That's it over there on the left, the cover of my next book. It releases in March, and it's my response to the rabid partisanship in Washington and the church that several years ago left me without a political party and without a church. But my response is no diatribe; not only would I never sink to that level, I also would never take my own opinions so seriously that I'd write a book without a healthy dose of subtle but sanity-preserving humor.
I mean, really, if we can't find humor in politics, we're all going to lose our minds as well as any hope of transforming the system. There's a reason why so many of us are addicted to The Daily Show and The Colbert Report; we know that the best humor reflects our everyday reality.
We the Purple reflects the everyday reality of both independent voters and independent candidates. The results of my research, my interviews with voters and candidates, and my interaction with other independents proved to be a real eye-opener. With the media calling 2008 the year of the independent voter, I'm grateful I had the opportunity to write this book, and I'm grateful to Tyndale House for publishing it. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
Friday, September 28, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Un-Freakin'-Believable
Atop the 14,000-plus-foot summit of Pikes Peak stands the appropriately named Summit House, part gift shop, part snack bar, part warmup area for tourists who have ventured to its heady, oxygen-derived, and often, very, very cold environs. It's a friendly little place and, one would think, a place safe from big-city crime.
Not so, it seems. Sometime during the night on Saturday, burglars broke into the Summit House and made off with a safe.
Here's the thing: the only way to get to the summit is via a cog railway or a toll road. The burglars not only traveled that treacherous toll road after dark, they did so in a stolen pickup belonging to the Pikes Peak Highway toll road agency, according to a story in the Colorado Springs Gazette.
Hey, I'm not one to admire criminals, but you've got to give these guys credit. They managed to pull off a heist that promised an incredibly difficult getaway. I mean, really, you can't exactly speed off down the mountain on a road whose hairpin turns have claimed numerous victims over the years. Maybe they were able to clock their getaway at 30 miles per hour---maybe. In a stolen truck, no less. On a toll road that showed no telltale signs of foul play---no broken toll gates, nothing.
As admirable as all that is, I hope they get the buggers, and soon. The Summit House holds so many fond memories for so many people, and its employees ought to feel that they're still working in one of the safest places on earth. Well, safe from criminals, anyway.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
A Plea to Sweet Tomatoes
I lost my status as a Sweet Tomatoes virgin this week. Lest you think that's something racy, let me assure you it isn't. Sweet Tomatoes is a chain restaurant, and I ate there for the first time on the way back from Denver to the Colorado Springs area on Friday.
My friend Alice had intended to treat me to the joys of Sweet Tomatoes numerous times over the past two years. We'd go to Denver frequently for her cancer treatments and pass several Sweet Tomatoes restaurants on the way, and she would vow to take me there for lunch following her appointment. But every single time, something would go wrong, and her one-hour appointment would be extended to three or four or five hours. (It once was extended to five days; hers is a complicated situation, obviously.)
On Friday, God graced Alice with an uncomplicated appointment, the first ever, I think, and the final in a long and arduous series. We celebrated by stopping at Sweet Tomatoes. Now I'm generally pretty satisfied with wherever I eat; unless the place is filthy or the age of food is questionable, food is just food to me. I don't eat out often, and it's just not worth it to critique a meal at a place I may never visit again. I just get my nourishment and move on. Plus, I don't expect a whole lot from a chain restaurant.
But holy Sweet Tomatoes! Please, please, you-who-rule-the-Sweet-Tomatoes-universe, please, please, bring a restaurant or two to El Paso County. Oh my. One can hardly begin to describe the exquisite pleasure of finding actual fresh food within sniffing distance of an interstate. It was pure joy, I tell you, pure joy.
My friend Alice had intended to treat me to the joys of Sweet Tomatoes numerous times over the past two years. We'd go to Denver frequently for her cancer treatments and pass several Sweet Tomatoes restaurants on the way, and she would vow to take me there for lunch following her appointment. But every single time, something would go wrong, and her one-hour appointment would be extended to three or four or five hours. (It once was extended to five days; hers is a complicated situation, obviously.)
On Friday, God graced Alice with an uncomplicated appointment, the first ever, I think, and the final in a long and arduous series. We celebrated by stopping at Sweet Tomatoes. Now I'm generally pretty satisfied with wherever I eat; unless the place is filthy or the age of food is questionable, food is just food to me. I don't eat out often, and it's just not worth it to critique a meal at a place I may never visit again. I just get my nourishment and move on. Plus, I don't expect a whole lot from a chain restaurant.
But holy Sweet Tomatoes! Please, please, you-who-rule-the-Sweet-Tomatoes-universe, please, please, bring a restaurant or two to El Paso County. Oh my. One can hardly begin to describe the exquisite pleasure of finding actual fresh food within sniffing distance of an interstate. It was pure joy, I tell you, pure joy.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
OTN
Knitters know this abbreviation well; it stands for On The Needles and represents the project(s) the knitter currently has going. Well, in my knitting/reading life, it also stands for On The Nightstand, which in a perfect world would apply to the books I'm reading. In reality, there's no room on the nightstand for books; they're scattered all over the floor. But that's an OTF story and better left for another time.
So what would be OTN if my world was perfect and there was room on the nightstand? Lots of books to review, plus these two gems:
So that's what's OTN in my reading life. What's OTN in my knitting life includes a scrollbar scarf I started for my daughter in '06, I think (it's way cool, with a movable slider and all; the link shows the designer's crocheted version); a pair of socks for myself that I started on a drive from Florida to Colorado in April; a Fun Fur patchwork throw that I'm determined to finish before the snow flies; and at least a half-dozen other projects buried in the mound of yarn, supplies, books, and other knitting paraphernalia I've yet to sort out from the move.
So what would be OTN if my world was perfect and there was room on the nightstand? Lots of books to review, plus these two gems:
- Infidel by Ayaan Hirsi Ali. A memoir of life in a Muslim culture that practiced female circumcision (a.k.a. genital mutilation), a growing discontent with male domination and other cultural and Islamic concepts, gaining asylum and political influence in Holland, and working for a think tank in Washington. Riveting and eye-opening, even for those who have a decent working knowledge of Islam and its treatment of women.
- Stephanie Pearl-McPhee Casts Off: The Yarn Harlot's Guide to the Land of Knitting. It's so nice to have a book like this to follow Infidel. I needed something light, and this filled the bill. If you're an OCK---an Obsessive Compulsive Knitter---or know one, this is a great primer for understanding the disorder. Which, of course, is no disorder at all. We OCKs know without question that knitting is what keeps us sane even if it makes us crazy at times. This book provides all the validation we need.
So that's what's OTN in my reading life. What's OTN in my knitting life includes a scrollbar scarf I started for my daughter in '06, I think (it's way cool, with a movable slider and all; the link shows the designer's crocheted version); a pair of socks for myself that I started on a drive from Florida to Colorado in April; a Fun Fur patchwork throw that I'm determined to finish before the snow flies; and at least a half-dozen other projects buried in the mound of yarn, supplies, books, and other knitting paraphernalia I've yet to sort out from the move.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Scorin' Some Sofrito
Living in a small mountain town has its challenges, especially when you need a specialty product. I never considered sofrito to be a "specialty" product before; living in Florida, I could put my hands on a jar or frozen tub of sofrito, a Latino sauce, at any number of stores within a five-mile radius of my home. I could even make my own, because all the fresh ingredients I needed were also available at said stores.
Little did I realize how hard it would be to find sofrito in the town where I'm now living. Not only that, I had a devil of a time finding it in neighboring Colorado Springs (population: a lot, including a fair percentage of Latinos). The first Latino market I visited in the Springs had closed a week earlier for nonpayment of rent; another highly touted mega-carniceria hadn't even opened for business yet. I was about to start making the rounds of the Mexican restaurants in our town--there are a half-dozen in our town of 7,000 people--sidle up to the cooks, and whisper oh so softly, Psst! Know where I can score some sofrito? I'm telling you, I felt as if I was trying to buy a controlled illegal substance.
I finally found some at a Latino market called Leonela's in Colorado Springs. I mention the name of the store for one reason: utter gratitude. I bought four jars, plus four more of recaito, a sauce I use less often but one that is even harder to find. Oh, and a box of cilantro cubes and a package of powdered achiote, two products I didn't know existed in those forms and which I may never need, but what the heck. There they were, and there I was, and I wasn't about to leave the store without them. The store isn't exactly around the corner, more like 30 miles away.
My fortunes are about to change, however, but don't tell anyone how pleased I am about this. Wal-Mart is opening a supercenter two miles from my house at 7:30 tomorrow morning. Of course, I hate Wal-Mart, just as everyone else does. But I also shop there, just as most everyone else does. If I have any hope of scoring some sofrito at 8,500 feet, it will be at the dreaded, evil, dastardly, always well-stocked Wal-Mart Supercenter. Yep, I'll feel dirty and slimy and traitorous and all that, but I'll have my sofrito.
Little did I realize how hard it would be to find sofrito in the town where I'm now living. Not only that, I had a devil of a time finding it in neighboring Colorado Springs (population: a lot, including a fair percentage of Latinos). The first Latino market I visited in the Springs had closed a week earlier for nonpayment of rent; another highly touted mega-carniceria hadn't even opened for business yet. I was about to start making the rounds of the Mexican restaurants in our town--there are a half-dozen in our town of 7,000 people--sidle up to the cooks, and whisper oh so softly, Psst! Know where I can score some sofrito? I'm telling you, I felt as if I was trying to buy a controlled illegal substance.
I finally found some at a Latino market called Leonela's in Colorado Springs. I mention the name of the store for one reason: utter gratitude. I bought four jars, plus four more of recaito, a sauce I use less often but one that is even harder to find. Oh, and a box of cilantro cubes and a package of powdered achiote, two products I didn't know existed in those forms and which I may never need, but what the heck. There they were, and there I was, and I wasn't about to leave the store without them. The store isn't exactly around the corner, more like 30 miles away.
My fortunes are about to change, however, but don't tell anyone how pleased I am about this. Wal-Mart is opening a supercenter two miles from my house at 7:30 tomorrow morning. Of course, I hate Wal-Mart, just as everyone else does. But I also shop there, just as most everyone else does. If I have any hope of scoring some sofrito at 8,500 feet, it will be at the dreaded, evil, dastardly, always well-stocked Wal-Mart Supercenter. Yep, I'll feel dirty and slimy and traitorous and all that, but I'll have my sofrito.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
The Life I've Always Wanted
Last month my husband and I moved from Florida to Colorado.
Just eleven words, but those eleven words represent a thirty-five year journey that took me from New Jersey to Delaware to Florida and finally to Colorado. Back in New Jersey in 1972, a couple I knew from college decided they'd had it with the East Coast; they were heading for Colorado, and in true hippie fashion, they were selling all their earthly goods, which amounted to one stereo, to fund the trip. I was the buyer. I'd never owned a stereo, and I was happy to help them out. But more than anything, I wanted to go with them. I promised myself I'd follow up on that and connect with them as soon as...well, I don't know what I was thinking. As soon as I graduated? As soon as I graduated and got a car that might make it that far? As soon as I graduated and got a car that might make it that far and Jupiter aligned with Mars and peace would rule the planet and all that? It was the Age of Aquarius, after all, and maybe there was something to all that cosmic stuff.
Well, whatever the forces were that converged to make this happen (before you get all upset, yes, of course, I know it was God, all right?), I am grateful beyond measure. Here I am, finally living in the Rockies, on an amazingly private piece of property at the top of a rise three blocks from the center of a wonderful small town, surrounded on three sides by evergreens with an awesome view of Pikes Peak on the fourth side, working from home, and loving every single thing about my new life.
The "getting here" wasn't much fun, though. As my regular readers know, I haven't blogged in a while. At first, that was due to a very tight book deadline involving dozens of interviews and tons of research, a temporary living situation with spotty Internet service, and time-consuming real estate problems in both Florida and Colorado. I figured everything would settle down once we closed and I turned the book in to the publisher---did I mention that the closing date and the book deadline fell on the exact same day?---but that was not to be.
First, the buyer's mortgage company went bankrupt the day before the closing on our house in Florida. I can't begin to describe what that nightmare was like. The guy performed nothing less than a miracle in acquiring a new mortgage in record time, but the stress was unbelievable. I had already moved to Colorado, my husband had quit his job, and the movers were scheduled to start loading up.
So we closed, but we had no place to live in Colorado. We planned to rent for the first year, and one rental after another didn't pan out. So even as our stuff was barreling down I-70 in Kansas, we didn't know where to tell the driver to deliver it. We ended up putting everything in storage and paying for a second move from the storage unit to the house we rented.
And then my friend Margaret Rex passed away. Margaret, who was in her 70s, had the spunk and energy of a woman half her age until the cancer that had been in remission for years reared its ugly head again. She was a lifechanger, and I told her as much the last time I saw her. You could not know this woman and not be touched by her in a deep and profound way; she was one of those people who brought joy and laughter and meaning to life in every situation and in every encounter you had with her.
Margaret patiently taught me to knit socks.
Margaret lived in Colorado Springs, where I had spent much of the last few years, and I was looking forward to spending time with her when I moved to Colorado permanently. We hadn't even unpacked when we got the call that she was failing; four days later, she was gone. I miss her, and yet I am comforted knowing that her struggle is finally over.
So it's been an eventful summer. There's lots more, of course: a close relative ended up in a mental health facility, called me as much as five times a day after his discharge, and is now living in a homeless shelter; I spent most of three weeks in bed with a phantom illness; at times, chaos seemed to be the new norm for our lives. But here I am today---and I can't say this often enough---living the life I've always wanted.
How many people can say that? Can you? In 1972, I didn't expect to live past my 20s. I lived recklessly, and I knew it. Something was bound to get me sooner rather than later. But here I am, 35 years later, living a reality that was just a dream back than. I am blessed. Truly, unbelievably blessed---blessed beyond measure.
Just eleven words, but those eleven words represent a thirty-five year journey that took me from New Jersey to Delaware to Florida and finally to Colorado. Back in New Jersey in 1972, a couple I knew from college decided they'd had it with the East Coast; they were heading for Colorado, and in true hippie fashion, they were selling all their earthly goods, which amounted to one stereo, to fund the trip. I was the buyer. I'd never owned a stereo, and I was happy to help them out. But more than anything, I wanted to go with them. I promised myself I'd follow up on that and connect with them as soon as...well, I don't know what I was thinking. As soon as I graduated? As soon as I graduated and got a car that might make it that far? As soon as I graduated and got a car that might make it that far and Jupiter aligned with Mars and peace would rule the planet and all that? It was the Age of Aquarius, after all, and maybe there was something to all that cosmic stuff.
Well, whatever the forces were that converged to make this happen (before you get all upset, yes, of course, I know it was God, all right?), I am grateful beyond measure. Here I am, finally living in the Rockies, on an amazingly private piece of property at the top of a rise three blocks from the center of a wonderful small town, surrounded on three sides by evergreens with an awesome view of Pikes Peak on the fourth side, working from home, and loving every single thing about my new life.
The "getting here" wasn't much fun, though. As my regular readers know, I haven't blogged in a while. At first, that was due to a very tight book deadline involving dozens of interviews and tons of research, a temporary living situation with spotty Internet service, and time-consuming real estate problems in both Florida and Colorado. I figured everything would settle down once we closed and I turned the book in to the publisher---did I mention that the closing date and the book deadline fell on the exact same day?---but that was not to be.
First, the buyer's mortgage company went bankrupt the day before the closing on our house in Florida. I can't begin to describe what that nightmare was like. The guy performed nothing less than a miracle in acquiring a new mortgage in record time, but the stress was unbelievable. I had already moved to Colorado, my husband had quit his job, and the movers were scheduled to start loading up.
So we closed, but we had no place to live in Colorado. We planned to rent for the first year, and one rental after another didn't pan out. So even as our stuff was barreling down I-70 in Kansas, we didn't know where to tell the driver to deliver it. We ended up putting everything in storage and paying for a second move from the storage unit to the house we rented.
And then my friend Margaret Rex passed away. Margaret, who was in her 70s, had the spunk and energy of a woman half her age until the cancer that had been in remission for years reared its ugly head again. She was a lifechanger, and I told her as much the last time I saw her. You could not know this woman and not be touched by her in a deep and profound way; she was one of those people who brought joy and laughter and meaning to life in every situation and in every encounter you had with her.
Margaret patiently taught me to knit socks.
Margaret lived in Colorado Springs, where I had spent much of the last few years, and I was looking forward to spending time with her when I moved to Colorado permanently. We hadn't even unpacked when we got the call that she was failing; four days later, she was gone. I miss her, and yet I am comforted knowing that her struggle is finally over.
So it's been an eventful summer. There's lots more, of course: a close relative ended up in a mental health facility, called me as much as five times a day after his discharge, and is now living in a homeless shelter; I spent most of three weeks in bed with a phantom illness; at times, chaos seemed to be the new norm for our lives. But here I am today---and I can't say this often enough---living the life I've always wanted.
How many people can say that? Can you? In 1972, I didn't expect to live past my 20s. I lived recklessly, and I knew it. Something was bound to get me sooner rather than later. But here I am, 35 years later, living a reality that was just a dream back than. I am blessed. Truly, unbelievably blessed---blessed beyond measure.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Okay, Okay
Yes, I've been away for a while, and yes, I promised to keep this blog relatively free of political content. But as I wrote on my other blog, I'm desperately seeking younger independent voters to interview for my next book, We the Purple: Faith, Politics, and the Independent Voter. Contact me if you're interested.
"Relatively free of political content," by the way, means I get to ask this one question, prompted by last week's televised faith forum hosted by Jim Wallis: If I ever become so demented that I vote for a candidate based on his or her views on evolution, would someone out there please put me out of my misery?
"Relatively free of political content," by the way, means I get to ask this one question, prompted by last week's televised faith forum hosted by Jim Wallis: If I ever become so demented that I vote for a candidate based on his or her views on evolution, would someone out there please put me out of my misery?
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Virginia Tech
As I wrote on my other blog, it's been hard for me to write about anything over the past two days other than the Blacksburg massacre. And I have nothing, really, to say—no new insights, no great wisdom, no fresh perspective. Just a reminder to continue to keep everyone affected by this tragedy in your prayers; the reality is probably just now beginning to set in. It's incredibly sad.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
How to Make a Veggie Burger
Okay, so I added the Video Bar feature over there on the left. I'm assured that you just have to hover over an image to see what the video is about, click on it, and it will begin playing at the top of the post column. Just click on "I'm done watching this" to end the video.
Because I am committed to imparting huge wads of useless information to all and sundry, I chose the Do-It-Yourself category. I believe everyone has the right to learn how to perform arthroscopic surgery, how to use a t-shirt folding machine, and how to conduct a do-it-yourself impeachment.
And hey, I'm not responsible for the content. Ever. Okay?
Because I am committed to imparting huge wads of useless information to all and sundry, I chose the Do-It-Yourself category. I believe everyone has the right to learn how to perform arthroscopic surgery, how to use a t-shirt folding machine, and how to conduct a do-it-yourself impeachment.
And hey, I'm not responsible for the content. Ever. Okay?
Monday, April 09, 2007
The End of TV
For me, anyway. Someday soon. Because I cannot abide the promotional stuff that clutters the screen during shows, not just during commercial breaks. You know what I mean? You're watching something like, oh, I don't know, a can't-miss rerun of Law and Order when all of a sudden there's little ol' Brenda Leigh Johnson just a-sneakin' under that-there police tape like a felon slinkin' away from a parole officer. Now I agree, there really ain't no sunshine when she's gone, and she really is always gone too long, but please. I don't want to see a promo for The Closer during another show. I've been renting TV seasons from the library for some time now, and I'm thinking that's the only way to go from now on.
Am I the only one? Is anyone else sick of these promos that nearly every station is running during shows?
Am I the only one? Is anyone else sick of these promos that nearly every station is running during shows?
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Got Books?
Need more? Here are a couple of suggestions:
- Praying at Burger King by Richard Mouw
- The Culturally-Savvy Christian by Dick Staub
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Whew!
Okay, that was one long break. Next time I'm sick for two weeks, I'm going to blog my little brains out anyway just to keep up the habit.
Moving is taking up major portions of real estate in that little brain these days, with my move to Colorado Springs a mere two weeks away. So if life was perfect, and I could live anywhere I wanted to, here's where I'd live:
What's your top 10? And what keeps you from living where you really want to live?
Moving is taking up major portions of real estate in that little brain these days, with my move to Colorado Springs a mere two weeks away. So if life was perfect, and I could live anywhere I wanted to, here's where I'd live:
- Colorado Springs (Hey, I'm not about to jinx the move by placing this one lower on the list)
- Montreal
- A remote cabin in Yellowstone (remember, we're talking "perfect world" here)
- Santa Fe
- Asheville
- Alaska, even if just for a year or so
- Way up in the Colorado mountains
- Somewhere along the coast of Maine
- Newfoundland, just to experience it
- Any village in the French countryside
What's your top 10? And what keeps you from living where you really want to live?
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
The Power of Seven
I posted most of this on my We the Purple blog, but I deleted the political stuff and added some new information below. Honest.
Anyway, just seven letters—that's all it took for the office of one member of Congress to sit up and pay attention to an issue of concern among constituents. Seven people took the time to write a letter—not an email—and an aide to the Congressman remembered them.
That's truly amazing. Annie Gill-Bloyer, who is the faith outreach organizer for the ONE Campaign, met with the aide to discuss the goals of ONE and the non-profit she works for, Bread for the World. The aide recalled having received a "number" of letters about the ONE effort ("the campaign to make poverty history"). When Annie asked how many exactly, the aide replied, "Oh...seven," in a manner that suggested this was a significant amount. Annie was stunned; that's all it took to get noticed? Seven letters?
Annie's experience reflects the ever-shifting realities of our 21st century
existence. I'll bet good money that one handwritten letter is remembered long after those useless Internet petitions have evaporated into cyberspace. (Is there anyone left who actually believes that an Internet petition does any good—or is even opened? They're not worth, um, the paper they're printed on.) Letters—especially those that are handwritten and not printed out or photocopied—have got to be such a rarity these days that it makes sense that they'd get noticed.
In her presentations, Annie shows a video about an anti-poverty program that I hadn't heard of before. WORTH is designed to empower poor women in developing nations to work their way out of poverty through "literacy training, group savings, micro-enterprise development, and entrepreneurship." The effort has proven to be remarkably successful in the parts of Asia and Africa where it's been introduced.
I love to hear about programs that genuinely change lives. Part of the program's genius, in my opinion, lies in the group effort; assemble a team of highly motivated women, and they'll be in it for the long haul.
Anyway, just seven letters—that's all it took for the office of one member of Congress to sit up and pay attention to an issue of concern among constituents. Seven people took the time to write a letter—not an email—and an aide to the Congressman remembered them.That's truly amazing. Annie Gill-Bloyer, who is the faith outreach organizer for the ONE Campaign, met with the aide to discuss the goals of ONE and the non-profit she works for, Bread for the World. The aide recalled having received a "number" of letters about the ONE effort ("the campaign to make poverty history"). When Annie asked how many exactly, the aide replied, "Oh...seven," in a manner that suggested this was a significant amount. Annie was stunned; that's all it took to get noticed? Seven letters?
Annie's experience reflects the ever-shifting realities of our 21st century
existence. I'll bet good money that one handwritten letter is remembered long after those useless Internet petitions have evaporated into cyberspace. (Is there anyone left who actually believes that an Internet petition does any good—or is even opened? They're not worth, um, the paper they're printed on.) Letters—especially those that are handwritten and not printed out or photocopied—have got to be such a rarity these days that it makes sense that they'd get noticed.In her presentations, Annie shows a video about an anti-poverty program that I hadn't heard of before. WORTH is designed to empower poor women in developing nations to work their way out of poverty through "literacy training, group savings, micro-enterprise development, and entrepreneurship." The effort has proven to be remarkably successful in the parts of Asia and Africa where it's been introduced.
I love to hear about programs that genuinely change lives. Part of the program's genius, in my opinion, lies in the group effort; assemble a team of highly motivated women, and they'll be in it for the long haul.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Jesus Campiness
When Jesus Camp released to theaters, I happened to be in Colorado Springs, of all places—the evangelical mecca. The scuttlebutt among the non-evangelicals I was hanging out with at the time was their surprise that it was actually being shown in the Springs, which was then home to Ted Haggard*, and their horror at how the kids in the movie were being indoctrinated in the faith. I pretty much shrugged it off at the time; I hadn't seen the movie, but I figured it was just so much charismatic campiness, and anyone who wasn't evangelical, charismatic, or Pentecostal wouldn't get it anyway.
But then I saw it. An hour ago. On my very own television. And it both sickened and disturbed me no end.
First, a disclaimer. (Why do I so often have to start with these bloody disclaimers? Why is it that people love to tear apart whatever you write?) I believe with everything in me that children of any age can be deeply touched by God. I believe they can have a faith experience that would put many adults to shame. And I believe that many parents and youth leaders truly believe they are doing what God wants them to do with regard to teaching and training children in the faith.
But I was sickened by the way the children in the movie talked—they sounded as if they were simply repeating, in much-too-adult terms, what their parents and pastors said. Their vocabulary and speech patterns didn't sound authentic, even for precocious home-schooled kids (I know how adult they can sound; I had two of my own). The emotional and patriotic manipulation turned my stomach.
I was disturbed, though, for an even more unsettling reason: I used to be one of those parents and youth leaders. Okay, so maybe I wasn't quite that bad, but I came awfully close. The parents in the movie talk about how their kids are different; their kids are sold out to Jesus; they would grow up to be world changers, a generation that will change the world for Jesus. Well, we said the same thing about the kids in our churches 10, 15, 20 years ago. They were on fire for God—and today, their photos are plastered all over MySpace, showing them in various stages of undress accompanied by bitter blog posts about the nightmare their childhood was.
As I watched Jesus Camp, I thought of the many young adults I know who were once destined for greatness, who showed promise for future ministry, who were prophesied over and "sealed" for a mighty work for God. And I can't help but think that if we had talked less and lived more authentically, those kids wouldn't feel so betrayed.
To parents and youth pastors of Jesus Campers: "Preach the gospel at all times. If necessary, use words." Which, by the way, St. Francis never said. And to which I would add, be sure you know what the gospel is—and what it isn't—and be sure the words you do use are really necessary.
* The Jesus Camp website features this response to Haggard's criticism of the documentary. It makes no mention of his subsequent fall from grace. Kudos to the producers for taking the high road when the low road must have looked so tempting.
But then I saw it. An hour ago. On my very own television. And it both sickened and disturbed me no end.
First, a disclaimer. (Why do I so often have to start with these bloody disclaimers? Why is it that people love to tear apart whatever you write?) I believe with everything in me that children of any age can be deeply touched by God. I believe they can have a faith experience that would put many adults to shame. And I believe that many parents and youth leaders truly believe they are doing what God wants them to do with regard to teaching and training children in the faith.
But I was sickened by the way the children in the movie talked—they sounded as if they were simply repeating, in much-too-adult terms, what their parents and pastors said. Their vocabulary and speech patterns didn't sound authentic, even for precocious home-schooled kids (I know how adult they can sound; I had two of my own). The emotional and patriotic manipulation turned my stomach.
I was disturbed, though, for an even more unsettling reason: I used to be one of those parents and youth leaders. Okay, so maybe I wasn't quite that bad, but I came awfully close. The parents in the movie talk about how their kids are different; their kids are sold out to Jesus; they would grow up to be world changers, a generation that will change the world for Jesus. Well, we said the same thing about the kids in our churches 10, 15, 20 years ago. They were on fire for God—and today, their photos are plastered all over MySpace, showing them in various stages of undress accompanied by bitter blog posts about the nightmare their childhood was.
As I watched Jesus Camp, I thought of the many young adults I know who were once destined for greatness, who showed promise for future ministry, who were prophesied over and "sealed" for a mighty work for God. And I can't help but think that if we had talked less and lived more authentically, those kids wouldn't feel so betrayed.
To parents and youth pastors of Jesus Campers: "Preach the gospel at all times. If necessary, use words." Which, by the way, St. Francis never said. And to which I would add, be sure you know what the gospel is—and what it isn't—and be sure the words you do use are really necessary.
* The Jesus Camp website features this response to Haggard's criticism of the documentary. It makes no mention of his subsequent fall from grace. Kudos to the producers for taking the high road when the low road must have looked so tempting.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Didn't See This One Coming
Nobody likes to be frisked and searched by airport security. And nobody likes to stand in long lines waiting for that frisking and searching. But of all the new security measures that have been implemented, one I really hate is the curbside "no standing" rule outside baggage claim. You do your level best to arrive at just the right moment—when the person you're picking up is all ready to go, when the two of you have coordinated everything by cellphone down to the very nanosecond, when Jupiter is perfectly aligned with Mars, when the forces of good have finally vanquished the forces of evil—and something goes wrong. You miss each other by that same nanosecond because nature has called at the worst possible moment or some long lost friend had the nerve to bump into your passenger just as she hung up the phone with you.
Imagine my shock when I arrived at Orlando International Airport to pick up my daughter and discovered signage directing drivers to a "cell waiting lot." Whoa! What's this? A free parking area where we can wait until that magical moment arrives? Instead of circling the airport multiple times until said moment? What's up with that? This is an incredibly helpful idea! How on earth did they come up with it?
I've come to expect so little when it comes to travel, especially airline travel, that it's downright startling when a positive change is made. Did I mention that the cell lot is also a wi-fi hot spot?
And then—and then—get this: when the perfect moment came to pick up my daughter, there was a security officer directing traffic. Not just yelling at drivers, but actually directing traffic. I positively swooned at the sight, which made for some tricky maneuvering.
If you need a ride from the airport, give me a call. I'm so giddy over these new services that I'm happy to oblige.
Imagine my shock when I arrived at Orlando International Airport to pick up my daughter and discovered signage directing drivers to a "cell waiting lot." Whoa! What's this? A free parking area where we can wait until that magical moment arrives? Instead of circling the airport multiple times until said moment? What's up with that? This is an incredibly helpful idea! How on earth did they come up with it?
I've come to expect so little when it comes to travel, especially airline travel, that it's downright startling when a positive change is made. Did I mention that the cell lot is also a wi-fi hot spot?
And then—and then—get this: when the perfect moment came to pick up my daughter, there was a security officer directing traffic. Not just yelling at drivers, but actually directing traffic. I positively swooned at the sight, which made for some tricky maneuvering.
If you need a ride from the airport, give me a call. I'm so giddy over these new services that I'm happy to oblige.
Monday, March 12, 2007
I Heart the Internet (Way Too Much)
I spend a lot of time on the Internet, ostensibly doing extensive and unfettered journalistic research. In reality, I occasionally stumble upon major distractions, the latest of which being StumbleUpon.com. The site takes you to random websites based on your interests, and its list of possible interests made me realize I had a whole lot more interests than I would have thought of on my own.
I even broke one of my own Internet rules: never, ever download a dedicated toolbar. But StumbleUpon swears on all that is holy (to them) that this one is safe. And because I became a convert so quickly, I of course believed them. We'll see.
Right away, I hit the mother lode in the humor category at LucidCafe.com:
Fourteen Things That It Took Me Over 50 Years To Learn—by Dave Barry
What have you stumbled upon lately?
I even broke one of my own Internet rules: never, ever download a dedicated toolbar. But StumbleUpon swears on all that is holy (to them) that this one is safe. And because I became a convert so quickly, I of course believed them. We'll see.
Right away, I hit the mother lode in the humor category at LucidCafe.com:
Fourteen Things That It Took Me Over 50 Years To Learn—by Dave Barry
1. Never, under any circumstances, take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same night.
2. If you had to identify, in one word, the reason why the human race has not achieved, and never will achieve, its full potential, that word would be "meetings."
3. There is a very fine line between "hobby" and "mental illness."
4. People who want to share their religious views with you almost never want you to share yours with them.
5. You should not confuse your career with your life.
6. Nobody cares if you can't dance well. Just get up and dance.
7. Never lick a steak knife.
8. The most destructive force in the universe is gossip.
9. You will never find anybody who can give you a clear and compelling reason why we observe daylight savings time.
10. You should never say anything to a woman that even remotely suggests that you think she's pregnant unless you can see an actual baby emerging from her at that moment.
11. There comes a time when you should stop expecting other people to make a big deal about your birthday. That time is age eleven.
12. The one thing that unites all human beings, regardless of age, gender, religion, economic status or ethnic background, is that, deep down inside, we ALL believe that we are above-average drivers.
13. A person who is nice to you but rude to the waiter is not a nice person. (This is very important. Pay attention. It never fails.)
14. Your friends love you anyway.
Thought for the day: Never be afraid to try something new. Remember that a lone amateur built the Ark. A large group of professionals built the Titanic.
What have you stumbled upon lately?
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Fair Trade?
Ten Thousand Villages. A Greater Gift. Global Exchange. These and dozens of other companies are committed to supporting farmers and artisans in developing nations by paying them a fair wage for their products. I'm not much of a consumer these days, but I have bought from fair trade retailers, most of whom have online stores.
But a new "fair trade" enterprise is giving me pause. The venture is called Fair Indigo. I haven't ordered from them, but an online friend exchanged emails with a company representative regarding the source of their products. Other fair trade companies post detailed information about the communities and even individuals that produce the items they sell; Fair Indigo, however, provides only general information about where their products come from.
The email exchange is too long to post here, but the gist of the company's response was this: "Finding fair trade factories was and continues to be challenging in today’s low-cost climate...We may publish this information in the future, but at this time will protect it as proprietary."
What disturbs me first of all is that the company considers the information to be proprietary. I've always respected fair trade companies for their refusal to adopt a "business as usual" attitude, and one way they display this is by being open and forthcoming when a potential customer has a legitimate question. Consumers who buy from fair trade companies as a matter of conscience need to know the source of the merchandise—that is, whether it's a truly needy individual or a sweatshop.
I'm also disturbed by the fact that I didn't give this much thought before now. Granted, I've bought from only a few fair trade companies, and I knew them to be legitimate. Still, I wonder if I would have even questioned the validity of a particular "fair trade" retailer.
For now, I'm going to assume that as a new company, Fair Indigo is still figuring out how all this works. As I understand it, the owners came from Lands End, so they may be trying to apply that company's strategy to Fair Indigo. But fair trade companies play by different rules—thank God for that!—and that's the reason so many of us are willing to pay their often-higher prices. I wish Fair Indigo all the best as they presumably attempt to help people who are living in unimaginable poverty—and as they recognize the need to be more open about the source of their merchandise.
But a new "fair trade" enterprise is giving me pause. The venture is called Fair Indigo. I haven't ordered from them, but an online friend exchanged emails with a company representative regarding the source of their products. Other fair trade companies post detailed information about the communities and even individuals that produce the items they sell; Fair Indigo, however, provides only general information about where their products come from.
The email exchange is too long to post here, but the gist of the company's response was this: "Finding fair trade factories was and continues to be challenging in today’s low-cost climate...We may publish this information in the future, but at this time will protect it as proprietary."
What disturbs me first of all is that the company considers the information to be proprietary. I've always respected fair trade companies for their refusal to adopt a "business as usual" attitude, and one way they display this is by being open and forthcoming when a potential customer has a legitimate question. Consumers who buy from fair trade companies as a matter of conscience need to know the source of the merchandise—that is, whether it's a truly needy individual or a sweatshop.
I'm also disturbed by the fact that I didn't give this much thought before now. Granted, I've bought from only a few fair trade companies, and I knew them to be legitimate. Still, I wonder if I would have even questioned the validity of a particular "fair trade" retailer.
For now, I'm going to assume that as a new company, Fair Indigo is still figuring out how all this works. As I understand it, the owners came from Lands End, so they may be trying to apply that company's strategy to Fair Indigo. But fair trade companies play by different rules—thank God for that!—and that's the reason so many of us are willing to pay their often-higher prices. I wish Fair Indigo all the best as they presumably attempt to help people who are living in unimaginable poverty—and as they recognize the need to be more open about the source of their merchandise.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
I Don't Think So
In a couple of weeks, you will be able to stroll high above the Grand Canyon on a glass-floored, horseshoe-shaped skywalk that offers an unprecedented view of the canyon floor some 4,000 feet below.
The operative word there is you. I will not be able to make that stroll, and not because I live in Florida. I will not be able to make that stroll because my legs will not function normally under those circumstances.
But back to the skywalk, which is a pretty cool concept and just as cool reality, I suppose. The $30 million tourist attraction, which is expected to generate much-needed income for its owner, the Hualapai Indian Reservation, extends 70 feet out from the canyon wall and can "comfortably" accommodate 120 people at a time, each of whom will have shelled out $25 for that dubious exercise in comfort.
The odd thing about my lack-of-comfort problem is this: I'm not acrophobic in the classic sense. I can stay in a high-rise hotel and travel in a high-flying plane without any problem. And I have no fear of death, a fear that has actually been tested and found wanting. But put me on a fire escape or a balcony a mere three stories up, and the bones and muscles in my legs disappear. A glass-bottomed skywalk? I don't think so.
I understand that our Hualapai friends will provide cloth slippers (or technically, non-slippers) that visitors will be required to wear. Okay, I'll make them an offer: maybe I'll venture out onto the skywalk if they provide cloth kneepads for me, because I most certainly will be crawling for the first yard or two before I turn around and head back. Throw in $30 million, and we've got a solid deal.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
The AmeriCone Dream
In case you missed it, on last night's Colbert Report Ben & Jerry (yes, that Ben & Jerry) introduced their newest ice cream flavor, Stephen Colbert's AmeriCone Dream—"a decadent melting pot of vanilla ice cream with fudge-covered waffle cone pieces and a caramel swirl. It’s the sweet taste of liberty in your mouth." Monsieur Colbert was quick to emphasize that this is the only time he has ever waffled:
Colbert promises to save the world by donating his share of the proceeds to various charities. And remember—even though it appears he has sold out to a blatantly liberal enterprise, nobody loves Jesus more than Stephen Colbert does.
Colbert promises to save the world by donating his share of the proceeds to various charities. And remember—even though it appears he has sold out to a blatantly liberal enterprise, nobody loves Jesus more than Stephen Colbert does.
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