I'm in the Denver airport at the midpoint of a trip home. There is a ground stop, which means all the planes are sitting on ground waiting for thunderstorms to pass and that all the waiting kids are on the move. I'm sitting on a balcony, where I can see the planes frozen like a tableau and the kids circling at 60 rpm.
There is a door to my left, labeled Fire Valve and Tornado Shelter. A passing munchkin read the door and wondered aloud if that was where the tornados lived. He's circled by 4 times since, and has (so far) resisted opening the door to check his theory.
If only someone could entice the twisters back into their closet so we could all get moving. Where is Monsters, Inc when you need them?
Monday, August 11, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Oogling Google
I spent the last couple of days at SciFoo - a weekend long conference party for very geeky people. Not the least of the attractions was the location - Google's headquarters, the famed GooglePlex. I have met a papal astronomer (his office is above the pope's bedroom in Castle Gandolfo), the designer of a car that flies (actually, a road worthy airplane) and eaten lots of the famed Google food.I am now the proud owner of an official "Blogger" sweatshirt and a nifty little device that stores solar power and can recharge almost any small electronic gadget. I'm sitting by the hotel pool, exchanging photons for electrons in the California sun.
After almost a month on the road, what do I want most? To go home!
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Street Corner Prophets
[This column appeared in the Catholic Standard & Times August 8, 2008]
The lion has roared; who will not fear? The Lord God has spoken; who can but prophesy? Amos 3:8
He was still on the corner of Canal and Chartres in New Orleans where I’d seen him on my visit five years before — ensconced on a folding chair, wearing a multicolored umbrella hat, and wielding a bullhorn. “Repent! Return to the Lord and he will save you,” he boomed in the cool April air.
The streets were empty in the early morning and I could hear him for blocks as I walked briskly off to satisfy my craving for a beignet slathered in powdered sugar. “Repent.” Later in the day, the street din would drown out his words, and parents would cross the street with their children to avoid the crazy preacher. Oblivious to his audience, or lack thereof, he continued to stay on message and decry the sinful ways of the world. “Turn to the Lord.”
I resisted crossing the street, but still felt slightly uncomfortable each time I passed by, my conscience itching at the edges. His words sounded harsh against the riotous jazz playing in New Orleans’ French Quarter, a prickly counterpoint to my twice daily indulgence in Cafe du Monde’s sweet fried dough.
As the haunting words of the prophet Amos poured forth at daily Mass a few weeks ago, the face of the New Orleans street preacher, incongruous hat and all, surfaced before my eyes. And I felt that same faint unease return.
Would I have dismissed Amos as a well meaning, but slightly demented soul on a street corner? Should I have been paying attention on that street corner in New Orleans?
Prophets, even those confronting people and events long past, can be hard to listen to. Isaiah promises destruction to an Israel that has strayed from God’s ways: Rebels and sinners alike shall be crushed; those who desert the Lord shall be consumed.
I tried to banish the unease that Amos’ words evoked by taking refuge in their historicity, crossing not just to the other side of the street, but to the other side of the chasm of time. I am not in Israel in the 8th century before Christ, nor are the warriors of Assyria assembled against me. Even so, the historical distance doesn’t quite dispel my interior qualms.
What do you mean by crushing my people, and grinding down the poor when they look to you? — the Lord asks Israel through Isaiah. It is a question that is as apt for me, perhaps, as it was for ancient Israel.
Amos and Isaiah’s original audiences are long gone. Yet courtesy of the Scriptures, they, like my street corner prophet, remain at their task, their message proclaimed heedless of their listeners’ presence or discomfort.
Where are the prophets among us now? Surely we still have need of their reminders to face God. Next time I hear a prophet preaching repentance, whether his words are drifting down the street or down the centuries, I will turn to the Lord — and listen.
Almighty Father, let your light so penetrate our minds, that walking by your commandments we may always follow you, our leader and guide. We make our prayer through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, God, for ever and ever. Amen.
The lion has roared; who will not fear? The Lord God has spoken; who can but prophesy? Amos 3:8
He was still on the corner of Canal and Chartres in New Orleans where I’d seen him on my visit five years before — ensconced on a folding chair, wearing a multicolored umbrella hat, and wielding a bullhorn. “Repent! Return to the Lord and he will save you,” he boomed in the cool April air.
The streets were empty in the early morning and I could hear him for blocks as I walked briskly off to satisfy my craving for a beignet slathered in powdered sugar. “Repent.” Later in the day, the street din would drown out his words, and parents would cross the street with their children to avoid the crazy preacher. Oblivious to his audience, or lack thereof, he continued to stay on message and decry the sinful ways of the world. “Turn to the Lord.”
I resisted crossing the street, but still felt slightly uncomfortable each time I passed by, my conscience itching at the edges. His words sounded harsh against the riotous jazz playing in New Orleans’ French Quarter, a prickly counterpoint to my twice daily indulgence in Cafe du Monde’s sweet fried dough.
As the haunting words of the prophet Amos poured forth at daily Mass a few weeks ago, the face of the New Orleans street preacher, incongruous hat and all, surfaced before my eyes. And I felt that same faint unease return.
Would I have dismissed Amos as a well meaning, but slightly demented soul on a street corner? Should I have been paying attention on that street corner in New Orleans?
Prophets, even those confronting people and events long past, can be hard to listen to. Isaiah promises destruction to an Israel that has strayed from God’s ways: Rebels and sinners alike shall be crushed; those who desert the Lord shall be consumed.
I tried to banish the unease that Amos’ words evoked by taking refuge in their historicity, crossing not just to the other side of the street, but to the other side of the chasm of time. I am not in Israel in the 8th century before Christ, nor are the warriors of Assyria assembled against me. Even so, the historical distance doesn’t quite dispel my interior qualms.
What do you mean by crushing my people, and grinding down the poor when they look to you? — the Lord asks Israel through Isaiah. It is a question that is as apt for me, perhaps, as it was for ancient Israel.
Amos and Isaiah’s original audiences are long gone. Yet courtesy of the Scriptures, they, like my street corner prophet, remain at their task, their message proclaimed heedless of their listeners’ presence or discomfort.
Where are the prophets among us now? Surely we still have need of their reminders to face God. Next time I hear a prophet preaching repentance, whether his words are drifting down the street or down the centuries, I will turn to the Lord — and listen.
Almighty Father, let your light so penetrate our minds, that walking by your commandments we may always follow you, our leader and guide. We make our prayer through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, God, for ever and ever. Amen.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
There will be no visits to the emergency room
My mother prefaced many a family gathering or trip with the flat statement (drawn from her vast experience): "There will be no visits to the emergency room." Maybe it was the time that my middle brother, the Artiste, hit the oldest of my brothers, Geek Guru, with a croquet mallet (Geek Guru was not a 'good winner' which irritated his much younger sib) necessitating a stop for stitches on our way out to a family dinner that drove her to it. Or the Thanksgiving feast that ended with my sister, the Pretty One, in the ER with a broken arm...No one said it before the family rafting trip last weekend (down the Middle Fork of the American River in California), but no one got hurt - though everyone got wet. Someone should have said it before dinner. Before dinner was over there would be 2 broken bones, and a laceration on the books.
Baby Barnacle Boy (the Reverend Brother's youngest) melted down and threw his head back. Alas, he hit his mother in the nose and broke it. Newspaper Niece tried to take the pit out of an avocado, missed and used the knife on her thumb instead. Oops. And I took my kids swimming across the rapidly running river and slipped on the rocks, fracturing my toe.
To complete the set, Barnacle Boy fell on his way to pan gold and tore up his knee - but that was a whole new day...
Friday, August 01, 2008
Oil and water
Water is perhaps more precious than oil where my dad lives. The water table is hundreds of feet down, rainfall non-existent in this season. Dry wells are no joke.We arrived here last week, with a duffel full of dirty clothes from our sojourn in Maine (just like a college student - I come home to do laundry). We had barely made our way out back to find my dad when my sister-in-law (the Reverend Brother's wife) appears at the gate. She has bad news. There is no water in the big tank, and the pumps have shut off. (They share a well with my dad.) No laundry...no flushing. Will they need to drill deeper?
As it turned out it was an interlock that had gone back at the level of their first well and by dinner time, there was enough water to do the dishes and flush. By bedtime, I had a load of laundry in.
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