" And, it came to a vote tonight- and, I watched my fellow commissioners vote reluctantly-to follow protocal, to adhere to policy, and voted for the demolition. It is no one's fault-the owners and the city tried as best they could- and, still, the only solution was a demolition permit-so, I could not vote--and, I did not vote "nay"-but, rather abstained. Because, somehow, I think that it matters that someone-even someone as ill-informed and stubborn as me, that I never go on record as approving to have something of beauty and grace, such as the old farmhouse-I will never condone it's destruction. I feel like I need to cling to some ideas of beauty and do what I can, in my little universe, to preserve what is left of it. No, it was not a Picasso, or a Moore, or a Rodin, but, it was the handiwork of some proud craftsmen-carpenters, stonesmiths, plumbers, electricians, painters, roofers-it is a house that carries the sweat, and spit, and strength of builders from our past. They built the house to last, and for over 100 years, it has stood- the olive trees surrounding it like a halo. The gazebo laughing in the front yard. And then, the discussion turned to preserving other old buildings in our downtown-and the comment was made that while hundreds of new buildings are approved to be built on the northside of town, that downtown is crumbling- The Penney's building, Gottschalks, Security Bank, Bank of Italy, Hotel Fresno, Trade Center, Hotel Virginia, Helm Building, Guarantee Savings, all proud, stately, beautiful structures-that represented a golden age in Fresno and the San Joaquin valley-but, not, with roofs, columns, and ceilings crumbling-it's as if someone pushed the old buildings into a nasty old nursing home and left them to rot and die-- and they are. Whole new generations of Fresno residents have no idea that there was once a vibrant downtown-they only know it as the place where they have to go for jury duty--or to occasionally view the homeless on G. street-for many, it is a frightening place-regardless of the mass amount of public art on the Fulton mall, or the excellent food at the small cafe's and food carts- they will never know the majestic Art Deco theatres-the Wilson (virtually remodeled out of existence as a church), the Vista, The Mexico, the Hardy, Warnors-With each new strip mall north of Herndon, a nail is placed in the coffin of downtown. There is no revitalization movement like that in Long Beach, or Tampa, or Los Angeles-there is a "we hope someone else cares" attitude--and, a waiting game- waiting for someone else to step in and do something-- the city, a developer, a big box (lord forbid), someones huge influx of $ and energy--- but, wishing and talking don't seem to be making any forward motion-because if talking about downtown revitalization could have made it happen, it would have been vibrant years ago! All the Mindhubbers and Famous postings that call for revitalization-- somehow lack the political clout/energy/desire, and the financial umph to get anything off the ground rather than the occasional rally, concert or cocktail gathering. Revitalization and Renewal in Fresno is going to take a new wave of ideas, some new ways of thinking, and a readiness to discard some OLD ideas, while a reluctance to demolish and discard our old buildings. Fresno has had it backwards for quite a few years- we have demolished our great old buildings, and kept the old ideas- instead of the other way around. "We tried that once and it didn't work.. we've been working on that for years.... someone tried that once....you don't know the history of that...." are the mantras of City Hall, and have made their way to the pulpits of Fresno, as well as L. street and is most evident on G. street and the Fulton mall. Why should I care? I live here. I fell in love with this city. I want to be an agent of change here. I think that caring about old buildings is an indicator of caring about people-the infrastructure-the life of this city. I want to believe in truth-displayed in beauty-whether in buildings, or landscapes, or people- So, I can't vote to demolish the old farmhouse. I just can't.

NOW Living Downtown!

2006-05-02T01:10:00.000-07:00

NOW Living Downtown! In the Quietness... I wake and I wonder if I have missed anything- maybe some minute detail, an item of clothing, to pay a bill, to make a call, to get to an appointment, to catch a flight- and, I wonder if I have missed the big things. Did I forget to have a relationship? Did I neglect getting married? Did I let falling in love slip past me? Was it something like leaving the milk in the refrigerator too long- that, if it's not glaring at you, you just forget about it and go on with your life? Is it possible that I have waited too late for some very important things in my life? I ask those questions, and then I think about the fullness of my life-the feeling that "I haven't missed a thing..." the knowing that I have been in the where and now of my life, and that I have rarely wished that I was somewhere other than exactly where I was. I remember growing up, and feeling like the world was happening elsewhere-that there were things to do and see and be "out there" somewhere, beyond 3107 Westmont Drive-and, would lay in my bed, or sit in my tree house (which was actually built on telephone poles) and wonder and dream about other places. My fascination with travel posters and travel brochures and globes and maps probably concerned my mother-momentarily--and my interest in missionaries-not necessarily because of their mission work, but because of their lives in some place that was "other" than mine--different in every way, and I wanted to peek into those lives. The slides that the missionaries would show in church were the very best part of my religious life growing up-because I was taken somewhere else, and removed from the captivity of the pews at Piney Heights Baptist Church (where the bondage was crushing and debilitating.) Then, at 15, I wrote an essay on "The Monuments of Washington, DC, and won a weeklong trip to Washington as a student winner of the Rural Electric Cooperative. I was joined by Darlene Hale, of my same high school, and Mildred Cone, of another local school. (at 50, I still remember their names, and schools, and their essays)-We flew from Columbia, SC, to Washington Dulles, my very first time to fly-my first time to fly--my first time to FLY. Meeting our chaperones in Columbia, they were a middle-aged couple who were NOT my parents, or church members, or teachers, but, people from a different place and a different way of life- and, I wanted THAT way of life. Arriving in Wash., we went to our hotel-now that I remember it, it was something like a Days Inn, or Motel 6, and it was teaming with high school students from all over the US who had won the same contest in their counties for their Rural Electric Cooperatives. It was years before I understood that it was as much the "Rural" and "Cooperative" that held us together, and gave us a common bond. We were all from areas that had been some of the last to get electric power and service, and had obtained it by our families and neighbors becoming a cooperative-and going after the power grid on their own-- we literally were wired together without knowing it, the children of mid-century pioneers, and from my suburban setting, to my roomates from Nebraska and Wyoming, who marvelled at Power poles and tall buildings, we shared a common heritage. Richard Nixon was in the White House, and we would see him on the Presidential Yacht, and meet his daughter Julie at the White House. We would shake hands with Senator Thurmond and Hollings, and we would walk the steps of the capital as honored guests. We would have meals with our congressmen, and we would stay up late and swim in the hotel pool. It felt like freedom, it felt like life to me. 34 years later, I see that trip as my emancipation and as my first glimpse of what was possible OUT THERE. Because it was in the early 70's, when men and boys were growing their hair longer, ala the Rolling Stones and the Beatles, my parents church had declared a prohibition on long hair on men (and short skirts on women, and pants on women, and women..and fun, and sex, drugs and rock and roll...) my hair was shorter than all the other boys on that trip. I recall being in the hotel pool one night, and being asked if I was in the Army-I didn't get it, but, they said "your hair is like a buzz cut...were you drafted?" I came back with a resolve to grow my hair longer- actually over my ears- but, my mother and pastor prevailed--by the time I could grow my hair as long as I wanted, nobody was growing their hair that long--did I miss that, too? I met a girl on the trip named Randi, and she was the "beuty queen"-having been crowned Miss SC Rural Electric Coop- apparently a big deal then-and she and I became fast friends-and we went to our first real Italian restaurant in the same group-and had garlic bread, and salad, and pasta- and, it wasn't the Pizza House in Aiken, it was a bonafide Italian restaurant in Washington- and then, they exposed us to Chinese food one night- and I was in heaven- Randy, Darlene, Mildred and I sitting together at a table, no adults, just the SC kids all fascinated and terrified and hungry for more and anxious-and what if the world IS this big? What if we CAN go to these places again? My tree house seemed very small and very far away- the Carole King song "So Far Away" was on the radio-- and, that's where I wanted to be when I returned home--far away-- back in Washington, in New York, In LA, in a city with a heartbeat-where I could sleep with my window open and hear the sounds of traffic and people talking in the night-- and, here I am now-- in the quietness of a spring night-- with my window open, listening to the traffic go by on the street below my window- and hear the voices of people after the "Day of the Immigrant" protests- still energized and hopeful. I'm in the 35th largest city in the US, but, for me- it is still the "out there...." that I had always hoped for-and, there's a Rural Electric cooperative nearby......dream.

NOW Living Downtown!

2006-04-15T20:14:00.000-07:00

NOW Living Downtown!

50, Friendship and Fear

2006-04-15T19:12:00.000-07:00

For as long as I can remember, I knew that April 20, 2006, was coming-- I had marked it on a calendar once when I was very young- I had looked it up-- I knew that it was on a wednesday. I wondered what the world would be like in 2006, and, quite frankly, because of my apocolyptic upbringing, I seriously doubted that the world would make it to 2006, much less me. But, 2006 came along- much to my surprise, and a bit of chagrin. New Years 2006 meant that I was going to turn 50, and I was not that thrilled about it. Sure, I'm thrilled to be alive-there have been a few too many close calls with death in the past few years, and with my health on the line sometimes, I'm happy to be here (like a mole on Marilyn Monroe's face--just happy to be here!) On New Year's Day, I looked in the mirror: do I look 50? do I feel 50? do I act 50? and just what does 50 look like? feel like? act like? Did my bladder turn 50 before the rest of my body-- and just didn't notify the rest of me? Is 50 the reason that I get up 3 times during the night? Is 50 that growing annoyance with the thump thump of the car stereos on my street? Is 50 the nostalgic yearnings I feel for James Taylor and John Denver music? Have I become my father, or pray not, my mother? Will I soon be talking about problems with my knees/back/shoulder/kidneys/social security? AARP was right on top of it-- sent my membership packet months ago- and I laughed it off, now, I'm looking for it to save on insurance. Retired? Oh, my--I have lived my working life as if I AM retired, with work more like a hobby than work- I haven't missed much in life, done just about everything I wanted to do- been where I wanted to go-- lived through tornadoes, earthquakes, riots, muggings, bad relationships, worse breakups, deep sorrow, Reagan/Bush and Bush again, 9.11, the .com bust, a brain bleed, restoring an old house-- I've marched in the streets, danced in the streets, cleaned up the streets, fought for the streets and served on the streets--and, done it in just 50 years. I was born too early to be drafted, but, watched War during my entire childhood. I have never known life without a war. I have stood by the hospital beds of over 100 friends who have succumbed to HIV--from my work in a hospice, to neighbors, to co-workers, to those I dearly loved. I do not foresee the end to either--war or HIV. I am 50, and I sometimes wonder if I was cheated out of "good old days," maybe it was watching the Fonz and Richie on "Happy Days," and wanting those days--or, just maybe, everyone wonders if they missed those carefree days? BUT, as I was surprised--totally and completely surprised by a birthday party on April 8--a full 12 days before my birthday--I started to think: this is my good old day. THIS is my movie moment, the moment that will play in a reel in my head when I am far past 50- these are the people who have made turning 50 NOT so fearful. Many of those people have seen 50, and seen 60, and some even beyond--- and I see how they live, how they fully and wholly live- and embrace their age, and their bodies, and their relationships with the energy that teenagers could only wish for! I walked through the rooms of my house and was surprised, and humbled, and loved by people from the disparate parts of my life that rarely come together-- from cities and states across the country- Texas, Rhode Island, North Carolina, Colorado, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Visalia, D.C. It was too much to take in-I could not inhale the love and friendship that brought it together--I felt out of breath. Friendship filled the house-- again and again--the back yard was filled with tables and balloons and flowers-- and the weather smiled-- a big smile-- and, it was perfect-- Oh, the wine-- and wine and wine and wine-- good wine, aged and mellowed like the friends-- varieties, like the friends, rare--like the friends--too many metaphorical comparisons. They gave me gifts-which was redundant, because their presence was such a gift-- people had gone to so much TROUBLE for the event, expense, time, trouble-- for me; and though I teased that I didn't want to be the center of attention, I was equally embarrassed and overjoyed. I could not write this until now--7 days later. The FEAR of 50 became a celebration of friendship-- my birthday became an excuse for some of the most important people in my life to meet, to interact, to engage with each other, to fall in love with each other, to ask me "where have you been hiding him/her?" If anyone was uncomfortable with some of my friends, I would expect that, because I have never chosen to be "safe" with my friendships-I would never want my friendships to be homogeneous--the tapestry of people who were at the party IS ME. The room was not all the same color, faith, age, sexual orientation, health status, income level or background- the things that were in common superceded all of those categories. It was a "Matthew" party, in the truest sense. The presence of the kids-- the Graham roses, Nathan Watson, and Oliver Righton-- made the tapestry complete. The laughter, the wine, the memories, the house (my Fermata), the food, did I mention the wine, made it the most memorable night of my adult life--so far..... I cannot express my gratitude enough to Sue (and Bob) Mallory- who have loved me for, it feels like, my entire adult life:) Sue is the other half of my heart-- she makes me better than I am, better than I could ever be without her. She lifts me up. From visionary to leader to teacher to friend to sister to soul mate, Sue Mallory loves me with a grace that makes me see the Christ more clearly. I know that I am not the only one Sue loves--surely Chris, Carolyn, Sarah B., Jaye are loved by her, but, I know a kinship. Sue's love and caring support is localized by Joan and Marty-who have become my "nearby rock" when Sue isn't close enough, and when Sue needs respite and Melina, Vance and Mason (Jennifer, Sarah, Tim and Todd, too) Joan and Marty arrive in my life with time, tools, laughter and a "knowing" as fellow wounded gypsies. I know that I would not be alive today if it were not for the friendships in my life. Literally-not figuratively. Sue, Jim, Joan&Marty, Felicia, Matthew&Lisa, Debbie, Jeno--With these people in my life, I turn 50--with a hope to keep turning a few more times.

Faith Fatigue

2006-03-09T20:50:00.000-08:00

It was not the cheapest hotel in Redding, CA, but, it was close- and I was there for an entire week, while teaching a class at Simpson University. Redding is a pretty little town-tucked at the foot of Mt. Shasta and Mt. Lassen, near Lake Shasta-I even hear that there is an amazing bridge nearby, but, my teaching shedule never allows me any free time in the daylight. The breakfast at the Amerihost Inn and Suites includes a "make your own waffle" bar, and, it's worth waking for that smell alone! So, I made my own waffle, poured my coffee, and sat to watch the Today show on the small TV in the upper corner. BUT, I was near a table with a woman and 3 men. They were all in their early 40's, I would guess, but, had the voices and demeanor of people much older. The men were wearing short sleeve shirts-- with ties-- and pocket protectors with pens-- AND, tie clips. I turned and looked, thinking that maybe they were remedial Mormon missionaries, who had become lost on their bikes some 30 years earlier and had just arrived at the Amerihost-- led to the light by the smell of waffles-- but, no, they bowed their head--- and prayed-- loudly, openly, and fervently. The room stopped-- full of families, and business travelers, and people just stumbling into being awake. Now, I believe in prayer, even fervent prayer, and I've been known to bow my head in public, and even to pray aloud in public-- but, this was different. THIS was a display-- in BOLD CAPS. They prayed for their food, for George Bush, for their churches, for their families, and that God would show them how to "win the unsaved." I intentionally did NOT bow to pray- I figured that God had heard enough from that room at the Amerihost, if He was paying any attention-- and I was reminded of the Gospel admonition to pray in your closet-=-not as the man who made a show of his prayers at the temple-- but, this was no temple, this was a low cost hotel breakfast room with the smell of bad coffee, burned waffles (it is true, that some people CANNOT make their own--even with instructions in spanish, and oddly, Braille) Yes, I believe we can pray at any time, any where-- but, they had just made a spectacle of their prayer, and made an entire room a bit uncomfortable, interrupted Katie and Matt, and caused others to look up from USA Today and the Redding paper. I am a christian, love God and the church, and I was embarrassed-- and a little angry, that they had talked to my God in that way. A bit like hearing someone speak to your parents in a disrespectful tone. I wanted to make them apologize, not only for their bad fashion sense, but, for their choice of language, and timing. Who were these "unsaved?" What were the odds that these "unsaved" were sitting near them-- overhearing what should have been a private conversation. Their post-prayer conversation was full of the same- labeling people as saved, unsaved, under-conviction, backsliding--a personal favorite, heathen, and then the ultimate: liberal. I could not tell which was worse- unsaved, heathen or liberal, because they were all spoken with such veracity, that they all sounded evil and shameful. I know that language-I was raised with it- we talked about unsaved people at church, at home, on "visitation." We cared where people would spend eternity, we said. We did not want strangers to go to hell, we thought, we said. We were sincere-- and, hearing that language again, after avoiding it for my own 30 years, rolled it back in my mind, and I found it disturbing, and disgusting. The quartet then turned their attention on the room- and I realized that they had determined that I, too, was unsaved-- since I had not bowed and prayed over my waffle and coffee..Now, never mind that I have a practice of a daily quiet time, with a series of scripture readings, prayers, journaling: obviously, without the public display, I had joined the ranks of the heathen/unsaved/liberal. Yes, there I was--blatantly all of those. The woman commented that I was not wearing a wedding ring. Now, jewelry is involved in their appraisal of my faith. Hmm, a single, male heathen. "He looks homosexual," she whispered, and the man in the black tie concurred, "look at his fingernails- yep, he's not saved." Almost as much as I found this bringing my anger to a boil, I found it amusing. I considered beginning to hum show tunes, limping my wrists, and maybe raising my pinky as I drank my coffee. Then, no, I thought, they have enough with my "clean cut look, clean fingernails and no wedding ring." What struck me, sadly, is how tiring this was. How small minded, yet, tiring. What year is it? 2006? What country are we in? What state? What was I doing in Redding in the first place-there to teach in the Graduate School of Ministry. How dare I have clean fingernails (I promise that I haven't had a manicure since I was in the hospital last!) And, how dare I not wear a wedding ring- or, many, many married men who have found that the rings had gotten smaller as their bodies got bigger- that's not my reason at all- I don't have one- I've never had one, and I probably won't ever have one. Yes, it made me tired. I call it "faith fatigue." Those practices of dogmatic fundamentalism, with quick visual-based decsions on "who is the enemy." All day, I debated internally about my own "judgmental" attitude about this group- the way they were dressed, their public expression of prayer-- and, I admit that I hold some of the same instant appraisal of people- fundy, right-winger, conservative-- I can become tiring to myself- I try, however, to live more tolerantly-more openly-- if this group had been in traditional turbans, or African dress, I would have engaged them in polite conversation- if, in those clothes, they had bowed in prayer, I would have asked politely about ther content of the prayer, to whom, memorized? read? daily? a special meal prayer? My own faith fatigue of the hyper-fundamentalism that impacted my youth, and my family, seems to be the group with whom I expend little tolerance, understanding, forgiveness. Like a beacon in a dark night: I SEE it, I don't like it, but, I pray, that over time, I will be able to engage the language/theologically/mindset/fashion challenged, as well as those that are much more different than me.Maybe they experience faith fatigue as well.

The Door is Open at Fermata--

2006-03-07T22:52:00.000-08:00

There is something cleansing in the simple acts of "cleaning up." A group of 13 people came over for dinner, including baby Nathan Santiago Watson, and the house was full of life and conversation-so different from the quiet that Taffy (also known as Miss T., the cat) live in daily. All of the chairs were in use, and although I was participating in the conversations, I was also thinking "this is what the house is FOR! This is exactly what I had prayed for!" The conversation was about "relocating," which is code for white, middle class people moving into impoverished, non-white neighborhoods. We put a biblical spin on it, John 1:15, it reads well in the Message translation, and, we relocators DO have a positive effect on our neighbors and neighborhoods- we can find access to the power in city government, get things done by our council person, articulate the needs that have often been ignored-- but, never in the same way and to the same extent that THEY influence and change us. We start to see our priorities change, and begin to look for ways to have real, authentic conversations with our neighbors, but, we soon see what divides us--race, the most obvious (because relocation just isn't done by African-Americans, Hispanics and Asians) but, the division of education, possessions, politics, access to services, leisure time, family, family "values," and faith. We relocate with mostly good intentions, and the benefits of affordability and the pleasures of restoring an older property, are usually augmented with our heartfelt desires to be salt, light, and fragrance to the disenfranchised. STILL, we are the receivers of this neighborly grace, we become the student to the under-educated, and we benefit from the saltiness in the lives of our neighbors, who soon become our friends. We may be the "relocators," and it is our blessing to be invited into the lives of our neighbors.

Discovering my Roots along Highway 99.

2006-02-14T15:23:00.000-08:00

Living halfway between some of America's great cities has the advantages that some folks can miss! Not only can I drive to either Los Angeles or San Francisco in less than half a day, the scenery and the life along the way to either destination is extraordinary! Heading out of Fresno to the 99 Freeway and heading south is a great reminder that the "real "California is NOT Hollywood, and the plastic glitz and glamour, but, rather the miles and miles of orchards, vineyards, fields and farms--teaming with farm workers, brimming with cattle, and burgeoning with the fruits, nuts and vegetables that literally feed the world. Selma, Kingsburg, Visalia, Tulare, Dinuba, Pixley, Bakersfield, and others less notable, all remind me of my South Carolina roots, and the south Georgia roots of my parents and their parents. Even though it takes some tugging, I eventually admit that I am a child of the South-- the rural south, the grandson of share-croppers, who tended someone else's fields, and who lived lives that barely scraped by and yet took care of their families, were faithful to their churches, and lived through an America that was just begining to feel like a land of promise. The windmills and irrigation ditches, though not MY experience personally, but the experience of my mother and father, and of my entire lineage-- seem to have a calming, relaxing impact on me. As I fly by, I understand the symbolism of "driving on cruise control." I want to stop. I want to walk into one of the feed and seed stores and sit and talk, and maybe even whittle for a bit. I want to talk about farming, and hunting and fishing and children and trucks and love gone bad. I want to talk about the church and the new little preacher. I want to glad hand, slap backs and barely remember names--just like my father, my grandfather and their fathers. I want to connect to my heritage- simple, country, and rich. BUT, I don't stop. I am aware that I do not live in that rural world, though Fresno has deep and rich agricultural roots, I live in the heart of Downtown. It is not the experience of my parents, or my extended family. I did not grow up in the country, though we made frequent Sunday and holiday visits to my paternal grandparens and assorted aunts and uncled IN the country (I have spent time in an outhouse, used the soft end of a corn cob, chased turkeys, cows and roosters, gathered eggs, climbed pecan trees, stood over a barbeque pit with the whole hog, gigged a frog, eaten a rabbit and a squirrel, and peed in the woods-- I grew up in the suburbs of a then-small town, Aiken, South Carolina. Tarnished and polluted by the Savannah River Plant, which made the key chemical elements of the atomic bomb, idyllically referred to as "the plant," Aiken yielded it's heritage of "heroes, horses and High Society," as the winter home of the Vanderbilts, Pinkertons and Towler's to the putrid stench of nuclear waste, and so sold out it's health and it's people to a new suburban sprawl and geographic racism that still confounds it's municipal soul today. Growing up in the years after Wold War 2, and during the Vietnam fiasco, Aiken was often shielded from the notice of the world, somewhat protected, by the ignoble senators who had sold out the little town (actually having a neighbor town, Ellington, destroyed and replaced by "New Ellington>" THAT is my heritage, that is my geography. Pat Conroy writes in the first sentence of "The Prince of Tides" that "we are defined by our geography..." then, a pristine though polluted, suburban, conservative, benignly racist geography is my definition. Perhaps that is why I see the 99 corridor as hopeful- as a place of my new destiny. Perhaps I view those dusty fields and orchards as places that are planted with the promise of a new land-- a new way of living-- a new breed of people, perhaps even a new way of looking at FAITH and HOPE. Yes, along the 99 freeway, I recognize myself-the South Carolina/Georgia boy who has now chosen to place his own roots firmly INSIDE the city limits-rooted, but with an eye to the farms, fields and orchards nearby.