Wild About Harry

Have you noticed how quiet it’s been lately? There’s a blanket of silence over the world. Everyone is locked inside their house reading the last Harry Potter book. My email volume is down and I can’t remember the last time I had a phone call from someone outside my family. The single greatest challenge I faced this weekend was the arrival of nine overnight guests on Saturday, the day the book was released. Fortunately my guests arrived with their own copies of the book and we all relaxed in the knowledge that we didn’t have to hide in corners to grab a few sentences. We were able to read together, boldly, in the light of day.

I feel part of a great community—a worldwide community of people who were and continue to be doing the same exact thing at the same time. I wonder how long we will travel our separate ways until we’re allowed to show our heads and ask who has finished so we might discuss it. Is a week too long?

Steve’s mother, Nancy, his Aunt Charlotte, sister Debbie and Debbie’s two kids hit the door Saturday morning with Emily and her family close behind. They had four copies between them—one extra for me. I had already run into town for my own copy even though I had a guaranteed release date delivery from Amazon. I couldn’t wait until the mail arrived at 3:30. In fact, I had considered running into town around midnight Friday. Wal-Mart is open 24 hours a day, you know. I particularly liked the way Amazon packaged the book. Written on the package was “Attention Muggles – Do not deliver or open before July 21!”

We don’t get to see Nancy very often so it was easy enough for me to lay the book aside and enjoy a good visit. But the minute she started making a pie with Sarah and the others drifted off with their own interests I picked up the book.

Because of our strong code of ethics none of us reading the book could talk about it while we were reading. There were four of us in my house: Emily, Steve, his sister Debbie and myself. Elizabeth stayed home in Garland but called once in a while to check what page everyone was on. And page numbers became our new language. I read slightly behind the others since I was cooking and cleaning most of the weekend. Steve disappeared a couple of times and we knew he was off reading. So Emily made him take the girls outside to play while she caught up. Emily would occasionally make a startled “erck” sound and I noted which pages she was on. Pages 56 and 475 seemed the most traumatic to her.



By Sunday morning all the company left to go back home. I knew Debbie would be able to read for the whole two-day drive back to Ohio; Em and Steve would send the girls outside to play with neighbors. It was time for me to get serious.

I took out my Exacto knife and performed a little trick I’ve done on large books in the past. First you carefully cut…. Now WAIT a minute. Hear me out. I know my Mother is rolling over in her grave right now and the rest of you are thinking of Nazi Germany and how I’m only one step away from book burning but HEAR ME OUT: I would never do this to a book I wanted to keep, to re-read or refer back to several times. But Harry Potter is a one-read book for me and once I’m finished, I’m through with the book. These books are so widely purchased that there isn’t even a re-sale value. They’re disposable as far as I’m concerned. And we’re talking about a 759 page book here. I’ll bet it weighs a couple of pounds, at least. OK, are you calm? Can I proceed?

First, I cut the hardback away from the spine with a vertical incision on either side where the hard cover is joined to the book. This should separate the cover from the actual pages. Then I divide the book into thirds at chapter divisions. And not any chapter, it has to be a chapter that begins on the right side, not the left. Take a sharp serrated bread knife and close the book over the knife with the cutting edge facing the spine. Slice through the spine at these two divisions. Voila! You end up with a much more manageable lap friendly book in three sections, each the size and weight of a regular paperback. The other advantage to this is that you can have three different people reading the same book. And if you really want to save the book, just put a rubber band around it.



By Sunday afternoon Emily and Elizabeth, without coordinating anything ended up at the same place in the book and couldn’t put it down. They both finished around 11pm Sunday night.

That left me with nobody to talk to. I couldn’t even discuss page numbers. Finally yesterday Beaven went into Dallas for lunch with his buddies and at 2:57 p.m. I finished the book along with a gallon of Blue Bell Chocolate Chip ice cream. All was well.

Synod Youth Workshop

I survived my annual week at Synod Youth Workshop. It was actually the easiest one I’ve ever done. And I have a great picture to show you but it's on the other computer and I'm leaving first thing in the morning to run into Dallas so I'll have to post it later.

But first I have to tell you what a wonderful Fourth of July we had out here in paradise. If you will remember, the last two or three years have been so hot and dry by July Fourth that people were afraid to set off fireworks for fear they would burn up most of the southern half of the country. Last year there was even a state-wide ban on the sale of fireworks. So, we have missed our fireworks.

This year, however, it was a very different story. Our biggest challenge this year was waiting for the rain to let up long enough for us to be able to light a fuse. But before we could do that we had to mush our way to an open field and stand in puddles of water and high grass, swatting mosquitoes delirious from a recent population explosion.

I hadn’t fully realized just how much I missed fireworks until I visited the stand this year. Standing on wooden pallets and leaning over to look at the display took me back to childhood and asking the people selling which were the best fireworks to buy. “I want something that will go up in the air and look pretty.” Or “I want something that makes a big noise.” Those magical words used only once a year: Snakes, Pop Rocks, Sparklers, Bottle Rockets (wait-that one’s been banned. Come to think of it, so have Cherry Bombs. What a loss.) Who can resist fireworks?

Of course, out here in the East Texas boondocks, we have our fireworks stand right next door to the gas station. Joe Bob’s gas station. I am not kidding.

By dusk the town seventh grade boys were already setting off firecrackers and rockets in the soggy field behind Joe Bob’s. God love ‘em. Kids just like to blow things up. We all do. And this year it was just time to blow stuff up. It was great.

However, with a granddaughter who is afraid of loud noises we had to keep it pretty tame. But I did manage to teach her to appreciate the smell of gunpowder. What an aroma! The smell of childhood………A good time was had by all.

Back to my week at Synod Youth Workshop.

The best way to describe the week is to list what we did: two worship services, five keynote addresses, nine small group meetings, two dances, a variety show, a night out on the town, a service project, and lots of music, and energizers. All of this on an average of about five hours of sleep a night. To prepare for this required two days of orientation held the weekend before the kids arrived on Monday. It’s a physically demanding week. But by some miracle I can’t explain about the only thing on me that really hurts today is my neck from balancing three pizzas on my head on a walk from one corner of the campus to the other. I may be older and “fluffier” than I was the last time I led a small group but apparently I’m in better physical condition..

The equipment I take for this week includes about three boxes filled with construction paper, poster board, pens, markers, beach balls and other craft flotsam and jetsam. I also take an ice chest, a laptop computer, two printers (separate ones for photos and text) , an iPod (with speakers), a coffee pot and, of course, my dancing chicken. I couldn’t get through the week without the dancing chicken.

It was the 50th anniversary of the event and everybody was counting to see who has been coming the longest. I’m in about third place in terms of longevity. In a group of about 40 staff this year only two other people have been coming since 1991. But I slip a couple of notches when I deduct for the 3 or 4 years I stayed home to have a grandbaby or went somewhere else like Guatemala. After deductions, I think I’ve been to this event twelve times. But twelve times is still a lot in small group leader life. Most people last only about five or six years. I think I’m addicted to the zest of being around young people. They move fast and are some of the most creative thinkers you can be around.


Friday night Cummunion Service

We studied the Beatitudes this time. It’s in the bible in a couple of places but the one we studied is in Matthew 5:1-11. The keynote speaker, who just happened to be my own pastor this year, used the Eugene Peterson version of the bible called The Message. This one puts the beatitudes into different wording but much easier to understand. Remember the part about “Blessed are you when men revile you and persecute you…..”

I never could get much past the “revile and persecute” part because it conjured up images of the Spanish Inquisition with torture and prison and I just couldn’t picture myself in the position of being persecuted. It has a long and complicated wording so I’ve always just skipped over that part. But this year, the same verses read:

“You’re blessed when your commitment to God provokes persecution. The persecution drives you even deeper into God’s kingdom. Not only that—count yourselves blessed every time people put you down or throw you out or speak lies about you to discredit me. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and they are uncomfortable. You can be glad when that happens—give a cheer, even!—for though they don’t like it, I do! And all heaven applauds. And know that you are in good company. My prophets and witnesses have always gotten into this kind of trouble.”

As I was discussing it with the kids in my group I found myself using the word “risk” instead of persecution. I asked them what was important enough to them to take a risk for. We ended up with a really good conversation about their feelings on gay rights and the war in Iraq and a bunch of other things people don’t agree on but feel strongly about.

However, at night when I finally went to bed around 1 or 2 a.m., full of adrenalin I thought more about the idea of persecution and risk. It comes in curious disguise.

Beaven and I are not risk takers. We don’t play the lottery or gamble or even pretend we care about the Dallas Cowboys anymore. We’ve always been hesitant to put bumper stickers on our cars, especially the political ones. You never know what someone will do to your car if other people don’t like your candidate. Dents in the parking lot, keys scraped across the paint of the car as someone walks past. Plus, I live in Texas. Here in Texas we always have to factor in a condition peculiar to our state: we have a number of folks who drive around with a loaded shotgun in the back window of their pickup. I’m serious here, folks.

It has its merits, sometimes. We have a lot less finger waving on the freeway because of all those shotguns in the cars. You might say we kind of police ourselves this way in Texas. But it certainly puts the damper on controversial bumper stickers.

When I asked the eight kids in our group what was important enough to them to risk their safety or security, I had to think about it myself. I don’t like it when people think bad things about me or act mean to me. Could I translate persecution into just plain old people not liking me for my beliefs?

I remembered one time somebody was trying to come up with a really bad thing to say about me. This was back in the late 60’s when civil right were still being established and a lot of people felt threatened by the idea. This woman stirred around in her bag of insults until she got to the very bottom and came up with the worst one she could think of. She called me nigger lover. I was immediately shocked and insulted, just as she intended.

However, after I thought about it, I realized what a compliment I had received; yes, an honor to be recognized as someone who loves others, even people that not everybody loves. And the more I thought about it the more proud I was of the title. In a decade past I might even have had a t-shirt printed with the title. But, of course, now you can’t get away with using the “n” word even in an instructional setting.

I’m coming to understand that’s what Jesus meant when he said I would be blessed when I was persecuted for standing up for the message he brought us. And that’s why I go to Synod Youth Workshop. I learn something new every time.

Oh, I also learned to never feed a gerbil Dr Pepper. It makes them explode.

Somos del Senor

I'm going to post early this week. My grandkids are about to hit the door and it will be chaos for a couple of days. Then, almost as soon as they leave, I'll go to Tulsa for the Synod Youth Workshop. I can't wait to get there--it's my favorite week of the year. It always provides me with a good time and a story or two. Give me a week off and when I get back I'll be here for a couple of months.


I said that my favorite thing about mission trips are the cool people you get to hang around with. A couple of really special people I met at the jobsite were college kids from the US who just wanted to spent some time volunteering around the world.

Ashley Abaie is from Arizona, I think, but she went to college in Virginia at William and Mary. She has been studying liguistics but decided to take a year off from school. She came up with an intinerary that includes Chile and South Africa after she leaves Mexico. When her year is over she expects to transfer to Berkley to study some sort of Environment Development –Save the Earth kind of thing. She’s raising the money for all of this by herself and said she’s basically self-supporting and always has been.


Elizabeth Ball and Ashley Abaie

But it was Chucho that gave me the best surprise. I never did get his real name. I think his first name was really Chuck. When I first saw him, I thought he was one of the teenagers with a big group from North Carolina who had arrived that morning. He couldn’t have been any taller than me and had a thick head of curly hair but the guy didn’t look old enough to shave. He came up to our group as we were mixing concrete and just picked up a shovel and started working. I noticed he wasn’t doing things the way Annette had told us so I said (in a very nice way, I’m sure) that he was doing it wrong. In a few minutes, Annette came up to greet him like a long lost friend and asked how his past year had been. She told us he knew what he was doing and to listen to him. He resumed doing things his way and, after giving us enough time to see that his way was ten times better, we followed his leadership. I was blown away by his strength and energy.

Well, he turned out to be not only older than high school by far but the strongest and most energetic young man I’ve ever seen. This was his second year to volunteer with Faith Ministries and I think he was planning a gap year like Ashley was doing. He was fluent in Spanish and totally relaxed in his skin. I never found out which college he goes to but I did find out that he graduated from Highland Park High School in Dallas. This put him in the wealthiest neighborhood in town with the bluest of blood in his background. I also never got his last name, though I asked about four times and he ignored me each time. If he was from Highland Park there is no telling who his parents are or how wealthy. Yet here he was in Mexico mixing concrete.

On most days when we crossed the border going back into the US to spend the night in McAllen we were just beat—dirty and beat. Damon would let everybody out of the van to walk through customs and he would drive through alone. This was probably a lot easier for the border guards and we were ready to get out a stretch a little. Only on the last day when we went back into Mexico for a little shopping did he let us stay in the van as we passed through customs.

Damon has a healthy respect for the fact that we’re crossing a national border and that everyone has lost their sense of humor since 9/11. These were the few moments of the week when joking was set aside. He told us that if people anticipated the questions that the border would ask and give the correct answers in a respectful way our chances of a smooth crossing would be better. So we began rehearsing a mantra of answers to the questions: Are you all US citizens? What were you doing in Mexico? Are you bringing any fruit into the US? Are you bringing any liquor? Damon also made it clear that we would obey all the laws and pay any taxes necessary. The legal age to buy liquor in Mexico is 18. So it was OK to bring tequila back but we wanted to make sure declared it and paid the taxes on it.

We turned into a chipper but ever so respectful bunch with our well-rehearsed answers, all issued in unison with smiles: “Yes sir, Just shopping, sir, No fruit, lots of booze.”

One evening I walked into the kitchen to find Annette and her sister-in-law, Sandra, looking through the kitchen pantry together. Last year Sandra, who is an attractive young Latina had brought the volunteers a meal one night during the week. She brought it from her home there in McAllen. After she got home that night she realized she had left the lid to the roasting pan in the kitchen at the church. But when she went back later the next week to pick it up, the ladies of the church told her it wasn’t there. Without making any attempt to find it, they simply stonewalled her and Sandra had to go home without her lid.

As she and Annette told me the story I realized that if the same thing had happened to me, with my gray hair and white skin, I would have been invited to roam their pantry at will and gone home with the lid to my roaster. Sandra didn’t have my age or my skin. I realized with a chill that prejudice is still alive in the Christian church in the 21st century--even in a congregation that regularly welcomes volunteer groups like ours. I felt like I was watching the last scene of Giant.

After lunch each day we would have a little worship service where we would sing some songs, pray for people, dedicate a house or two and praise God for everything.



Wednesday I found myself sitting next to a woman holding a six-month old boy named Carlito. After a while Carlito got restless and I reached out to stroke his head. I realized the kid was teething and I did what all the women in the world do in that case—I gave him my knuckle to chew on. I tried to remember what I had touched that day and decided a little concrete wouldn’t hurt anybody. So Carlito spent the rest of the service happily chewing on my finger. That particular day a huge Presbyterian church from Charlotte, North Carolina was with us and had brought their hand bell choir of about 40 teenagers. They played a magnificently ornate Easter hymn that literally rang out to the whole community. They couldn’t have asked for better acoustics than the brick walls and concrete floor. Each note resonated as though designed for that moment. After the handbells, the youth choir sang a couple of songs in the Presbyterian Hymnal that are in Spanish. I knew both of them but my favorite is always Pues Si Vivimos (When We Are Living-hymn #400). There I sat with Carlito gnawing on my knuckle, not sure which of us was enjoying it the most, Carlito or me, his substitute Abuela. Then the choir got to the second line in the song:

Through all our living, we our fruits must give.
Good works of service are for offering.
When we are giving, or when receiving,
We belong to God, we belong to God.

At that moment I felt such a bond with Carlitos that tears came to my eyes. I wasn’t really sure which of us was giving and which was receiving. I may not have been able to shovel concrete but I could love a baby. Somos del Senor. We belong to God.