I'm typing from the floor of the airport at Sky Harbor International in Phoenix, AZ. It's 101-degrees outside, but we're cool as cukes here on the floor. Just enjoyed a spectacular lunch from the Blue Burrito Grill (Jackson says, on a scale of "1-to-Moe's," this is a definite 9!), and Amy and the boys are playing cards. (No money has exchanged hands, at least to this point.) We're heading for Minneapolis and then back to Charlotte. We'll arrive at 10:15 p.m. tonight... just in time for a good night's sleep... a little grass cutting and unpacking... and repacking... and a final summer trip -- to the lake. We'll be in Greenwood until Sunday, and then we're back in Charlotte for school, and PRBC. Though it's been an incredible summer, we are all feeling a bit antsy to be back home and in a routine.
I woke up yesterday morning having endured a nightmare... Carson Allen's funeral was in a few moments. I was in my robe. Carol Cramer was there, hurrying me on to the sanctuary. We were at PRBC (though it didn't look like PRBC in my dream). I was to speak the eulogy. And I had not written a single word. Panick. And... I couldn't find any paper. Any paper! I was working through what I wanted to say... but I wanted to at least write notes... Give me some paper! I finally found a few scrap squares, but... there was no flat, horizontal space on which to write. NONE! I finally found a little square block of some kind and I turned it over, put the paper on it, and began to write, only to find that the block was filled with little knobs of some kind, so I had no smooth surface for writing. Carol wouldn't quit beckoning me to the sanctuary and I was PANICKED...
That's when I woke up and realized... I need to be home! It must be about time to be back in the pulpit (because this is a recurring theme for Saturday night dreams in our house!)
We're parked on the floor under a large ad for Sky Harbor's free Wi-Fi, and Jackson asked... "Who does that look like?" (the girl in the advertisement). Without hesitation we all answered in unison -- RACHEL STONE!
How good it will be to see Rachel... and Carol... and to have those Saturday night dreams again. Really. It's been an amazing summer. Can't wait to tell you more and show you all 2500 pictures the boys took (no shortage of Wednesday evening material for the fall!).
And again, we're grateful.
Trusting that we all will be made better by this absence. Our hearts are growing fonder by the moment.
See you soon.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Two Worlds. One Sky.
It was hard to reconcile the two. As I sat in Supai, Arizona, on Friday night, my niece, Ali, was in Orlando, FL competing in the Miss America Teen Pageant. A month ago she became Miss SC Teen, and the Deans of Charlotte were virtually the only members of the family who did not make the trek to the Miss America Teen pageant. But it was not as if we missed the festivities all together.
You see, last weekend was the annual Peach Festival in Supai. A pretty big Supain deal, and among the festivities were... you guessed it, the Miss Havasupai Pageant! The pageantry started at 7:00 p.m. (Well, it was actually 7:35 p.m. before the emcee welcomed us to the pageant, but who's counting.) The downtown "civic center" was the home of the pageant -- Supai's newly built outdoor basketball court, complete with bleacher seating, and extra chairs brought in by helicopter for the standing room only crowd... At about 8:05 p.m. -- not having seen a single Miss Supai contestant yet -- we left, but Don wanted to go back for the 9:00 p.m. concert, featuring "Midnight Red." So...
After putting the boys to bed, Don and I headed back down the street, hoping for some good evening music. It was 9:40 p.m. when we got there -- and the 3rd Miss Havasupai contestant was just on stage: "I haven't practiced anything for my talent... my mother kept bugging me, 'What are you going to do...' So... I think I'll... sing a traditional Indian song..." And this is where the obvious incongruity began to hit me. You see, Ali has practiced her original arrangement of "In the Mood" about 3.25 million times in the past three months (and she plays it spectacularly!), so as this little miss struggled through her traditional song, I thought of Ali, playing Glenn Miller's famous dance... and I looked around.
There were at least 25 dogs in attendance at the pageant. And occasionally, a bark from beyond the gym fencing would send 15 of them howling to that side of the stage growling and barking wildly. (If you're not a fan of leash-less pit bulls, I recommend another vacation destination!)
Several saddle-less horses ran through town, one "neighed" wildly -- sparking another bout of wild dog madness.
The 40+ children in attendance mostly gathered at the back of the audience, and beyond the fence, and spent the night loudly hooping it up, playing with the dogs, yelling at one another, tossing their glow-n-the-dark necklaces at each other. (Completely oblivious to Little Miss and her traditional song.)
Several of the contestants offered a traditional Indian "circle dance" as their talent, and as Don and I had walked through a gauntlet of teenaged Indian boys, who looked at us with great inquisitiveness, I was prepared to be unnerved -- but the piercing Indian war scream that was offered at an ear-splitting volume, over and over, just behind me was about more than my ears (and heart) could stand. I'm not prejudiced against Indians at all (the Havasupai prefer "Indian" to "Native American"), but I couldn't get out of my mind the image of the only two white men in the audience, scalped, hog-tied, and twisting over a spit, as the focal point of Miss Havasupai's celebratory circle dance -- just as her way of saying thanks to the judges!
Don and I kept looking at each other as the night wore on (the band was supposed to begin at 9:00 p.m.) -- and about 10:25 p.m. the emcee declared that the judges had made their decision. So, after a few more audience-participation traditional dances, "Little Miss" and "Toddler Miss" and the "Little Brave" were announced... and as the band noisily positioned their instruments and their stacks and stacks of speakers and amplifiers on the center of the stage, Tokea Euquala was announced as the 2009-2010 Miss Havasupai. There were a few claps, but they could barely be heard over the Bob Marley reggae that was now blaring from the loudspeakers. The emcee invited all the "royalties" to come forward for a picture (the runners-up would have to be announced the following night, since they were "almost out of time"!), and as they tried to find room on the stage, among the band members and their equipment, "Brown Eyed Girl" and then some R&B piece akin to "Gitt'n Jiggy With It" blared.
And I thought of Ali. And I thought of all those Miss Teens in their thousand-dollar dresses onstage in Florida... And I thought of Tokea. And as someone killed the stage lighting, to prepare for the band's light show, the outline of the Supai's red cliffs, and a billion trillion sparkling lights became visible. Through the middle of that sky, the Milky Way ran clear as a river of cloud, peering down on them both.
And I thought about Ali. And I thought about Tokea. And I realized that they live under the same starry sky, have the same basic hopes and desires, and are loved by the same infinite God.
Congratulations Ali (who made it into the Top Ten at the Miss America Teen finals), and Tokea.
I'm proud of both of you, and wish you, and your worlds, the very best.
You see, last weekend was the annual Peach Festival in Supai. A pretty big Supain deal, and among the festivities were... you guessed it, the Miss Havasupai Pageant! The pageantry started at 7:00 p.m. (Well, it was actually 7:35 p.m. before the emcee welcomed us to the pageant, but who's counting.) The downtown "civic center" was the home of the pageant -- Supai's newly built outdoor basketball court, complete with bleacher seating, and extra chairs brought in by helicopter for the standing room only crowd... At about 8:05 p.m. -- not having seen a single Miss Supai contestant yet -- we left, but Don wanted to go back for the 9:00 p.m. concert, featuring "Midnight Red." So...
After putting the boys to bed, Don and I headed back down the street, hoping for some good evening music. It was 9:40 p.m. when we got there -- and the 3rd Miss Havasupai contestant was just on stage: "I haven't practiced anything for my talent... my mother kept bugging me, 'What are you going to do...' So... I think I'll... sing a traditional Indian song..." And this is where the obvious incongruity began to hit me. You see, Ali has practiced her original arrangement of "In the Mood" about 3.25 million times in the past three months (and she plays it spectacularly!), so as this little miss struggled through her traditional song, I thought of Ali, playing Glenn Miller's famous dance... and I looked around.
There were at least 25 dogs in attendance at the pageant. And occasionally, a bark from beyond the gym fencing would send 15 of them howling to that side of the stage growling and barking wildly. (If you're not a fan of leash-less pit bulls, I recommend another vacation destination!)
Several saddle-less horses ran through town, one "neighed" wildly -- sparking another bout of wild dog madness.
The 40+ children in attendance mostly gathered at the back of the audience, and beyond the fence, and spent the night loudly hooping it up, playing with the dogs, yelling at one another, tossing their glow-n-the-dark necklaces at each other. (Completely oblivious to Little Miss and her traditional song.)
Several of the contestants offered a traditional Indian "circle dance" as their talent, and as Don and I had walked through a gauntlet of teenaged Indian boys, who looked at us with great inquisitiveness, I was prepared to be unnerved -- but the piercing Indian war scream that was offered at an ear-splitting volume, over and over, just behind me was about more than my ears (and heart) could stand. I'm not prejudiced against Indians at all (the Havasupai prefer "Indian" to "Native American"), but I couldn't get out of my mind the image of the only two white men in the audience, scalped, hog-tied, and twisting over a spit, as the focal point of Miss Havasupai's celebratory circle dance -- just as her way of saying thanks to the judges!
Don and I kept looking at each other as the night wore on (the band was supposed to begin at 9:00 p.m.) -- and about 10:25 p.m. the emcee declared that the judges had made their decision. So, after a few more audience-participation traditional dances, "Little Miss" and "Toddler Miss" and the "Little Brave" were announced... and as the band noisily positioned their instruments and their stacks and stacks of speakers and amplifiers on the center of the stage, Tokea Euquala was announced as the 2009-2010 Miss Havasupai. There were a few claps, but they could barely be heard over the Bob Marley reggae that was now blaring from the loudspeakers. The emcee invited all the "royalties" to come forward for a picture (the runners-up would have to be announced the following night, since they were "almost out of time"!), and as they tried to find room on the stage, among the band members and their equipment, "Brown Eyed Girl" and then some R&B piece akin to "Gitt'n Jiggy With It" blared.
And I thought of Ali. And I thought of all those Miss Teens in their thousand-dollar dresses onstage in Florida... And I thought of Tokea. And as someone killed the stage lighting, to prepare for the band's light show, the outline of the Supai's red cliffs, and a billion trillion sparkling lights became visible. Through the middle of that sky, the Milky Way ran clear as a river of cloud, peering down on them both.
And I thought about Ali. And I thought about Tokea. And I realized that they live under the same starry sky, have the same basic hopes and desires, and are loved by the same infinite God.
Congratulations Ali (who made it into the Top Ten at the Miss America Teen finals), and Tokea.
I'm proud of both of you, and wish you, and your worlds, the very best.
(The first picture is Amy and the boys with her sister and brother-in-law, in front of Supai's only hotel. The second is a traffic jam in Supai -- it was delivery time at the only grocery store. Pictures were not allowed at the pageant, but the grocery store is next door to the "civic center.")
Friday, August 14, 2009
Catching Up...
It's been too many days, but we've been in between trips... unpacking... repacking... catching our breath... heading out again. Since I wrote, we've been to and through the Grand Canyon. What an incredible experience. 22 people on our 30-foot raft... 87 miles down the Colorado River, with some of the most spectacular scenery in the world. Spent two nights on the banks of the river, watching God's handiwork in a starry sky that is not available in any city in America... the Milky Way, flowing broad and clear through a dark Arizona sky... and a rising moon that lit the night almost as if it were day. (And Amy survived both of these nights without a tent!) And the food... well, it was not what John Wesley Powell and his men enjoyed on that first exploration down the river more than 150 years ago. The first night we enjoyed prime rib... the second night we feasted on a brilled halibut that was to die for. Roughing it on the Colorado!
From Phantom Ranch, the National Park Service's signature lodge at the bottom of the mile-deep gorge, we enjoyed a restful afternoon in the Bright Angel Creek and another fabulous meal. After a 5:00 a.m. breakfast, loading-up on eggs and bacon and pancakes (no grits in Arizona!), we hit the trail at 5:30 a.m. determined to make the 9.5-mile trek in time for lunch on the South Rim. We made the first half in record time, but a little queeziness set in for Katie and Sue on the second half, so we backed off our pace (taking Bennett out of the trail-blazing spot helped!) But still came through the tunnel just shy the top of the Bright Angel Trail before 1:00 p.m. And, though the thermometer in the campground registered 131 degrees the afternoon before (OK... so it was only 109 in the shade!), we had a beautiful-weather hike... Indian Gardens (the half-way mark) showed an incredible 81 degrees in the sun (almost brisk for the Canyon!) If you've not been to the Grand Canyon... if you 've not been IN the Grand Canyon (whether a mile or 10), you simply cannot know why it's called "Grand." We're grateful for these days to explore the beauty of this country from the river, and up that Bright Angel fault to the rim.
Amazing.
After reconnecting with our rental van we traveled West to Peach Springs, Arizona, and then down the 8-mile triail, through the Havasupai Canyon, to the "most remote city in the lower 48 states" -- Supai, Arizona. Supai, population 450 (or, 600 if you count the dogs!), is on the Havasupai Indian Reservation, and is one of the most interesting places we've ever seen. The small village is... interesting... the people are... interesting... the scenery, tucked into this canyon (still several miles away from the Colorado River) is... INTERESTING. What incredible views from the Lodge (the only "hotel" in Supai) -- towering red-limestone cliffs that rise hundreds of feet above the floor of the canyon. The hike in was beautiful, after the opening switch-backs, that drop to the canyon floor, the hike is a slow, easy descent into Supai.
We're getting ready to make the 2-mile hike down to Havasu Falls, which has been called one of the most beautiful waterfalls in the country. We'll take a few pictures, and let you know.
And, for the record... between the seven of us, NO lost toe-nails this time! And no need for "Doctor Katie's" toe surgery mid-trip!) Only a few blisters -- what a great trip!
We're planning to take the horses out of the canyon tomorrow morning (in pursuit of our pilgrimage by every means of transportation possible!), and then head for a few days of rest and relaxation in Sedona. We'll be in church at the Cathedral of the Rocks on Sunday, and then will be back in Charlotte on Tuesday.
I'll post more from Sedona, but again... thanks for the time and this opportunity. We wish you could be with us!
r
From Phantom Ranch, the National Park Service's signature lodge at the bottom of the mile-deep gorge, we enjoyed a restful afternoon in the Bright Angel Creek and another fabulous meal. After a 5:00 a.m. breakfast, loading-up on eggs and bacon and pancakes (no grits in Arizona!), we hit the trail at 5:30 a.m. determined to make the 9.5-mile trek in time for lunch on the South Rim. We made the first half in record time, but a little queeziness set in for Katie and Sue on the second half, so we backed off our pace (taking Bennett out of the trail-blazing spot helped!) But still came through the tunnel just shy the top of the Bright Angel Trail before 1:00 p.m. And, though the thermometer in the campground registered 131 degrees the afternoon before (OK... so it was only 109 in the shade!), we had a beautiful-weather hike... Indian Gardens (the half-way mark) showed an incredible 81 degrees in the sun (almost brisk for the Canyon!) If you've not been to the Grand Canyon... if you 've not been IN the Grand Canyon (whether a mile or 10), you simply cannot know why it's called "Grand." We're grateful for these days to explore the beauty of this country from the river, and up that Bright Angel fault to the rim.
Amazing.
After reconnecting with our rental van we traveled West to Peach Springs, Arizona, and then down the 8-mile triail, through the Havasupai Canyon, to the "most remote city in the lower 48 states" -- Supai, Arizona. Supai, population 450 (or, 600 if you count the dogs!), is on the Havasupai Indian Reservation, and is one of the most interesting places we've ever seen. The small village is... interesting... the people are... interesting... the scenery, tucked into this canyon (still several miles away from the Colorado River) is... INTERESTING. What incredible views from the Lodge (the only "hotel" in Supai) -- towering red-limestone cliffs that rise hundreds of feet above the floor of the canyon. The hike in was beautiful, after the opening switch-backs, that drop to the canyon floor, the hike is a slow, easy descent into Supai.
We're getting ready to make the 2-mile hike down to Havasu Falls, which has been called one of the most beautiful waterfalls in the country. We'll take a few pictures, and let you know.
And, for the record... between the seven of us, NO lost toe-nails this time! And no need for "Doctor Katie's" toe surgery mid-trip!) Only a few blisters -- what a great trip!
We're planning to take the horses out of the canyon tomorrow morning (in pursuit of our pilgrimage by every means of transportation possible!), and then head for a few days of rest and relaxation in Sedona. We'll be in church at the Cathedral of the Rocks on Sunday, and then will be back in Charlotte on Tuesday.
I'll post more from Sedona, but again... thanks for the time and this opportunity. We wish you could be with us!
r
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
From Buenos Dias to Welcome to Moes... What an Incredible World
Yesterday morning began early with a beautiful breakfast spread at the Hotel Senator on Madrid's very alive Grand Via (street). "Buenos dias," we offered to the waitress on our way to a buffet of fruits, breads, meats, and cheeses. "Buenos dias," she smiled in return. A few minutes later we were packed into a small Spanish taxi, speeding through the city en route to the aeropuerta. I was doing my best in the front seat to converse in my "fluent Spanish." (The boys and Amy have had their share of laughs -- and they have no idea (nor do I!) how many gaffs I actually made through the week practicing my language skills.) I suppose it was worth the 33 "monies" we spent to get there -- not having to drag our full array of luggage through the underground (which we did several times) -- was probably worth the cost, alone. (Early on we realized that we couldn't keep up with pounds and euros and dollars, and all the relevant exchange rates, so we just started speaking of how many "monies" such and such would cost.) By 10:15 a.m., along with about 300 other passengers, we were at 30,000 feet and heading west at 600 miles an hour.
We had determined during our trip that we would fully emerse ouselves in the culture. Not long for home. Not complain that they don't do it (whatever "it" may be) like we do it back home. And we stayed true to this commitment -- until the last evening. During that, final, 9:30pm dinner we did allow ourselves a little leeway. "I'm looking forward to eating meals when you're SUPPOSED to eat -- not lunch at 3:30 and supper at 10!..." "I'm looking forward to ICE..." "I can't wait to have FREE REFILLS..." "I want to eat tomorrow night at... MOE'S!" So it was set... wake up in Madrid, have supper at Moe's. What an incredible world.
So when we walked in the door and heard that (too) familiar, "Welcome to Moe's!" we knew we were home. Ice. And Refills, to our hearts' content! (We did laugh with the irony that though we were eating supper at the "right" time according to our re-set watches -- according to our body clocks (which woke up 6 hours ahead of Charlotte time) -- we were really still on a Spanish schedule for dinner!)
From eels and nettles to steamed octupus to those little bitty cups of strong-enough-to-walk "coffee," we put our best Spanish foot forward for nine days. But there's no place like home, is there!?
Back in Madrid for one afternoon before our return flight, Amy and I commented that though we could spend another week or so on the Camino trail, we had both had our fill of European cities, and being tourists. As fabulous as was our time in Westminster Abbey and the Eiffel Tower and the Palacio Real, etc... give us 12-hour days covering our 16-or-so miles "a pie" (by foot) ANY DAY. What a trip!
As I type, the boys are at the pool and we're enjoying the comforts of 3126 Eastburn Road. Amy's up to her eye-balls in laundry (and thanking God for clean clothes and washing machines with each load!), and we're enjoying three days before we shove off again. On Saturday we head for Arizona and our third pilgrimage.
I'll post more this week, but wanted to let you that we're home. Safe. Happy. And missing you.
Gracias!
We had determined during our trip that we would fully emerse ouselves in the culture. Not long for home. Not complain that they don't do it (whatever "it" may be) like we do it back home. And we stayed true to this commitment -- until the last evening. During that, final, 9:30pm dinner we did allow ourselves a little leeway. "I'm looking forward to eating meals when you're SUPPOSED to eat -- not lunch at 3:30 and supper at 10!..." "I'm looking forward to ICE..." "I can't wait to have FREE REFILLS..." "I want to eat tomorrow night at... MOE'S!" So it was set... wake up in Madrid, have supper at Moe's. What an incredible world.
So when we walked in the door and heard that (too) familiar, "Welcome to Moe's!" we knew we were home. Ice. And Refills, to our hearts' content! (We did laugh with the irony that though we were eating supper at the "right" time according to our re-set watches -- according to our body clocks (which woke up 6 hours ahead of Charlotte time) -- we were really still on a Spanish schedule for dinner!)
From eels and nettles to steamed octupus to those little bitty cups of strong-enough-to-walk "coffee," we put our best Spanish foot forward for nine days. But there's no place like home, is there!?
Back in Madrid for one afternoon before our return flight, Amy and I commented that though we could spend another week or so on the Camino trail, we had both had our fill of European cities, and being tourists. As fabulous as was our time in Westminster Abbey and the Eiffel Tower and the Palacio Real, etc... give us 12-hour days covering our 16-or-so miles "a pie" (by foot) ANY DAY. What a trip!
As I type, the boys are at the pool and we're enjoying the comforts of 3126 Eastburn Road. Amy's up to her eye-balls in laundry (and thanking God for clean clothes and washing machines with each load!), and we're enjoying three days before we shove off again. On Saturday we head for Arizona and our third pilgrimage.
I'll post more this week, but wanted to let you that we're home. Safe. Happy. And missing you.
Gracias!
Saturday, August 1, 2009
On Arriving in Santiago
At 4:00pm on Saturday afternoon, we named Amy “Lorena.” Camino tradition has it that the first person atop Monte de Gozo (mountain of joy) who spots the long-awaited cathedral in Santiago becomes king, or queen, for the day. The boys were vying for the privilege of becoming “Le Roi” (King Lee Roy!), but Amy spotted the spires among the tall pines across the valley first. Since the Spanish word for queen is “reina,” Lorena seemed the most appropriate designation. After a quick visit to the nearby chapel, and another requested round of both of our two original pilgrimage songs, we again headed West, with Lorena leading the way through the valley and into the city of Santiago.
Our last night was not spent as a traditional pilgrims would have spent their last night along the Camino… but it didn’t bother us one little bit to spend it in the lap of luxury instead of curled up by a fire along a creek or in a densely forested wood! The Paxo do Areana, a few miles off the Camino in Pedrouzo, is a 300 year-old Spanish manor house that is now a county inn, a haven for pilgrims and other Galician travelers. The original stone stables have become a very comfortable suite of rooms for tired pilgrims, and the grounds and gardens are still immaculate. Dinner, three courses served in the main house, was amazing, and we were treated to an unusual, slightly spooky indulgence following the meal.
In the middle ages, when penitents began walking to Santiago to pay homage to the bones of St. James and to seek absolution for their sins, more than Christian mystery and ritual (and a healthy amount of its own superstition) was alive and well in the hills of Galicia. There were spirits and goblins, witches and warlocks running loose. The “queimada” (kay mahdu) was developed as a pagan ritual to cleanse its participants of the curse (or the power to curse) of the evil spirits which ran amuck in the land. A potion of coffee beans, sugar, lemons, and a liquid spirit that might as well have been kerosene, was boiled in a black cauldron and then lit and stirred until the flame died. While it's burning, the fiery brew is lifted high with a ladle and released, over and over, back into the cauldron. As the potion was prepared, a pagan priest/ess read an incantation which, in combination with the consumed potion, was to protect the innocent from the harms of the night. As our hostess prepared the traditional brew (including the traditional kerosene spirit!), Kate, our guide, read the enchantment – the only line of which any of us can remember is the naming, among dozens of other evil spirits, of “the eternal flatulence of everlasting bums” (OK, so that was Kate’s Bri’ ish interpretation, but our Galician host agreed that she had pretty well nailed the original content!) Well… a sip or two of this magical potion was all we could take – but it must have been enough. At 5:45 pm today the Deans of Park Road Baptist Church were standing in the plaza of the spectacular cathedral, and a few minutes later, had collected our official “Compostela,” complete with our Latin names, and authorization of Rome.
Our "compostelas" will make a nice souvenir, an interesting conversation piece – but arriving at the cathedral, though spectacular in its architecture, and collecting our official document, was almost a let-down. I simply cannot put into words this experience… the physical exertion, the camaraderie along the way, the inspiring views, the connection to a thousand-year history (walking in the footsteps of countless thousands of other pilgrims), the family bonding, and the spiritual anticipation… Our prayer had been that we might find “The More” along the way… and “more” hardly scratches the surface.
Daily, we prayed and sang together. Daily, we read letters that many of you had prepared before we left Charlotte. Daily, as we passed the frequent marking stones, engraved with the ubiquitous scallop shell and either a directional marking or a number indicating the diminishing distance in kilometers, we placed a rock on the top, naming a friend or family member, or a family member from Park Road Baptist Church – so many of you, literally, became our prayers of thanksgiving as we walked. And when we arrived in the square in front of the cathedral, upon that final shell, etched in the stone pavement, we placed a rock and named Park Road Baptist Church. So even here, so far from home, you are connecting us to an ancient Christian history… you are woven into this experience of a lifetime… you are helping us to see God…
Daily, we prayed and sang together. Daily, we read letters that many of you had prepared before we left Charlotte. Daily, as we passed the frequent marking stones, engraved with the ubiquitous scallop shell and either a directional marking or a number indicating the diminishing distance in kilometers, we placed a rock on the top, naming a friend or family member, or a family member from Park Road Baptist Church – so many of you, literally, became our prayers of thanksgiving as we walked. And when we arrived in the square in front of the cathedral, upon that final shell, etched in the stone pavement, we placed a rock and named Park Road Baptist Church. So even here, so far from home, you are connecting us to an ancient Christian history… you are woven into this experience of a lifetime… you are helping us to see God…
Even here, you are with us, and even here -- we are grateful.
Russ, Amy, Jackson and Bennett
Friday, July 31, 2009
Day Three (Hump Day!) - Arzua
The Road Hotel (Pension Rua) is just inside the city limits of Arzua, Spain, on the left, at the top of a long, long, long walk across the beautiful green valley just east of town. We approached the valley in awe of the view. Then someone noticed that the peak of the other side was higher than the location from our viewing point. And Kate’s words came back to us from our last stop in Boente: “This last 8 kilometers (5 miles) is down and up and down and up and down and… up.” There was a slight hesitation and a British-tinted accent on that last “up.” And for good reason.
We walked in the front door at 8:30pm – exactly eleven-and-one-half-hours after we set out this morning. A considerable amount of those eleven-and-one-half-hours were spent on our “pies”… putting one foot in front of the other, marching to Santiago. The first three coffee bars were closed, so it was nearly noon before our first stop – and a rather-usual 3:00pm before lunch. That left us with 13.6 of our 27.5 kilometers (17 miles and a little change) to complete after 4:00 p.m. According to Tony and Kate’s pedometer the day took at least 44,974 steps. But who’s counting.
Along the way, a biking pilgrim (that’s bike con pedals, not bike con rumble!) stopped to inquire of Bennett: “Quantos an[y]os tiene?” When I told him our boys were 12 and 10 years old, his eyes widened. “Y quantos kilometers… hoy?” Our noticeably young fellow pilgrims led the way, strengthening their stride as we finally found the Pension Rua: 27.5 kilometers for the day (but were just as glad to see those four beds, lined up like a barracks, as we were!)
We tried to have a coffee in Casanova, in honor of Amy’s Spanish-descended maternal grandfather, Miguel Cassanova, but no one was home.
In Melide, as promised, we dined at the Pulporia. Though the octopus is imported from Morocco, it’s a local favorite, and at the open, street-side window, an employee lifts eight large, purple arms from a steaming barrel and chops it into bite-sized pieces with a pair of scissors, offering samples of the clean, tender, white meat (along with the soft suction cups) to passersby. Covering it generously with olive oil and cayenne, served-up on a wooden plate, it’s ready to be served – and he never slowed his pace throughout our meal. As fast as he could ready a plate, a waitress was there to deliver it, usually along with a bottle of “home brew” white wine, which they serve in white, ceramic bowls.
In the old town of Furelos we viewed the contemporary, life-sized crucifix, depicting a (too graphic) savior, with only one hand nailed to the cross beam, and the other showing a bleeding stigmata, but reaching downward to mediate between earth and heaven. The church attendant was pleased to tell us that though there are three similar crucifixes, this is the only one of its kind – in the world.
So it’s 11:34pm pm as I type, and the boys have just turned in. Because of the customary Spanish siesta, a 10:00pm dinner is not uncommon – even if you’ve walked 48 miles in the last three days and can hardly keep your eyes open till the first course is served.
At this point, we have 40k left to walk… and at this point, a 20k day sounds like a gift from heaven.
Just like today.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Day Two - Portomarin to Palas de Rei
We finished our second day, a 15-miler, at about 8:00 p.m. We are enjoying the days… taking our time… stopping at the local “bars” for a “café con leche” or a coke (not to mention a “ban[y]o”!)… enjoying conversations with our new friends… still inspired by the beautiful countryside…
Today we took a little side trip, by van, to visit a 13th century Greco-Roman Church. It’s old beauty was oddly awe-inspiring. The members of our group had heard a hint of our family singing somewhere along the way, and made a request while at this church. Before we could sing another group had gathered, but our friends insisted, so our guide inquired of the church attendant. When we walked back into this vaulted stone cathedral, to our surprise, the gathering of pilgrims had taken seats, as if preparing for a concert. This was not what we signed up for! But we quietly took our place in the apse, behind the altar, beneath the high dome covered in fading frescos of saints and martyrs, and Bennett began the 10-bar prayer that has become something of an anthem for our trip: “Do not be afraid…” When we finished the last notes, “Peace, be still.” There was complete silence except for the harmonies swirling high overhead. Though our serendipitously-gathered “congregation” were mostly non-English speaking pilgrims, the harmonies communicated, even when the words could not, and to our amazement, there were tears on several faces as we walked quietly out into the world and back onto the Camino for our final 5 kilometers.
There is a surprising expectancy to the spiritual aspect of this walk – which is, undoubtedly, why the path to Santiago has now been worn by countless thousands of pilgrims, Christian and otherwise, spiritual and those who begin the pilgrimage as non-spiritual pilgrims (I don’t know that anyone finishes it with no spiritual insights gleaned). We’re not seeking absolution. Not offering penance. We have no need to pay homage to St. James… but there is something more than a 62 mile walk across a beautiful countryside that is attracting us to that cathedral. Something more.
Something more.
Which is, after all, what we came in search of.
Day One - Sarria to Portomarin
It’s hard to imaging looking forward to anything for two years and the event living up to the kind of expectation that comes along with that. And it’s hard to imagine how much we underestimated our expectations for walking El Camino de Santiago.
I simply cannot tell you what I feel. For two years we’ve wondered about the weather… today could not have been any more pleasant – early morning “mist,” burning off into a beautiful 75- degree, humidity-free afternoon, warm at times, but mostly clear, blue skies and shady, near-perfect walking conditions. For two years we’ve wondered about the company on the trail… Andrea, Tony and Katie, and Kate (our guide), have quickly meshed as a very comfortable group, entertaining good conversation and lots of natural, good-hearted laughter, on the trail and at meals together. For two years we’ve wondered about “Spanish Steps,” the company who is guiding our trip… Kate could not be any more accommodating, helpful, and pleasant, and our guided journey is first class, all the way around. For two years, we’ve wondered about the Camino… and today exceeded our expectations – beyond measure. (You can have Paris – give me 16 miles on the Camino, any day!)
1,000 years ago pilgrims began walking to the cathedral in Santiago, de Compostella, Spain, to pay homage to the bones of St. James, which had purportedly been discovered there. Eventually the Pope named Santiago one of three pilgrim destinations (Rome and Jerusalem) worthy of full absolution. Though there are actually several routes, the path we have chosen is apparently the best known and most well-marked. Along this 1,000 years a trail has been carved through the landscape. The kilometers we walked today (nearly 16 miles), took us along paved and dirt roads, up rocky routes amidst cows and corn, along winding quiet streams, through narrow tree lined lanes, and parallel to miles and miles of moss-covered, stacked-stone walls which have bordered pastures and property lines for centuries – and at every turn, literally, following painted yellow arrows, and stone markers embossed with the scallop shell, and enumerating the dwindling distance to Santiago. At every ½ kilometer marker of our nine-hour walk, we joined countless other pilgrims by placing a single stone atop the stone, naming one of you, for whom we are thankful.
In one community we entered the Romanesque church with the other members of our group and sang and prayed our morning prayers. Two or three times along the way we stopped at the local “bar” (café) for a coffee or a snack, and for the “sello” (stamp) in our Compestella Passapuerta (without two stamps a day, proving the legitimacy of the walk – at least 100 kilometers – pilgrims are not eligible to receive “The Compestella” in Santiago. In Fereirro we ate lunch at the Café/Bar Crucieros (“Bar of the Cross”!) My “squid pings” (calamari) and olives stuffed with anchovies were even better than last night’s eel and algae!
The views were spectacular. The fellowship along the route was inspiring – with our group and the dozens and dozens of other pilgrims with whom we exchanged “Buen Camino”s as we passed. The anticipation of our destination, even after only one day of walking, is virtually tangible. (The marking stone at Portomarin, from where I’m typing this, reads “89.5 km” [to Santiago].) Tomorrow holds another 20+ kilometers, and another day to exceed expectations. I have no doubt.
We share your notes, prayers, poems, and well-wishes every day, and in so many ways, they are keeping us going.
We’re glad to be walking with you.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Buen Camino!
The beautiful Rio Min[y]o flows through the Spanish town of Sarria, fast and clear. From the little bridge that crosses at the Rua Malecon, the fish are thick as thieves, and look like Appalachian brook and rainbow trout – though the river is famous for its eels. We settled down with our new group of friends at one of several restaurants along the Malecon plaza, overlooking a little section of rapids in the Min[y]o river. When I found a dish of scrambled eggs with nettles and eels, I’m thinking, “Who could pass that up!?” Kate, our new Spanish speaking guide with a north England accent (she’s from Lancaster) had just asked in our orientation if we “had nettles where we come from.” On our recent hike to Chimney Rock I had pointed out stinging nettle to the boys, so I clarified the Spanish brand: “Stinging nettle?” “Yes,” she said. “Watch out for it… though they actually eat it around here!”
So as Amy and the boys shared two plates, steak and pork loin (we had originally been told it was “tail of pig”), Andrea, our Canadian/Qatarian fellow traveler, enjoyed a brothy cabbage soup, Tony and Kate, our blind companion and his wife, who hale from near Manchester England(!), tried out the baked hake (a filleted white fish), and Kate, our vegetarian guide, filled herself on a plate of hot, green peppers… I worked my way through a dish that looked for all the world like scrambled eggs in spaghetti noodles, with a good measure of blue-green, sautéed algae thrown in. Though I have no regrets in my order (I would honestly say the dish was good), I confessed to Amy back at the hotel that the faintest hint of a gag reflex slowly crept up my esophagus throughout the meal. Though it’s against my personal culinary ethic, I had to leave two, maybe three bites of little baby eels undigested!
And so we begin – as benignly-eventful as I had hoped. The six-hour bus ride out of Madrid was the closest thing to airline-quality First Class we’ve ever enjoyed, and when we arrived in Lugo, at least a dozen obvious pilgrims filled the station. We followed three of these travelers (from Milan, Italy) to the ticket window, and 45 minutes later were following them, and their broken Italian-Spanish (which is one “pescado grande”-of-a-lot better than my Spanglish), through the streets of Sarria, in search of the Alphonso IX hotel. (Which, by the way, is probably the nicest digs we’ve had in all of Europe.)
More on our Camino campan[y]eros later, but we like them all so much, at this point, and have a premonition of good things to come regarding our rapport on the trail and off. What a nice bonus this will be if it comes to fruition.
Several hours ago, on the bus from Lugo to Sarria, as we passed (with way too much speed, I might add, for our comfort!) through the beautiful rolling hills of Galithia (the province/“state” which looks something like the Shenandoah Valley and contains much of the Camino), I said to my three closest companions, “This is my best day in Europe, so far – hands down!” After our night with these new friends, I’m even more convinced.
We will begin our travels, “a pie” (“by foot,” not by pie) tomorrow at 8:30 a.m. And as we prepare to embark, we’ll be thinking of you, and wishing you, too, on whatever road you may be “traveling,” a “Buen Camino!”
So as Amy and the boys shared two plates, steak and pork loin (we had originally been told it was “tail of pig”), Andrea, our Canadian/Qatarian fellow traveler, enjoyed a brothy cabbage soup, Tony and Kate, our blind companion and his wife, who hale from near Manchester England(!), tried out the baked hake (a filleted white fish), and Kate, our vegetarian guide, filled herself on a plate of hot, green peppers… I worked my way through a dish that looked for all the world like scrambled eggs in spaghetti noodles, with a good measure of blue-green, sautéed algae thrown in. Though I have no regrets in my order (I would honestly say the dish was good), I confessed to Amy back at the hotel that the faintest hint of a gag reflex slowly crept up my esophagus throughout the meal. Though it’s against my personal culinary ethic, I had to leave two, maybe three bites of little baby eels undigested!
And so we begin – as benignly-eventful as I had hoped. The six-hour bus ride out of Madrid was the closest thing to airline-quality First Class we’ve ever enjoyed, and when we arrived in Lugo, at least a dozen obvious pilgrims filled the station. We followed three of these travelers (from Milan, Italy) to the ticket window, and 45 minutes later were following them, and their broken Italian-Spanish (which is one “pescado grande”-of-a-lot better than my Spanglish), through the streets of Sarria, in search of the Alphonso IX hotel. (Which, by the way, is probably the nicest digs we’ve had in all of Europe.)
More on our Camino campan[y]eros later, but we like them all so much, at this point, and have a premonition of good things to come regarding our rapport on the trail and off. What a nice bonus this will be if it comes to fruition.
Several hours ago, on the bus from Lugo to Sarria, as we passed (with way too much speed, I might add, for our comfort!) through the beautiful rolling hills of Galithia (the province/“state” which looks something like the Shenandoah Valley and contains much of the Camino), I said to my three closest companions, “This is my best day in Europe, so far – hands down!” After our night with these new friends, I’m even more convinced.
We will begin our travels, “a pie” (“by foot,” not by pie) tomorrow at 8:30 a.m. And as we prepare to embark, we’ll be thinking of you, and wishing you, too, on whatever road you may be “traveling,” a “Buen Camino!”
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Two Quick Posts Before El Camino
1) I Just Never Thought to Pray
It's not as if I'm a world traveler -- hardly is that the case, but over the years, I've seen a few Cathedrals in my wanderings. With every visit I've been amazed at the architectural grandeur, awed by the depth of history (did I say they've had an evening prayer service at St. Paul's in London every night for 1,400 years... talk about being connected to something larger than yourself), and moved by the mysterious power that something as mundane as stone and glass can glimpse... I've gawked and staggered and groped for words and felt the inspiration of the Christian story in these places...
I just never thought to pray.
I mean pray, beyond the gawking and staggering and groping and being inspired (which I believe are kinds of prayers in themselves). But in this summer's visits: Washington's National Cathedral, and London's St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey and Bloomsbury Central Baptist, and Notre Dame and Sacre Couer of Paris, and Madrid's Cathedral of Our Sister de la Almudena, all became places of prayer for our family. Specific, stop, and sit, and talk (about who or what), and kneel and sing and meditate, places of prayer.
Today, in Madrid's very Catholic cathedral, we prayed for our hopes and expectations for a pilgrimage that will only begin, in earnest, tomorrow: safety... a good time... endurance, strength, patience... that we may experience God with all of our senses... Prayers offered, simply, quickly, quietly... it's amazing what that kind of experience can do to a cathedral.
An intentional, thoughtful moment. All the difference.
Maybe you can find yours, in some "cathedral" today.
May it be so.
2) It Only Starts Tomorrow
The last week has been too wonderful. Before we left, I was prodding the boys a bit, trying to get them ready for our adventure, and at lunch one day I said, "Hey guys... let's do something really wild this summer... let's go to... London! And, maybe while we're there, we should go down to Paris, too -- we may miss the Tour de France, but I hear there are a few other things to see, too! And, maybe we could take in Madrid, Spain. And, hey... what would it be like to... like... walk across Spain!? And... while we're dreaming... well, why don't we just get someone else to pay for all of this!? OK? Who's in!?"
Who could have dreamed anything wilder than what we've just experienced as a family. All I can keep saying is... amazing... and thanks, to all who've made it possible.
But it really only starts tomorrow. The real thing. The reason we're here. So tonight, as we prayed together, we talked about how tomorrow's "touring" would be different from the kind we've done for the last 9 days. No museums -- unless you call the towns of Spain a museum of life... no exciting travel -- unless you call 62 miles of walking in the heat exciting... no crowds, pushing and shoving -- maybe the four of us, and God, will be crowd enough. It's called "pilgrimage." And it starts tomorrow.
The clock is set for 5:30 a.m. Some of you will just be turning off the late night news and tucking in when we set out for the Metro station... one transfer, and we'll arrive at the city's south-side Autobus Station. From there, we're in for a 6-hour ride up to Lugo. And then all the fun is to begin. We have no tickets, you see -- and our travel agent (who couldn't make reservations) encouraged us to brush up on our Spanish, as we'll be completely on our own to get from Lugo to Sarria, to meet our "Spanish Steps" guide, and our three fellow Pilgrims.
Pray for us. We may need it after arriving in Lugo at 1:30p.m.!
From there, I have no idea how much internet service I'll have, but I'll do my best to post a short clip each day, and maybe a picture.
It starts tomorrow. And after almost two years of talking about it. We can hardly wait.
It's not as if I'm a world traveler -- hardly is that the case, but over the years, I've seen a few Cathedrals in my wanderings. With every visit I've been amazed at the architectural grandeur, awed by the depth of history (did I say they've had an evening prayer service at St. Paul's in London every night for 1,400 years... talk about being connected to something larger than yourself), and moved by the mysterious power that something as mundane as stone and glass can glimpse... I've gawked and staggered and groped for words and felt the inspiration of the Christian story in these places...
I just never thought to pray.
I mean pray, beyond the gawking and staggering and groping and being inspired (which I believe are kinds of prayers in themselves). But in this summer's visits: Washington's National Cathedral, and London's St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey and Bloomsbury Central Baptist, and Notre Dame and Sacre Couer of Paris, and Madrid's Cathedral of Our Sister de la Almudena, all became places of prayer for our family. Specific, stop, and sit, and talk (about who or what), and kneel and sing and meditate, places of prayer.
Today, in Madrid's very Catholic cathedral, we prayed for our hopes and expectations for a pilgrimage that will only begin, in earnest, tomorrow: safety... a good time... endurance, strength, patience... that we may experience God with all of our senses... Prayers offered, simply, quickly, quietly... it's amazing what that kind of experience can do to a cathedral.
An intentional, thoughtful moment. All the difference.
Maybe you can find yours, in some "cathedral" today.
May it be so.
2) It Only Starts Tomorrow
The last week has been too wonderful. Before we left, I was prodding the boys a bit, trying to get them ready for our adventure, and at lunch one day I said, "Hey guys... let's do something really wild this summer... let's go to... London! And, maybe while we're there, we should go down to Paris, too -- we may miss the Tour de France, but I hear there are a few other things to see, too! And, maybe we could take in Madrid, Spain. And, hey... what would it be like to... like... walk across Spain!? And... while we're dreaming... well, why don't we just get someone else to pay for all of this!? OK? Who's in!?"
Who could have dreamed anything wilder than what we've just experienced as a family. All I can keep saying is... amazing... and thanks, to all who've made it possible.
But it really only starts tomorrow. The real thing. The reason we're here. So tonight, as we prayed together, we talked about how tomorrow's "touring" would be different from the kind we've done for the last 9 days. No museums -- unless you call the towns of Spain a museum of life... no exciting travel -- unless you call 62 miles of walking in the heat exciting... no crowds, pushing and shoving -- maybe the four of us, and God, will be crowd enough. It's called "pilgrimage." And it starts tomorrow.
The clock is set for 5:30 a.m. Some of you will just be turning off the late night news and tucking in when we set out for the Metro station... one transfer, and we'll arrive at the city's south-side Autobus Station. From there, we're in for a 6-hour ride up to Lugo. And then all the fun is to begin. We have no tickets, you see -- and our travel agent (who couldn't make reservations) encouraged us to brush up on our Spanish, as we'll be completely on our own to get from Lugo to Sarria, to meet our "Spanish Steps" guide, and our three fellow Pilgrims.
Pray for us. We may need it after arriving in Lugo at 1:30p.m.!
From there, I have no idea how much internet service I'll have, but I'll do my best to post a short clip each day, and maybe a picture.
It starts tomorrow. And after almost two years of talking about it. We can hardly wait.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
The Perfect Day in Paris (July 24)
I think we had it today...
Got to Notre Dame at 9:30 a.m. We had toured the church already, but wanted to climb the bellfry, so we got there before it opened. Still waited in line 90 minutes, but the views and the gargoyles were worth it!
While standing in line we ate breakfast (crepes with... strawberry, apricot, and chocolate [yes, for breakfast!]), and when we finished, it was time to eat again. "Remember yesterday." So we headed to the Cite Metro station for tickets and a subway ride. After having been really overwhelmed by the friendliness of the French on our last trip (everyone asked: Do the French hate the Americans?), we have, unfortunately, found the stereotype, in the flesh, on more than one occasion this trip! The woman at the information booth would hardly even look at us to help us with the automatic "Vente" machine to buy our billettes. It helped a little bit to see her be just as inconsiderate and rude to a French family who walked up as we were walking away in disgust. Anyway... with the help of other folks in line (none French), however, we managed to get the tickets we needed, and about a half our later were at Montmartre, the artsy community on the hill, north of the main tourist part of town. (This is the home of the famous Moulin Rouge -- they boys and I wanted tickets for the show, but couldn't convince mama!)
Sacre Couer (sacred heart) is a beautiful stone cathedral overlooking Paris, that we had seen only from the outside three years ago. As we entered, an attendant "shhhshed" the crowd just ahead of us, made the women cover their bare shoulders, and required the tennage boy to remove his ball cap. The quiet sanctity we found in the heart of this very Catholic church was renewing. We explained to the boys, as well as two protestant pastors could, why the woman had brought a dozen red roses to the statue of Mary along the ambulatory, and what all the lit candles were for -- just before we spent a few moments of prayer thinking of/thanking God you (and not in the name of the Blessed Virgin!)
After these holy moments, we found our way to the square that makes Montmartre a favorite for tourists, and though it's a bit overdone, it's still a wonderful visit. Artists are packed in to the square, offering their wares, oil and watercolors of Parisian scenes, and portrait artists, busily at work, in pencil and chalk and brushes of various media. Amy had wanted the boys portraits, but, they were a bit pricey on the square (not expensive, but "pricey," for the poor/cheap at heart!) So, after an excursion to find a public "twallette," we ran across Njegos (go figure the pronounciation -- I can't say it even after he introduced himself!), selling his artisic services in front of a little cafe, a block from the square. "Guaranteed. You don't like. Don't buy." So Jackson sat first. Fascinating it is to see a portrait artist at work, and to behold your son's face -- and more -- emerge. With one faint line, a pensive mood is revealed... when Bennett sat, a nuanced curve of the lip captured mischief in the making. In the midst of the sitting, a Parisian downpour. "Don't worry," Njegos assured, "This is Paris. We wait. It will clear." So we waited... under the cafe awning. "I am not in good relationship with the owner, " he said. So, when the rain slackened he suggested we purchase a drink so he would finish his work there. So, the boys enjoyed a $6.00 glass of coke (with no "free refills" -- anywhere in Europe!), and the pencil rendering, just as Njegos promised, looks "just like them."
Taking the train back to the heart of the city, we arrived at Charles de Gaulle Etoille, and emerged from the subway to an incredible view of the Arc de Triomphe. We viewed the spectacular arch, but passed up the tour to the top, in favor of dinner on the Champs Elyesees. 
Though the boys seemed a bit beyond one more interesting fact, when we sat down under the streetside tent of George V restaurant, we reminded them that they were now dining on one of the most famous streets in the world. (Yea. We want spaghetti!)
Though the boys seemed a bit beyond one more interesting fact, when we sat down under the streetside tent of George V restaurant, we reminded them that they were now dining on one of the most famous streets in the world. (Yea. We want spaghetti!)Following the meal, we walked the famous avenue all the way to the Tuilleries gardens, outside the Louvre, and finished our day with a visit to the city carnival that was set up parallel to the street. (The city is in the midst of planning for its largest annual incursion of visitors -- as the Tour de France bike race concludes here tomorrow!) So after an icecream, the boys and I rode the swings, and the four of us finished the night riding the huge farris wheel we had been seeing from views all around town. It was an appropriate end to a wonderful day.
You don't have to come to Paris for this -- we've had these moments on occasion at home -- but enjoying one another as we did yesterday and, for me, watching Amy and the boys laugh and play together in a day of exploration and discovery... well, this is what life is about.
And I'm grateful to all who have made this possible.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Mama... when are we going to EAT!? (July 23)
Only two things on the agenda today: Versailles and the Eiffel Tower. Easy enough.
Let's get up early (which we didn't -- because I was blogging until about 1:00a.m. [as I'm doing again right now!])... go to the RER station, get a train ticket to Versailles, and eat breakfast in Versailles. Great idea...
All went according to plan until the RER station. "I'm hungry..." We bought a muffin a piece and shared two orange juices. Who would know this would be our last meal until 10:30p.m.?
If you've not seen Versailles, there are simply no words to describe it to you. (The 800 pictures the boys took today would be a start, but even these would fail to do it justice!) Amazing, the scale, the scope, the architecture, the investment of time and money... 40,000 workers spent 50 years building the place.
Also amazing, the thoughtlessness of such an opulent waste -- when the people were going hungry. (As Louis and Marie-Antoinette found out later... as it cost them both their lives.) Most fun we had was on the Grand Canal. Too bad Jackson couldn't row any faster -- would be a PERFECT place for a good slalom or barefooting run -- but the rowing expedition was great. I'm sure just what King Louis intended.
Also amazing, the thoughtlessness of such an opulent waste -- when the people were going hungry. (As Louis and Marie-Antoinette found out later... as it cost them both their lives.) Most fun we had was on the Grand Canal. Too bad Jackson couldn't row any faster -- would be a PERFECT place for a good slalom or barefooting run -- but the rowing expedition was great. I'm sure just what King Louis intended.Several times we thought of eating, but we were never near a cafe... of the one we were near wasn't right (wrong food or wrong price, etc...). So, we snacked. We had to pay weight-overage to bring all the food Amy brought, to keep her boys fed! We'll eat... at the next cafe. Snack... wait... pass up the cafe... snack... look for another one... etc...
In the town of Versailles, we stopped for dinner, but of course the Europeans don't eat supper at 5:30 p.m. (literally couldn't find a restaurant open -- but after having walked about 10 miles at Versailles, we weren't looking too far!) We'll eat dinner at the Eiffel Tower, maybe in that restaurant in the tower. Great plan.
Arrive at the tower... lines are shorter than usual... better take advantage... only an hour in line, and we're on level two... looks like the rain is coming... let's go on to the top... we'll eat later... another snack...
Amazing thing at the top of the tower. Clear when we arrive...within 15minutes we can see what appears to be a big storm coming... watch the rain cross the city of Paris and very quickly the top of the tower is shrowded in a cloud (can't even see the bottom)... so we head down... time to eat... we chose to walk the stairs rather than wait in line (need to eat)... but at the second level the food was 1) too fast-food-ish or 2) too expensive... After a snack, we head down, walking again, to the street. We'll stop at the first restaurant we pass. (By this time the weather has cleared, and there is the most brilliant rainbow that any of us have ever seen... more time... more pictures... supper still on the way...)
Down the street there's a restaurant... Amy and Imiscommunicate. She thinks I think it's too expensive. I think she thinks the food isn't right for the boys. We'll stop at the next one. No matter what. Forty-five minutes and another mile down the road (walking, of course), and now we're told the restaurants are closed -- unless you want to drink. (Which actually sounded like a pretty good idea.) "One restaurant is open... 200 meters down this boulevard... but you must hurry..."
At 10:30 p.m., still light outside, we arrived at a restaurant on Rue Solferino, not far from the Musee D'Orsay, and our little (LITTLE) hotel... First actual meal of the day. OK... so it cost $137 USD -- Bennett said it was WELL worth it.
Don't tell our parents. Don't call DSS. We were all having too much fun. But tomorrow, we're looking for three square meals. Around the time they are supposed to be eaten.
Now, it's 1:00 a.m., and we're headed back to the belfry of Notre Dame early in the morning, so I better stop...
It'll be time for breakfast before you know it!
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Too Much... Too Late (July 22)
... to write much. Another wonderful, full day:
Notre Dame Cathedral (amazing history and architecture, but note skepticism about the actual crown of thorns worn by Jesus, a piece of "the actual cross of his agony," and one of the three actual nails used in his crucifixion, held in the church's treasury... Oh, ye of little faith!)
Musee du Louvre (incredible museum... at 3 seconds per artifact, would take 3 months to see everything. We did not see everything, but were very impressed with the Code of Hammurabi, and very unimpressed with the Mona Lisa. "What's the big deal. Just a picture of a woman..." -- 
But that didn't stop us from taking about 20 pictures. Glad to share.) And the immodesty... just HAS to stop!
But that didn't stop us from taking about 20 pictures. Glad to share.) And the immodesty... just HAS to stop!River Cruise on Seine (from Notre Dame to the Eiffel Tower and back... just before the rains came)
Dinner at La Petit Flore (nice little Parisian restaurant along the Rue Croix de Petit Champs a block over from the Louvre... interesting to actually know our way around this part of Paris well enough to return home sans map... Lighted Pyramid at entrance to the Louvre was a highlight of the day as we returned... and the rains came down!)
More tomorrow... Headed to Versailles and back for an evening at Tour Eiffel...
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Just Too Much to Say (another July 21)
Monday (still typing from the train, still somewhere west of Paris)…
We ate a breakfast of leftovers (stretching our fifteen-pound purchase into three days!) before taking the Tube to the Tower Bridge. As is our habit, we spent more time than expected, loving every minute of every view, and every information plaque posted up and down the 198 stairs, and all along the East and West foot-bridges connecting the two towers and spanning the River Thames. Tearing ourselves away we enjoyed one, token, “Fish and Chips” on the plaza outside the Tower of London. Once inside its walls, the Tower became our home for the next three hours, as we completed three of the five audio tours available. The high-point for most folks was the source of curiosity for the Dean boys… all those Crown Jewels. And for what!? Just to be worn (only) when there’s a new king or queen? (If Bennett were king, he would hold a wooden baseball bat signed by Hank Aaron, instead. Just in case you were wondering.) And all that history. Amazing… “800 years ago, guys… Someone stood right here and laid these stones, mortaring them in place… right here… 800 years ago…” (Maybe he was, like, your Great-plus 19-more-greats-Grandfather!)
Too late (read above!) for a tour at St. Paul’s (amazing) Cathedral, we did make it in time for Even Song (a “said” service, since the choir is off in the summer). This brief Anglican service of scripture and prayer was a meaningful experience for the religious pilgrims in the crowd, even if we did pray for God to “save the Queen.” (Yes, and all the paupers, too.)
Since we prayed for her, we thought we should pay a visit to “Buckerhand Palace” (you can thank “B” for this fun naming!). The flag told us that she was home, but, unaware we were standing out front, we didn’t get an invite for dinner, so we moved back to the Thames and had an amazing meal on the R.S. Hispaniola, a floating restaurant “with a Mediterranean flare” just across from “Big Ben” and the London Eye.
No trip is complete, if you’ve read all the Harry Potter books at least once, without a stop by the 9 ¾ Platform at King’s Cross station, so we located the gate to Hogwarts and took a few pics before another later-than-we-had-planned arrival at 300 City Road, and a bed that could hardly have felt any better, anywhere.
Today’s lesson was from the faces and the sounds of the world’s people who call London, England their home. Speaking of amazing… from everywhere... Every shade... Every shape (except over-weight!)... And every sound. Amazing. All these people. Doing their thing. Living. Learning. Loving. Just like me… and not at all like me. World views hardly recognizable to the boy who grew up a Baptist preacher’s son from Clinton, SC, “their” world, is a different world. Their God, a different God.
And yet, as I now believe, it’s the same world -- regardless your “view.” And the same God.
May our World, and our God, be enough – for all of us!
We ate a breakfast of leftovers (stretching our fifteen-pound purchase into three days!) before taking the Tube to the Tower Bridge. As is our habit, we spent more time than expected, loving every minute of every view, and every information plaque posted up and down the 198 stairs, and all along the East and West foot-bridges connecting the two towers and spanning the River Thames. Tearing ourselves away we enjoyed one, token, “Fish and Chips” on the plaza outside the Tower of London. Once inside its walls, the Tower became our home for the next three hours, as we completed three of the five audio tours available. The high-point for most folks was the source of curiosity for the Dean boys… all those Crown Jewels. And for what!? Just to be worn (only) when there’s a new king or queen? (If Bennett were king, he would hold a wooden baseball bat signed by Hank Aaron, instead. Just in case you were wondering.) And all that history. Amazing… “800 years ago, guys… Someone stood right here and laid these stones, mortaring them in place… right here… 800 years ago…” (Maybe he was, like, your Great-plus 19-more-greats-Grandfather!)
Too late (read above!) for a tour at St. Paul’s (amazing) Cathedral, we did make it in time for Even Song (a “said” service, since the choir is off in the summer). This brief Anglican service of scripture and prayer was a meaningful experience for the religious pilgrims in the crowd, even if we did pray for God to “save the Queen.” (Yes, and all the paupers, too.)
Since we prayed for her, we thought we should pay a visit to “Buckerhand Palace” (you can thank “B” for this fun naming!). The flag told us that she was home, but, unaware we were standing out front, we didn’t get an invite for dinner, so we moved back to the Thames and had an amazing meal on the R.S. Hispaniola, a floating restaurant “with a Mediterranean flare” just across from “Big Ben” and the London Eye.No trip is complete, if you’ve read all the Harry Potter books at least once, without a stop by the 9 ¾ Platform at King’s Cross station, so we located the gate to Hogwarts and took a few pics before another later-than-we-had-planned arrival at 300 City Road, and a bed that could hardly have felt any better, anywhere.
Today’s lesson was from the faces and the sounds of the world’s people who call London, England their home. Speaking of amazing… from everywhere... Every shade... Every shape (except over-weight!)... And every sound. Amazing. All these people. Doing their thing. Living. Learning. Loving. Just like me… and not at all like me. World views hardly recognizable to the boy who grew up a Baptist preacher’s son from Clinton, SC, “their” world, is a different world. Their God, a different God.
And yet, as I now believe, it’s the same world -- regardless your “view.” And the same God.
May our World, and our God, be enough – for all of us!
Can't Seem to Get Out of Church! (July 21)
So it happened again -- We're in church for half the day!
That this church happened to be built a thousand years ago is beside the point. It was church. And it had much of the same effect it always should. Awe... mystery... gratitude... remembrance...
Since our pack-a-day mentality had left us with travel-to-France day (but we still haven't toured Westminster Abbey yet!), we left our short-term apartment this morning, early, and bolted for the Angel Station. From there we traveled to "Bank," noting all the coats, ties, and brief cases (is there a BoA in London!?), and transferred lines, winding up at the Westminster Station at 9:15 a.m. We waited 15 minutes in a drizzling rain and were among the first guests in the Abbey -- but it was elbow-to-elbow by the time we had our individual audio guides tuned for exploring.
There's that beautiful altar screen, gilded and ornate... the intricately carved choir ("quire") stall... Edward the Confessor's tomb -- and Mary's and Elizabeth's and about a thousand people we'd never heard of before -- before Oliver Cromwell's little niche in the floor (at every opportunity, I'm trying to put all the pieces of pilgrimage together for the boys: "Cromwell's rule [mid 1600s] was related to the Puritan dissatisfaction with The Church of England that also led to the Separatists and the Baptists and the Pilgrims (remember them, guys, from a few weeks ago in Plymouth -- "Plymouth Rock 1620"?..." [I know it's too much, but they humor me anyway!]) And then "Poet's Corner," with Chaucer and Tennyson and Hopkins and Shakespeare... and the museum, with the patient English guide who clarified all 27 of Amy's questions about who will succeed Queen Elizabeth if she ever dies and why ("...and will Camilla be 'Queen Bowles,' etc... etc... etc... etc...)... and back in the nave, there's Sir Isaac Newton and Charles Darwin -- what a likely pair -- there on the lefthand side... and Amy (hear this, people, Amy, not me this time!) lecturing the boys on Creationism and Evolution, Darwin and the Church... because at this point, I'm trying to GET OUT OF THERE!
All you need to know is that we made it. Back to Bank. Back to Angel. Back to the apartment. Back to Angel, again. Over to St. Pancras International. Onto the train. And into Paris.
But before we leave London, my favorite moment, maybe on the trip, so far.
Just beyond Poet's Corner, before Handel's tomb, is a small wooden door labeled "St. Faith's Chapel." The sign in front indicates that the room is used for quiet prayer, but the obvious lack of tourist attention tells us, perhaps not now. I inquir of a guide, though, and he gladly opens this beautiful chapel just for the 4 of us. Pausing there, where God's people have prayed for nearly a millenium, we did, too... Naming a few of our Park Road friends who are dealing with special issues this summer (and Bennett's Sunday School friends... and, yes, "Miss Wendy"), we paused for a moment of silence. And then "B" started: "Do not be afraid," and the quartet followed: "Peace Be Still!" It's just a simple little refrain I wrote, with tight harmonies for this trip, but when we ended, "Peace, Deep Peace, Be Still (Amy: Do Not Be Afraid!)," the almost perfect intonation of a G Major chord resonated in those stones... as if it had been lingering there for a thousand years. Just like it was supposed to sound.
And for a moment. As long as it took that sound to decay into those living stones. All things were right with the world. And the Deans were at peace.
If you have to travel all the way to Westminster for just such a moment -- whatever the cost -- don't pass up that potential. Such moments can hold us for a very, very long time.
Peace. Be. Still.
That this church happened to be built a thousand years ago is beside the point. It was church. And it had much of the same effect it always should. Awe... mystery... gratitude... remembrance...
Since our pack-a-day mentality had left us with travel-to-France day (but we still haven't toured Westminster Abbey yet!), we left our short-term apartment this morning, early, and bolted for the Angel Station. From there we traveled to "Bank," noting all the coats, ties, and brief cases (is there a BoA in London!?), and transferred lines, winding up at the Westminster Station at 9:15 a.m. We waited 15 minutes in a drizzling rain and were among the first guests in the Abbey -- but it was elbow-to-elbow by the time we had our individual audio guides tuned for exploring.
There's that beautiful altar screen, gilded and ornate... the intricately carved choir ("quire") stall... Edward the Confessor's tomb -- and Mary's and Elizabeth's and about a thousand people we'd never heard of before -- before Oliver Cromwell's little niche in the floor (at every opportunity, I'm trying to put all the pieces of pilgrimage together for the boys: "Cromwell's rule [mid 1600s] was related to the Puritan dissatisfaction with The Church of England that also led to the Separatists and the Baptists and the Pilgrims (remember them, guys, from a few weeks ago in Plymouth -- "Plymouth Rock 1620"?..." [I know it's too much, but they humor me anyway!]) And then "Poet's Corner," with Chaucer and Tennyson and Hopkins and Shakespeare... and the museum, with the patient English guide who clarified all 27 of Amy's questions about who will succeed Queen Elizabeth if she ever dies and why ("...and will Camilla be 'Queen Bowles,' etc... etc... etc... etc...)... and back in the nave, there's Sir Isaac Newton and Charles Darwin -- what a likely pair -- there on the lefthand side... and Amy (hear this, people, Amy, not me this time!) lecturing the boys on Creationism and Evolution, Darwin and the Church... because at this point, I'm trying to GET OUT OF THERE!
All you need to know is that we made it. Back to Bank. Back to Angel. Back to the apartment. Back to Angel, again. Over to St. Pancras International. Onto the train. And into Paris.
But before we leave London, my favorite moment, maybe on the trip, so far.
Just beyond Poet's Corner, before Handel's tomb, is a small wooden door labeled "St. Faith's Chapel." The sign in front indicates that the room is used for quiet prayer, but the obvious lack of tourist attention tells us, perhaps not now. I inquir of a guide, though, and he gladly opens this beautiful chapel just for the 4 of us. Pausing there, where God's people have prayed for nearly a millenium, we did, too... Naming a few of our Park Road friends who are dealing with special issues this summer (and Bennett's Sunday School friends... and, yes, "Miss Wendy"), we paused for a moment of silence. And then "B" started: "Do not be afraid," and the quartet followed: "Peace Be Still!" It's just a simple little refrain I wrote, with tight harmonies for this trip, but when we ended, "Peace, Deep Peace, Be Still (Amy: Do Not Be Afraid!)," the almost perfect intonation of a G Major chord resonated in those stones... as if it had been lingering there for a thousand years. Just like it was supposed to sound.
And for a moment. As long as it took that sound to decay into those living stones. All things were right with the world. And the Deans were at peace.
If you have to travel all the way to Westminster for just such a moment -- whatever the cost -- don't pass up that potential. Such moments can hold us for a very, very long time.
Peace. Be. Still.
The Witness of the Church (July 20)
Now that we have internet service, I'll add some pictures soon, but just catching up on old blogs...
(I’m typing onboard a train, that appears to be going well over 100 mph, and we’re somewhere along the countryside of England – or maybe we’re under the English Channel by now [the windows are completely dark]… When we arrive in Paris, one of my first missions is to get the whizbang computer guy at the hotel to make the doomaflotchy and the gadget talk, so I can post all this stuff. So, if you’re reading this, know that I found the computer doc… or you’re witnessing a cyber-miracle of the most impressive sorts.)
Here are my notes, filled in, from Sunday’s touring…
We did something today that few tourists do… we spent three=and-a-half hours at church. (And we’re supposed to be on Sabbatical!?) At Matt and Martha Kinney’s recommendation, we took the tube over to Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church. The building has been standing since 1848, but the welcome and the sermon and the wonderful meal following worship were all completely up to date. During the service, a student from Wake Forest Divinity School (yes, the one just down the road from you) was interviewed. Will Henderson was finishing a two-month internship, at the recommendation of our former professor and current friend, Dr. Bill Leonard (Dean of the divinity school); following worship we introduced ourselves. As it turns out, Will is the son of Bill Henderson – the same Bill Henderson who was one of my childhood heroes. (As the, then, youth minister of FBC, Rome, GA, we met Bill over a series of summers when my family traveled to Jekyll Island, GA, for a week of youth retreat. My parents are lifetime friends of the former Minister of Music there, hence our connection to Rome. As an impressionable young boy, I was quickly taken with the enthusiastic youth minister. One summer, Bill sported a blue, denim hat all week. I opinioned how much I liked it, and at the end of the week, it was mine for the taking. For many years, that had stayed in my room as a reminder of Bill’s influence. I haven’t seen him since then (35 years?), but it was good to be reintroduced to his son, in London!)
We dined with friends of Brian and Jenny Haymes, Brian and Faith Bowers, and their son, Richard. Richard, an adult who suffers from Down’s Syndrome, offered the blessing for the meal, “Grant bread to those who are hungry, and a hunger for justice to us who share this bread,” and during the meal he offered us a copy of a book of blessings used for these meals. Apparently Richard always offers the blessing – this is his “ministry” at the church, as the suggestion of a former minister – and a collection and printing of various of his offerings was sold to the church, the proceeds of which Richard returned to the church for a fundraiser. (He proudly contributed over 400 pounds to the offering.) This meal is offered every Sunday, prepared by volunteer teams, and diners include church members and guests – most who are comprised of some of London’s homeless and hungry.
One of our problems, quickly noted in this trip, is our proclivity to stay too long at EVERY PLACE… pushing us into the next and the next and the next item, at increasingly delinquent hours. No difference here… we arrived at the British Museum not long before 3:00 p.m.
NEWS FLASH… light just appeared in the windows, and the first road sign was in French. So I suppose we have emerged from the Chunnel dry and unscathed. (Just the thought of it is a little creepy!)
In trying to hit the highlights we spent too much time with the mummies. But we were not alone. You can hardly see all the swaddlingly-clothed for all the morbidly-interested, pressing their noses (or their lenses) to the glass. (Just ask the boys if you’re interested in seeing the 5,500 year old Egyptian – or any of the others – I think we’re bringing home a picture of every one!) And we glimpsed the Rosetta Stone, but only from a slight distance. Apparently the masses are even more interested in this black slab, inscribed with three languages, than they are the dead.
Which only proves that nothing ever dies – a language… a culture… a mummified corpse… Resurrection IS all around, if only we dare to see the ways God continues to give life, and to make it more abundant.
As a thumbnail of the rest of the day: though the shows were sold-out, we stopped by Mr. Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre for a sneak-peak… took in a cruise along the Thames (which the boys are still learning to pronounce)… and ate a real English dinner, at Porter’s restaurant in Covent Garden… before Tubing on home. (And navigating this underground maze is almost the highlight of the trip, in itself!)
The lesson for today was our impression of the work of the Church in the world. From our recent visits to the National Cathedral in Washington, St. Martins-in-the-fields, and Bloomsbury Baptist, we’re inspired by what Sam Lloyd, Dean of the Washington Cathedral, calls the “gospel work” they’re all doing. Even as world-class showplaces of art and architecture and history, places which could easily make their mission the taking of admission and selling the audio tours, these churches remain churches first – committed to worship and service in their own communities and throughout world.
A museum is a nice place to visit. But the world still needs to witness of the Church.
Thanks be to God.
(I’m typing onboard a train, that appears to be going well over 100 mph, and we’re somewhere along the countryside of England – or maybe we’re under the English Channel by now [the windows are completely dark]… When we arrive in Paris, one of my first missions is to get the whizbang computer guy at the hotel to make the doomaflotchy and the gadget talk, so I can post all this stuff. So, if you’re reading this, know that I found the computer doc… or you’re witnessing a cyber-miracle of the most impressive sorts.)
Here are my notes, filled in, from Sunday’s touring…
We did something today that few tourists do… we spent three=and-a-half hours at church. (And we’re supposed to be on Sabbatical!?) At Matt and Martha Kinney’s recommendation, we took the tube over to Bloomsbury Central Baptist Church. The building has been standing since 1848, but the welcome and the sermon and the wonderful meal following worship were all completely up to date. During the service, a student from Wake Forest Divinity School (yes, the one just down the road from you) was interviewed. Will Henderson was finishing a two-month internship, at the recommendation of our former professor and current friend, Dr. Bill Leonard (Dean of the divinity school); following worship we introduced ourselves. As it turns out, Will is the son of Bill Henderson – the same Bill Henderson who was one of my childhood heroes. (As the, then, youth minister of FBC, Rome, GA, we met Bill over a series of summers when my family traveled to Jekyll Island, GA, for a week of youth retreat. My parents are lifetime friends of the former Minister of Music there, hence our connection to Rome. As an impressionable young boy, I was quickly taken with the enthusiastic youth minister. One summer, Bill sported a blue, denim hat all week. I opinioned how much I liked it, and at the end of the week, it was mine for the taking. For many years, that had stayed in my room as a reminder of Bill’s influence. I haven’t seen him since then (35 years?), but it was good to be reintroduced to his son, in London!)
We dined with friends of Brian and Jenny Haymes, Brian and Faith Bowers, and their son, Richard. Richard, an adult who suffers from Down’s Syndrome, offered the blessing for the meal, “Grant bread to those who are hungry, and a hunger for justice to us who share this bread,” and during the meal he offered us a copy of a book of blessings used for these meals. Apparently Richard always offers the blessing – this is his “ministry” at the church, as the suggestion of a former minister – and a collection and printing of various of his offerings was sold to the church, the proceeds of which Richard returned to the church for a fundraiser. (He proudly contributed over 400 pounds to the offering.) This meal is offered every Sunday, prepared by volunteer teams, and diners include church members and guests – most who are comprised of some of London’s homeless and hungry.
One of our problems, quickly noted in this trip, is our proclivity to stay too long at EVERY PLACE… pushing us into the next and the next and the next item, at increasingly delinquent hours. No difference here… we arrived at the British Museum not long before 3:00 p.m.
NEWS FLASH… light just appeared in the windows, and the first road sign was in French. So I suppose we have emerged from the Chunnel dry and unscathed. (Just the thought of it is a little creepy!)
In trying to hit the highlights we spent too much time with the mummies. But we were not alone. You can hardly see all the swaddlingly-clothed for all the morbidly-interested, pressing their noses (or their lenses) to the glass. (Just ask the boys if you’re interested in seeing the 5,500 year old Egyptian – or any of the others – I think we’re bringing home a picture of every one!) And we glimpsed the Rosetta Stone, but only from a slight distance. Apparently the masses are even more interested in this black slab, inscribed with three languages, than they are the dead.
Which only proves that nothing ever dies – a language… a culture… a mummified corpse… Resurrection IS all around, if only we dare to see the ways God continues to give life, and to make it more abundant.
As a thumbnail of the rest of the day: though the shows were sold-out, we stopped by Mr. Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre for a sneak-peak… took in a cruise along the Thames (which the boys are still learning to pronounce)… and ate a real English dinner, at Porter’s restaurant in Covent Garden… before Tubing on home. (And navigating this underground maze is almost the highlight of the trip, in itself!)
The lesson for today was our impression of the work of the Church in the world. From our recent visits to the National Cathedral in Washington, St. Martins-in-the-fields, and Bloomsbury Baptist, we’re inspired by what Sam Lloyd, Dean of the Washington Cathedral, calls the “gospel work” they’re all doing. Even as world-class showplaces of art and architecture and history, places which could easily make their mission the taking of admission and selling the audio tours, these churches remain churches first – committed to worship and service in their own communities and throughout world.
A museum is a nice place to visit. But the world still needs to witness of the Church.
Thanks be to God.
What a difference a Day Makes (July 19)
Posted on Monday, July 21, after finally getting email service in Paris.
[Written Saturday night, July 18] We woke up “this morning” at 7:00 a.m. in Cooperstown, NY. After a quick but thorough cleaning and packing and loading, we stopped by “Jackie’s” for breakfast on the way out of town, and then followed “Nora’s” advice (Nora is our GPS; see a prior blog about this spectacular woman) all the way into and through New York City, navigating flawlessly through the Big Apple – by LaGuardia and all the way to the Hertz return station at JFK International Airport. After a weather delay on the runway, we lifted off at about 8:00 p.m., EST, but a handsome Easterly tailwind kept us on track for a 7:25 a.m. touch down at Heathrow Airport – London Standard Time. As I type this, it’s just 4:40 p.m. according to the body whose internal clock went to bed last night in Cooperstown (actually it was about 1:00 a.m. this morning). That body slept very little over the Atlantic, and so is working on around 5 hours of sleep in the last 65… and that with all the transitions – and a full day of London Touring. (Bennett commented during the day that he was afraid to blink – because he might fall asleep!)
Since I’m an idiot with this computer, I can’t get the whatchamacallit in the laptop I’m dragging all over Europe to talk to the gizmo here at our London hotel, so at the moment, none of you knows that we’re actually alive.
We are.
Very much. Though we all had our sleep-walking moments today, as we made our way through the London Underground… the 400+-foot London Eye… some fascinating street performances (in one of which I was the star performer)… Nelson’s Column in historic Trafalgar Square… and then an incredible meal at St. Martin-in-the-field’s “Dead Body Deli.” (OK, the actual name is “Crypt Café,” because it is a café and because it’s smartly outfitted in the now-bodiless crypt of this 300-year-old structure. The boys thought it was cool to eat in a morgue, but they preferred the alliteration of the “Dead Body Deli” [my own name], to the Martin’s official name.) Anyway… it’s probably the best meal we’ll have in Europe, and now that all the sarcophagi are gone (those “flesh-eating” stone slabs), it’s a pretty appealing place to dine out.
When I can get “my people” to talk appropriately to “their people,” we’ll send this blog along. By that time, though, we’ll have taken in church at Bloomsbury Baptist and the British Museum, at least…
Somewhere in London.
[Written Saturday night, July 18] We woke up “this morning” at 7:00 a.m. in Cooperstown, NY. After a quick but thorough cleaning and packing and loading, we stopped by “Jackie’s” for breakfast on the way out of town, and then followed “Nora’s” advice (Nora is our GPS; see a prior blog about this spectacular woman) all the way into and through New York City, navigating flawlessly through the Big Apple – by LaGuardia and all the way to the Hertz return station at JFK International Airport. After a weather delay on the runway, we lifted off at about 8:00 p.m., EST, but a handsome Easterly tailwind kept us on track for a 7:25 a.m. touch down at Heathrow Airport – London Standard Time. As I type this, it’s just 4:40 p.m. according to the body whose internal clock went to bed last night in Cooperstown (actually it was about 1:00 a.m. this morning). That body slept very little over the Atlantic, and so is working on around 5 hours of sleep in the last 65… and that with all the transitions – and a full day of London Touring. (Bennett commented during the day that he was afraid to blink – because he might fall asleep!)
Since I’m an idiot with this computer, I can’t get the whatchamacallit in the laptop I’m dragging all over Europe to talk to the gizmo here at our London hotel, so at the moment, none of you knows that we’re actually alive.
We are.
Very much. Though we all had our sleep-walking moments today, as we made our way through the London Underground… the 400+-foot London Eye… some fascinating street performances (in one of which I was the star performer)… Nelson’s Column in historic Trafalgar Square… and then an incredible meal at St. Martin-in-the-field’s “Dead Body Deli.” (OK, the actual name is “Crypt Café,” because it is a café and because it’s smartly outfitted in the now-bodiless crypt of this 300-year-old structure. The boys thought it was cool to eat in a morgue, but they preferred the alliteration of the “Dead Body Deli” [my own name], to the Martin’s official name.) Anyway… it’s probably the best meal we’ll have in Europe, and now that all the sarcophagi are gone (those “flesh-eating” stone slabs), it’s a pretty appealing place to dine out.
When I can get “my people” to talk appropriately to “their people,” we’ll send this blog along. By that time, though, we’ll have taken in church at Bloomsbury Baptist and the British Museum, at least…
Somewhere in London.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
On Being My (Big) Brother's Keeper
We arrived at Cooperstown Dreams Park last Friday, and since the crack of dawn on Saturday have been in baseball heaven. Opening in 1996, this amazing park represents the fulfilment of a dream for the (North Carolina native) Lou Prescutti family, who had visited the Baseball Hall of Fame more than a decade earlier, and then began to dream of a place where boys could play the game,which is so thoroughly represented at the Hall of Fame. (There's more baseball there than you can shake the
proverbial stick at!) Dreams Park came to fruition with the purchase of a beautiful tract of upstate New York farm land, within a few miles of the Hall of Fame, and the construction of a player's village and a dozen fields. For the last thirteen years Cooperstown has been the site of lifetime memories in the making, for thousands of 12-year-olds across America.
Now expanded to 22 playing fields, the every-week-of-the-summer tournaments host teams from every state in the union, and beyond. Jackson's team, the Charlotte Crush, has, so far, faced competition from New York, Maryland, Ohio, Illinois, and Michigan. Even as I type, we're awaiting the seedings for the single-elimination tournament, which begins at 8:30 a.m. tomorrow morning. Cooperstown boasts baseball "as it should be," and in a word, it is. Everything is first class, and the boys are the beneficiaries. Memories for a lifetime.
Though, after six games of preliminary play, we approach the tournament with a 2-4 record, and ranked 62nd out of 104 teams, we've lost three games by one run, and have come from behind to contest every outing we've lost. Our two wins were convincing, including a 17-1 rout. "Show me some heart," Coach Pat exhorted, and this team has played its best ball ever.
We've had a great time watching. In addition to the families of Jackson's teammates, some of Amy's family -- Rut, Ginger, and Katie Jacks, and Susan and Don Adams -- have also made the northern trek to catch a little of their favorite Charlotte Crush on the mound. None has been disappointed. We've cheered and groaned, been elated by victories and downed by hard-fought losses. We've laughed, held our breath in high hope, and been amazed at the maturing we're seeing before our eyes, as individuals and as a t
eam. As to our player, he's not ready for the Majors just yet, but he's throwing a pretty good game these days. One of our wins was at the hands of a complete game he pitched, with impressive control.
eam. As to our player, he's not ready for the Majors just yet, but he's throwing a pretty good game these days. One of our wins was at the hands of a complete game he pitched, with impressive control.Now, the little brother is a ball player, too... but this week is about Jackson.
And there has been no better fan.
It's good to see. In addition to all the "brotherly love" expressed in those not-so-loving ways (from personal experience, I'm guessing that's "normal"!?), there's a good bit of it expressed genuinely, through cheers and hearty 10-year-old congratulations. Let's hope the goodwill continues for at least two years, because Bennett already has his sights set on playing here.
We'll just have to see what kind of cheerleader his older brother will be.
Thanks, "B," for what you're teaching your old dad about being a brother's keeper!
r
Monday, July 13, 2009
So Far, So Good
So... we're finally away.
And not a minute too soon! The last three weeks have seemed like three months. "What would you do if you won the lottery?" I can tell you that after these three weeks, it would not involve giving up my job! I am thoroughly enjoying the time with my boys, and thoroughly enjoying a morning mainly structured around reading... but I can't shake this restlestness... and this quiet tinge of guilt that I'm not doing something.
So I'm glad to be on the road, again.
In the last week or so my reading has alternated between No Armor for the Back, a detailed recounting of the imprisonment and death of dozens of our early Baptist forebears, mostly 17th and 18th century English Baptist pastors and visionaries, and Into the Wild, the disturbing narrative of the last two years of the life of Chris McCandless, the Washington, DC native who, upon his graduation, with honors, from Emory University, abandoned his name, his family, and his future in the American dream, for a life of increasingly solitary... pilgrimage... which ended when he starved to death in an abandoned bus in the Alaskan wilderness. I recoiled a bit when Jon Krakauer, the author, called McCandless's strange voyage a "pilgrimage." (We're counting for a better culmination to our summer!)
But this parallel reading, depressing as it has sometimes been, has suggested to me an element of pilgrimage that we've not yet acknowleged. This is, that when we are fully immersed in a passion, that immersion will necessarily move us -- and that movement may, of necessity, involve some element of... danger.
Mind you, we are taking a map with us, and Amy has made sure there will be plenty of food for the trip (McCandless did not), and we have no plans to speak out against the Queen when we pass by Buckingham Palace (as so many of our Baptist founders did)... so we hope to get nowhere near any prison, other than the Tower of London, and we have full plans to stay together, enjoy the company of relationships, old and new, and to harbor no alienating grudge against the world -- but I will admit that there is a little anxiety tucked uncomfortably away in our backpacks.
Two boys... three countries... 62-miles of unknown Spanish land to cross on foot... some of America's wildest whitewater to conquer... nearly 30 more miles in and our of the deepest ditch on the globe to brave, on foot and horseback...
We're trusting the challenge will do us good -- not kill us. All I can tell you is, so far, so good.
But we'll keep you posted!
r
seeing familiar faces
I know Russ is planning to blog in a few minutes about our happenings since last you heard from us - but I thought I'd jump in first to say that our last "training" walk last Thursday went very well. We walked almost 11 miles from our house to NoDa - much of it in the rain (some of it pouring rain!) and the lightening - which once struck WAY too close for comfort!!! We took refuge under Selwyn Presbyterian Church's front porch where Bennett suggested that we sing a new song that we have learned that Russ has written. The words are very simple - "Do not be afraid. Peace, be still." It helped. It was good to try out our rain gear and to practice what it feels like to walk this distance with our packs and hats and shoes. It was even more important to get mentally prepared. We did well. We had walked a 3 mile trek and a 6 mile trek, but I'll tell you, something happens to your hips at about mile 9 1/2 - they start to hurt. And nothing pleased me more than when Russ had to take several rounds of Ibuprofen for his aching joints - misery does indeed love company!
But the best part of the journey was the conclusion. We arrived at Cabo Fish Taco a little early. It was great to serve as the welcoming committee as Dave and Sally Silden arrived. And then Wendy Watson. And then Anne Hunter Eidson. And then Gray Clark. And then Jim and Jean and Liza Veilleux. I had not realized how much I missed everyone. I felt myself honestly lighting up from the inside out to be with members of our church family. They served as representatives of our larger PRBC family and it was simply good to catch up. We didn't talk church. We simply shared a meal and friendship and laughter. And it was good.
Bennett was the one that really made my day though. We were walking somewhere around Presbyterian Hospital - he and I side by side - when he said to me - "You know the favorite way I like for you to look?" Could be a loaded question, but I took the bait . . . ok . . . what's the favorite way for me to look? "With your baseball hat (which I've worn about 50% of the summer), no make-up (more than 50% of the summer), shorts and T-Shirts." What??? Better than the way I dress for work? "Yep - you look more relaxed." Don't you just love it when a 10 year old absolutely makes your day?!
More to come from Russ about Cooperstown and baseball . . . but today you may just find me in my baseball hat and hoarse voice from all the screaming that all good baseball moms do!
Amy
But the best part of the journey was the conclusion. We arrived at Cabo Fish Taco a little early. It was great to serve as the welcoming committee as Dave and Sally Silden arrived. And then Wendy Watson. And then Anne Hunter Eidson. And then Gray Clark. And then Jim and Jean and Liza Veilleux. I had not realized how much I missed everyone. I felt myself honestly lighting up from the inside out to be with members of our church family. They served as representatives of our larger PRBC family and it was simply good to catch up. We didn't talk church. We simply shared a meal and friendship and laughter. And it was good.
Bennett was the one that really made my day though. We were walking somewhere around Presbyterian Hospital - he and I side by side - when he said to me - "You know the favorite way I like for you to look?" Could be a loaded question, but I took the bait . . . ok . . . what's the favorite way for me to look? "With your baseball hat (which I've worn about 50% of the summer), no make-up (more than 50% of the summer), shorts and T-Shirts." What??? Better than the way I dress for work? "Yep - you look more relaxed." Don't you just love it when a 10 year old absolutely makes your day?!
More to come from Russ about Cooperstown and baseball . . . but today you may just find me in my baseball hat and hoarse voice from all the screaming that all good baseball moms do!
Amy
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Getting Ready... Will You Join Us?
We leave Friday... and we're not quite ready yet! The packing is, itself, a major undertaking. We're going for a week of 12-year-old baseball in Cooperstown, NY before spending a week in London, Paris, and Madrid, before walking 100km across Spain. And all the packing has to be done together -- and there's a 30-pound per person limit, due to the requirements of our Camino walk. What a challenge!
To get ready, then, we've been doing lots of preparing... last minute emails with our travel agent... last minute financial preparations... last minute practice packing (really!)... and some last minute walking.
Interesting what funny looks you get, walking in Charlotte! I guess we just don't do that much of it -- especially with packs and water bottles. Here we are on today's walk, from Eastburn Road to the "Taj Mateeter," on Morrison Boulevard. Have you noticed the spectacular architectural arch there? It's fascinating what all you see, really see, when you are walking.
On Thursday, we'll take a final walk -- and we'd love to invite you to join us. We'll leave our house early in the afternoon, and plan a 12-mile hike through down-town Charlotte, ending at the Cabo Fish Taco in NoDa. We'd love to see a few of you, if you're interested in a Taco and a hug... and maybe someone will show up to bring us home, so we don't have to walk another 12 miles! We'll plan to eat at 6:30 pm at Cabo's place, 3201 North Davidson. Hope to see some of you there.
The rest... we're still thinking of you and praying for you, and will be doing so throughout this next pilgrimage.
As a reminder of our schedule: Cooperstown (July 10-17), London (July 18-21), Paris (July 22-24), Madrid (July 25-26), El Camino de Santiago de Compostella (July 27-August 2)... back to Madrid... back to Charlotte on August 4. (And as much as we're looking forward to all of that travel, we know that we'll be glad to see our plane touch down at Charlotte-Douglass at 4:13pm!)
Hope to see you Thursday for a taco... But if you can't make it, keep us in your prayers.
r
Monday, July 6, 2009
Until We Find Our Rest
St. Augustine, one of the giants of Christian faith, once prayed, "Our hearts are restless, until they find rest in Thee."
I can relate.
Restless.
After two weeks of active sabbatical-ing, we've mostly been home for the last three weeks. Resting. Reading. Reflecting. It's good work for a sabbatical.
I can't say that I much like it.
Amy said yesterday that she, too, was feeling a bit restless. "These weeks have been hard," she noted. We passed by the church yesterday morning at 11:00 am, and it was good to see a few cars there(!), as we drove to Friendship Missionary Baptist for their 11:30 am service. Weird. Restless.
When we arrived, I had another momentary experience of that "Deep," tugging at my emotion -- JUST WALKING IN. The beauty of that sanctuary, the vaulted ceiling, the mahogany facade, the pipes of that glorious organ, the splendid color of the stained glass, which tells the story of Christian liberation on one side, and African-American slavery-to-freedom on the other... I enjoyed the nearly two-hours we experienced there, but I didn't need nearly that long -- for that moment, "just showing up" (a hint at Amy's last blog post), was Worship in itself.
Last night we had a wonderful conversation with our boys about church... and baseball! It never seems to end for us, this conversation about our commitments. We're already talking about fall teams, and playing options, most of which (ok, all of which!) involve some Sunday time on the diamond. The bottom line for us, and I think our boys understand this, is that church is about the community of fellowship we experience -- and are missing now -- not about some legalistic/moralistic obligation to please God, or to ease our consciences. When they're playing baseball on a Sunday, it's not so much that God is disappointed, as that they are missing time with their family of faith. And the more time we miss with you, the more restless we feel.
I think that will end, come Friday... not because we'll stop missing you, but because we will leave for our second Pilgrimage, and for the next three-and-a-half weeks, I think we'll be too busy to be anything near restless! Cooperstown, NY for a week of non-stop baseball action... London for three days... Paris for three more... Madrid, en route to our 62-mile Camino pilgrimage... an extra day in Santiago... and then home.
So I'm looking forward to hitting the road again -- and hoping this restlessness is not an indication of some failed spirituality (are our hearts not at rest, I'm asking, because they are just not at rest with God, or do some hearts actually "rest" better "on the run"?)
Running from this restlessness...
r
I can relate.
Restless.
After two weeks of active sabbatical-ing, we've mostly been home for the last three weeks. Resting. Reading. Reflecting. It's good work for a sabbatical.
I can't say that I much like it.
Amy said yesterday that she, too, was feeling a bit restless. "These weeks have been hard," she noted. We passed by the church yesterday morning at 11:00 am, and it was good to see a few cars there(!), as we drove to Friendship Missionary Baptist for their 11:30 am service. Weird. Restless.
When we arrived, I had another momentary experience of that "Deep," tugging at my emotion -- JUST WALKING IN. The beauty of that sanctuary, the vaulted ceiling, the mahogany facade, the pipes of that glorious organ, the splendid color of the stained glass, which tells the story of Christian liberation on one side, and African-American slavery-to-freedom on the other... I enjoyed the nearly two-hours we experienced there, but I didn't need nearly that long -- for that moment, "just showing up" (a hint at Amy's last blog post), was Worship in itself.
Last night we had a wonderful conversation with our boys about church... and baseball! It never seems to end for us, this conversation about our commitments. We're already talking about fall teams, and playing options, most of which (ok, all of which!) involve some Sunday time on the diamond. The bottom line for us, and I think our boys understand this, is that church is about the community of fellowship we experience -- and are missing now -- not about some legalistic/moralistic obligation to please God, or to ease our consciences. When they're playing baseball on a Sunday, it's not so much that God is disappointed, as that they are missing time with their family of faith. And the more time we miss with you, the more restless we feel.
I think that will end, come Friday... not because we'll stop missing you, but because we will leave for our second Pilgrimage, and for the next three-and-a-half weeks, I think we'll be too busy to be anything near restless! Cooperstown, NY for a week of non-stop baseball action... London for three days... Paris for three more... Madrid, en route to our 62-mile Camino pilgrimage... an extra day in Santiago... and then home.
So I'm looking forward to hitting the road again -- and hoping this restlessness is not an indication of some failed spirituality (are our hearts not at rest, I'm asking, because they are just not at rest with God, or do some hearts actually "rest" better "on the run"?)
Running from this restlessness...
r
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Just Showing Up
You know most of these posts will come from Russ, but I had to jump in again! One of my goals for this sabbatical time is just showing up. I think I've done pretty well at just showing up for work and just showing up in times of crisis and just showing up for meetings and just showing up at the hospitals and just showing up to preach. One of my hopes for these 12 weeks is to just show up for my boys. I've actually been pretty pleased over these 8-plus years of being pastor and mother that I've shown up as much as I have for my sons, but I have honestly been looking forward to this devoted kind of time with them as much as anything about the whole summer. This weekend, Bennett and I traveled to Myrtle Beach for his baseball team's final tournament of the year while Russ and Jackson stayed in Charlotte for Jackson's final tournament before we all head to Cooperstown in two weeks for a week of baseball mania at the Little League Hall of Fame tournament for Jackson's team.
Russ and I kept the phone lines hopping - calling each other every time one of the boys was at the plate or in between every inning. Between the two of us, we showed up for 9 baseball games in two days. We lived through wins and losses (no one brought home any hardware this time!) We witnessed strikes and balls, pitching and catching, outfielding and first base coverage and a little bit of bench warming. We enjoyed hits and walks and pop flies and some strike outs. We did our fair share of cheering and encouraging. We repeated to each other play by play moments when baseball really happened for a bunch of 10 year olds and 12 year olds who still hold on to the dream of many young boys to play in the Bigs - making their way to the Show. And all we did this weekend was to show up. And it was good.
Today was my father's birthday - he would have been 84 today, and he did love baseball - especially the Atlanta Braves and any team that his children/grandchildren played on. He was a big believer in just showing up for your children's events. He sat through more tennis matches (which he felt was about as exciting as watching paint dry!) and piano recitals and girls' softball and even many of Jackson and Bennett's baseball games. And when he wasn't at a game - I kept his phone line hopping with play by play details of "just the facts" of his grandsons' baseball action!
This weekend, my brother and sister-in-law and niece showed up for Bennett's games at the beach. It was hot, but we did have fun. In a couple of weeks, Russ, Bennett, my brother and sister-in-law and niece, my sister and brother-in-law, and I will show up for Jackson's week of games in Cooperstown. We'll cheer and laugh and have a great time. We'll quote Daddy when they get a big hit that goes right into the glove of the outfielder - "You reckon he didn't see that guy standing there?!" And we'll help the ump make better calls from the stands.
I can't think of a better place to spend Daddy's birthday than on a baseball diamond. I'm simply glad and grateful that I was able to show up today!
Amy
Russ and I kept the phone lines hopping - calling each other every time one of the boys was at the plate or in between every inning. Between the two of us, we showed up for 9 baseball games in two days. We lived through wins and losses (no one brought home any hardware this time!) We witnessed strikes and balls, pitching and catching, outfielding and first base coverage and a little bit of bench warming. We enjoyed hits and walks and pop flies and some strike outs. We did our fair share of cheering and encouraging. We repeated to each other play by play moments when baseball really happened for a bunch of 10 year olds and 12 year olds who still hold on to the dream of many young boys to play in the Bigs - making their way to the Show. And all we did this weekend was to show up. And it was good.
Today was my father's birthday - he would have been 84 today, and he did love baseball - especially the Atlanta Braves and any team that his children/grandchildren played on. He was a big believer in just showing up for your children's events. He sat through more tennis matches (which he felt was about as exciting as watching paint dry!) and piano recitals and girls' softball and even many of Jackson and Bennett's baseball games. And when he wasn't at a game - I kept his phone line hopping with play by play details of "just the facts" of his grandsons' baseball action!
This weekend, my brother and sister-in-law and niece showed up for Bennett's games at the beach. It was hot, but we did have fun. In a couple of weeks, Russ, Bennett, my brother and sister-in-law and niece, my sister and brother-in-law, and I will show up for Jackson's week of games in Cooperstown. We'll cheer and laugh and have a great time. We'll quote Daddy when they get a big hit that goes right into the glove of the outfielder - "You reckon he didn't see that guy standing there?!" And we'll help the ump make better calls from the stands.
I can't think of a better place to spend Daddy's birthday than on a baseball diamond. I'm simply glad and grateful that I was able to show up today!
Amy
Friday, June 26, 2009
You Don't Have to Travel to Europe
We know this summer's opportunity fits in that once-in-a-lifetime category, and are obviously excited about the "exotic" nature of our upcoming travels to Spain and the Grand Canyon... but you don't have to get that far to find God. In less than two hours, you can be in some of the most spectacular country, well... anywhere.
I85 south to Hwy 74... through Shelby to Hwy 9, north, to Chimney Rock. The lake is beautiful, the town is quaint (if over commercialized), the "rock" is breath-taking.
In 1949 a man named Morse was determined to make this natural wonder accessible to the public, so he carved a tunnel deep into the granite, and an elevator shaft rose 26 stories, to a rock platform within a few steps of the top of the chimney. We recommend the hike to Hickory Nut Falls, and taking the stairs up (this route is 26 stories, too, but much more scenic... and a touch better for your heart!)... but for the faint of heart, Mr. Morse didn't want you to miss it.
It's amazing that this kind of scenery is accessible to us -- so what are you waiting for? Nice as it is, you don't have to have a Lilly Grant to enjoy the benefits of a sabbatical -- you can have yours, before lunch! And if God is not to be found at Chimney Rock, I don't think we need to travel another mile in the search.
Happy trails to you...
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