"Nothing Changes on New Year's Day"

Good bye 2010, hello 2011.
I like to read the Top 10 lists of the past year that have been dominating the media highways for the last few weeks. My favorites of the year include books like The Help by Katherine Stocket and Stieg Larsson’s ‘The Girl’ series. The Help and the first book in Larson’s series, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, will be movies in 2011. A couple of my favorite films of 2010 were The Social Network and City Island. Musically, artists like Train and Bruno Mars generated a few of my favorite tunes of the year.

While reading and movie-watching can take me back to my youth, I really wasn’t musically aware as a child. I remember being a junior-higher in 1980 when John Lennon was killed. I didn’t know who he was. A centerfielder for the White Sox? No, that was Chet Lemon. Even though the 80s MTV video era was totally tubular, I wasn’t really impacted musically until late in the decade when the band U2 was coming into their own.

One of my favorite U2 songs is 1983’s New Year’s Day. Research suggests the song is either a love tune from Bono to his new wife or a tribute to Poland’s freedom from martial law which occurred on New Year’s Day 1983. Given that the song was released in January of 83, it would have been written and recorded in 1982, making Bono one Bad prophet.

Many people try to interpret U2 songs through a Biblical filter. Pertaining to New Year’s Day, here’s how some lines can be perceived:
"Under a blood red sky" = the sky darkened when Christ was crucified
"A crowd has gathered" = a crowd gather at the crucifixion
"Arms entwined, the chosen few"= Christ's disciples
"The newspaper says"= The Gospel is commonly known as the "News"
"It’s true, it’s true, we can break through" = through Christ's death we are saved
"Though torn in two, we can be one" = at the time of Christ's death the veil separating the Most Holy Place in the temple was torn in two. This symbolizes that all peoples of the earth now have access to God and can be "one" with Him.

Of course, the New Year brings resolutions. Maybe Bono is pessimistically stating that with all the eventual broken resolutions, “Nothing changes on New Year’s Day”.

It’s safe to say that song lyrics can have different meanings for individual people. Lyrics can even take on new meanings amid events and changes in our lives. I heard New Year’s Day differently after my mom’s passing in 2003. The words “I will be with you again” gave legs to my faith and confidence that I’ll meet her again in heaven.

Personally, 2010 was a difficult year of change, deliverance, healing, and decisions. Feelings of failure and a loss of hope also plagued me this year. I’m looking forward to what 2011 will bring. So lines in the song like “I will begin again” ring ever true.

Love song, political homage, religious psalm, or grumpy satire? Who knows? I vote for love song. But, I wonder, maybe the singer is the Lord himself. In John 14, Jesus tells his disciples to not worry, that he is going to prepare a home in heaven for them. “And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am” (John 14:3). It’s not Bono crooning to his new wife, it’s Jesus, the bridegroom, singing to his bride, his family of believers and followers.

Perhaps the song is referencing Revelation 21 in which the apostle John is visualizing a new earth and a new heaven. The old earth and heaven will away. Everything will be new. God will come down and dwell with his people. There will be no more death, crying, or pain. Every tear will be wiped away. It will be permanent. Forever. Nothing will change it. Not our failures or our losses. Everyday will be like beginning again. Everyday will be New Year’s Day.

A Lamb's-eye View of the Nativity

I was there on that holy, silent night.
Those three wise men get all the attention for gift-giving, but I was a real live present. I was born earlier in the day, in the fields, outside the little town of Bethlehem, the flock’s newest member.

I was snuggling up against my mom, Ewe-nice, that night, when the angel appeared. I was amazed and when the angel mentioned a baby I puffed my little chest out a bit. But then my mom said, “He’s not talking about you.” Those smelly shepherds were so scared. Then that heavenly host came out of nowhere and started singing. A shepherd boy wandered up to me and I whispered, “Do you hear what I hear?” He quietly nodded. I had never heard such beautiful singing in all my life. All 8 ½ hours of it.

Then one of the shepherds scooped me up and took my mom and me with him and a few other guys to go check out what the angel had said. We walked hastily for a long time because the angel didn’t really give us very clear directions, but eventually we found the scene. Behind a tiny inn, there was this stable. It was a pretty typical stable, crowded, stinky, lots of hay, and some bigger animals. Real ugly fellows if you ask me, a braying donkey, a goat and an ox. Some cattle were lowing.

It was pretty dark in that stable but the baby was there, a little child in the straw, tucked away in a manger. The shepherds looked adoringly at the baby. One quietly murmured, “What child is this?” They told the young parents about the angel and the choir. The mother, her name is Mary, was so excited over our story. She in turn told us the account of her visit from the angel, Joseph’s dream, and their nine-month journey of faith that led to this cold stable. As she talked, I could just see the thrill of hope on her face.

Soon it was time to leave and the shepherds began giving the couple a few meager gifts. They presented whatever they could find, some pieces of bread and a few coins. I’ve since found it strange that God would choose those guys to get a front row seat at the angelic concert and be the first visitors to see the baby. I mean they were basically outcasts, a lowly bunch to say the least. But that’s God for you. One shepherd picked me up and placed me at Mary’s feet. I gave my mom a worried look and the shepherd must have seen it because then he handed her over to Joseph too. Finally, just as the shepherds turned to leave, the small shepherd boy began playing on a drum. I don’t think he had anything else to give. A big ox and I kept time. It truly was a gift fit for a king.

That’s my story. My mom and I have been a part of their family ever since. I do miss my dad though. He didn’t live much longer. Those in my former flock were used for temple sacrifices, yet another one of God’s cool details. After the three kings followed the star of wonder and dropped off some gifts we had to relocate to Egypt. Their presents came in handy. I don’t know how Joseph would have paid for our journey without them.

Now we live in Nazareth. The boy, Jesus, is five or six. He likes when I follow him around. He thinks he’s a junior shepherd. He’s a good little boy, obedient, very honoring, and wise beyond his days. His birthday is coming up. Each year Mary and Joseph recount the amazing story of his arrival. They are especially thankful for the gifts, the shepherd boy’s drumming, the offerings of the magi, and me.

But you know what I think? I think the boy is actually the gift. I mean, I’ve heard Mary remind Joseph of what the angel told her when she was to become pregnant: “He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over Jacob’s descendants forever; his kingdom will never end.” And then there are the words of the angel, the words I heard with my own two ears: “Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord.”

Kingdom.
Savior.
Messiah.
Lord.
Not your typical words to describe a baby. And it certainly was not an everyday birth. I have a feeling that this young boy is going to grow up to do some remarkable things. Sometimes when I watch him play in the mud or handle loaves of bread he gets this weird twinkle in his eye. Sometimes when he’s helping Joseph build something out back in the workshop he’ll examine extra closely certain pieces of wood and a few nails.

Yes, I do think something extraordinary happened that night. It was from God. The baby came from the Father in heaven. I’ve heard Mary say quietly to Joseph when they think everybody is asleep, “it was the birth of grace.” Then Joseph replies, “Just think Mary, man will live forevermore because of that very day.”

Merry Christmas

Do You Know How to make a bad comedy?

The holiday movies are out and films like The Fighter and Black Swan are creating a buzz. One film that looks intriguing is the Reese Witherspoon movie, How Do You Know. You don’t have to know how to cook for the Food Network to figure out the recipe for a bad romantic comedy. And just to be sure the ingredients hadn’t changed, last night I suffered through The Back-up Plan featuring Jennifer Lopez and Alex O’Laughlin.

First Hollywood starts with a super babe and a super stud. The super babe and super stud actors are interchangeable. I think Hollywood producers have a giant “wheel of fortune” spinner labeled with names like Katherine Heigl, Jennifer Aniston, Matt McConaughey, Ryan Reynolds, Gerard Butler, and Sandra Bullock. When a producer acquires a script to his liking, he simply spins the wheel and plugs in the names of the first female and male actors the spinner selects. Alternate spins may be necessary if the two leads have already appeared in a romantic comedy together.

Next the producer speed dials the two most important architects for his film: the lighting director and the music director. Romantic comedies are filmed in a different light than other movies. They’re brighter, sunnier, happier. Even in scenes with rain, the precipitation is peppy. Secondly, the producer has to have the latest Top-40 hits from his musical director for the scenes where the lead characters are driving together through the rolling countryside (on a bright sunny day) and for the montage where the characters spend “months” falling in love in the span of sixty seconds.

Another important person is the location director. Since the lead characters are usually highly successful, career-minded folks, the location director has to find the perfect upper-Westside brownstone, or spacious downtown loft in which the characters can live. How these beautiful, accomplished people struck it rich financially while failing miserably in their relationships always befuddles me. Often the characters own their own businesses or are artists. It’s the artists that live in the downtown lofts, filled with eclectic antique furniture arranged haphazardly around the drop cloths, easels, and cans of paint.

Next the producer double checks the script to make sure all the necessary plot points are included. The basic story line goes like this: boy and girl meet. They first hate each other. They go on a date. They fall in love. They know their relationship is doomed. They break up. The initiator of the break up realizes that he or she made a mammoth mistake. He or she begs for a second chance. They live happily ever after in their bright sunny penthouse that you see as the camera pulls away, Colbie Caillat music playing, while the credits start rolling.

The main characters will always have really annoying friends, which may explain why they can’t find a date. There may also be an older friend who is married with children. This friend is known as the fountain of wisdom. The FOW has to be there to point out the mammoth mistake made by the initiator of the break up. Usually this friend will drone on and on about problems of married life and try to live vicariously through the romances of the main character.

Also, one of the protagonists has to do something really stupid. In The Back-up Plan, Jlo, newly with child, visits O’Loughlin’s picturesque goat farm where he is the creator of fancy organic cheeses. She wanders into the kitchen on her own, spots a bubbling pot of stew, and overcome by hormones and hunger, begins to shovel the stew into her mouth with handfuls of bread. Really? Maybe on the second visit. Ever heard of a ladle? A bowl? O’Loughlin is so enamored by Jlo’s stew-covered grin that he quickly shuttles her off to the barn for a roll in the hay. Literally.

When the main characters in bad romantic comedies get together at the beginning of the movie there is nothing left to surprise. The characters have already expressed their “love” and “acceptance” of each other. They don’t have any reason to grow as people until the break-up hits. The movies of this genre that work for me are the ones in which the main characters don’t get together, until the end. In such films there are characters that have their own imperfect lives around which their own stories revolve. And while we know they are going to live happily ever after together, we get to watch as creative writers and directors intertwine the two stories. We see characters who doubt, worry, cry, laugh, take risks, and slowly grow in order to win the acceptance and love of the other person.

The benchmarks for romantic comedies are When Harry Met Sally and Sleepless in Seattle. A few of my other favorites are Four Weddings and Funeral, Love Actually, and Stranger than Fiction. Another jewel is 2000’s Return to Me staring Minnie Driver and David Duchovny. This movie somewhat fits into the mold but smartly so. Driver is an artist and a waitress, living under the protective eye of her grandfather (the late Caroll O’Connor in his last movie role) and his card-playing, music-loving cronies. Duchovny, a well-to-do architect, is a recent widower. He is the one with the annoying friend. The FOW is played excellently by Bonnie Hunt (also the writer and director). Duchovny lost his wife in a traffic accident. His pain and grief are intense. We see his misery as he attempts to put his life back together. Driver recently had heart-transplant surgery. She is insecure and worried about the giant scar bisecting her torso. They both have to overcome these issues in order to grow closer to each other. We as viewers realize the connection between the two long before Driver and Duchovny do. Their romance is sabotaged only when this secret is discovered, not by some act of stupidity or a change of heart.

Return to Me didn’t win any big award, but it worked. I had serious doubts about How Do You Know before the “critics” slapped it with the grade of a C. How did I know? Watch the trailer. The lighting, music, and filming locations give it away.

Thanksgving on the Big Screen

Ever wonder if God has Netflix?
When I get I to heaven, I want to check out His home movie collection so I can see real footage of past events. Maybe God has a giant reference room, with HD flat screens from floor to ceiling, soft-as-cloud couches, and remotes to call up any event in history on his divine DVR. Think Best Buy’s wall of TV’s on a heavenly scale. Just imagine what you could see: Military battles. Explorers. Inventors. The Detroit Lions winning a playoff game. You could call up key points in American history like Washington crossing the Delaware, the signing of the Declaration of Independence, and that magical day in July of 1968 when I was born. Maybe you’d see Mrs. Lincoln say to her husband, “Gee honey, the popcorn at Ford’s theater is so over-priced, why don’t we stay home tonight?”

Near the top of my list of events to watch would be the first Thanksgiving. Unless you eat outdoors, share your table with natives, and serve beer-battered eel, the first Thanksgiving was very different from how it is normally portrayed. It was more of a Harvest Festival instead of a day of thanksgiving. It was surely very spiritual as the Pilgrims were religious Separatists, but a day of thanksgiving would have been set aside for worship in church.

So on God’s scoreboard-sized, gold-plated TV you’d see a three-day party, with the 53 Pilgrims and 90 natives of the Wampanoag tribe eating, dancing, singing, and playing games. You’d see Squanto, an English-speaking native, translating for his chief Massasoit and perhaps congratulating the Pilgrims on the success of using the hunting, fishing, and planting tips he gave them. Maybe God’s video pans to the cemetery tucked into the rolling Massachusetts hills where the 49 pilgrims who didn’t survive the first year were laid to rest.

The video undoubtedly would show Chief Massasoit meeting with his warriors discussing his uneasiness with the white man. Did he talk about the plagues that the Europeans had brought in previous years that tomahawk-chopped the local native population to pieces? You might catch him wearily looking over his shoulder for other ships on the horizon arriving to cart the natives off to the West Indies as slaves.

Outnumbered almost two-to-one, I bet Myles Standish and William Bradford kept a nervous eye on the natives during the festivities. The first point of business upon going ashore in the spring had been to sign a treaty and exchange hostages.

This precarious relationship between the natives and colonists is missing from the standard Thanksgiving stories. The two groups got along for the most part, but there were times of struggle, with battles and fighting. Finally in 1675, war broke out. Massasoit’s son, Metacomet led the natives against the colonists in what is known as King’s Phillip’s War. The war is considered one of the bloodiest on America soil.

Missing from the scene would be many of the traditional Thanksgiving items such as cranberries, potatoes, pies and apples. Instead, the Pilgrims sat down for a meal more likely suited for either a seafood-lover or a vegetarian. Fish, lobster, eel, mussels, and oysters, as well as a dozen different veggies, dried fruit, and nuts probably rounded out the spread. And what about the turkey? Any meat served was probably venison, and early records only reveal the Pilgrims eating “wild fowl” which could have been turkey, duck, or geese.

Over time the first Thanksgiving has morphed into a memorable event of food, family, and football. It tucks autumn to bed and signals the beginning of the Christmas season. We try to incorporate some thankfulness into the day. A cousin sent me a quote by author Melody Beattie that perfectly summarizes a thankful heart.

“Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow."

I truly hope your house is full of feasting and thanksgiving today. I also hope you can say a prayer of gratitude for the survival of those early Pilgrims and the help they received from the Natives. Relations may not have been optimal between the two groups, but at least they started out by working together. If you have any tension or strain in a relationship with a loved one, Thanksgiving should be a day to serve up acceptance and reconciliation. Don’t wait until a war breaks out. Apologize and or forgive and enjoy the stuffing.

And don’t forget the eel.

Building Her Dream House

It’s been seven years since that dark November day when I had one final question for my mom. So I snuggled up to her for the last time like I did as a child. It was our tradition. She would scratch my head, and I would purr like a kitten.

This time, though, her cancer-ravaged body was too weak to lift a finger. She had been battling the disease, her third bout, for almost a year. She hadn’t looked or acted sick for much of the year, but now the illness was taking over. Her skin and eyes were turning yellow from the bile backed up in her tumor-filled liver. Her hair was as gray as the sunless sky and her voice was slow and tired. She had lost so much weight that her body barely made a ripple under her bedcovers.

I asked her if there was anything she wished she could have done during her life on Earth. I wasn’t interested in regrets, just dreams. I was thinking maybe a trip to Paris or writing a book.

To my great shock, she said that she wished she could have built a house. I was surprised because I didn’t know that this intelligent, hard-working, bundle of ceaseless energy had such a dream. Then in all seriousness she humbly noted that she might need a little help with some minor details such as the plumbing and electrical wiring. Apparently, despite her lack of construction experience, she had already figured out the foundation, walls, ceiling, and roof.

But part of me wasn’t surprised because the smartest woman I knew could do anything she put her mind to, including growing vegetables in the Sahara, writing code for Bill Gates’ latest vision, and teaching Martha Stewart a thing or two about cooking, cleaning, and decorating.

I immediately pictured my mom, axe in hand, clearing land in the hills surrounding her Monterey home, mixing tombstone-grey concrete with a shovel and a wheelbarrow, pounding nails into 2-x-4 after 2-x-4, and climbing a ladder to shingle a roof. I could hear her taking control of the construction, barking orders like a job-site foreman and directing the traffic of incoming dump trucks and bulldozers. I could see her stopping her work to provide sandwiches and sodas to those she hired to do the plumbing and electricity. I imagined her, when the work was done, sitting on a porch swing with my dad at sunset, watching whales in the ocean. Waiting for Thomas Kincade to stop by with his easel and brushes.

It was our last meaningful conversation. A few days later, November 8, 2003, she left her California home to be with her Lord. I was down in Los Angeles when she died. Over miles of unimaginable grief I made my way to Northern California. My own trail of tears. I fearfully stumbled into her bedroom where I had left her a few days earlier.

Her body was still in the bed and she was lying with the most peaceful expression on her face. I touched her and I kissed her. I talked to her and I said goodbye, and as I did God touched me. In almost slow motion, with tears streaming down my face, I sunk to my knees by her bedside and felt the most soothing peace come over me. It was as if God had opened me up and filled me with his presence. It was slow and warm, dripping through me like maple syrup being poured on a stack of pancakes. I could feel it coarse through my body until it reached the tips of my fingers and the bottoms of my feet. It was as Philippians says, “a peace that transcends all understanding.” And I’ll never forget it.

Later, on a sunny morning we poured her ashes into the Pacific in a cove near Carmel Beach. I read Psalm 23:6, “Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” I thought of the dream house that my mother didn’t build, and was comforted by knowing that she was now living in the Lord’s house, and how much superior that must be to anything she could have erected here on Earth.

I then read John 14:2, “In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you,” I found assurance in knowing that Jesus had a home for her in heaven.

Mark Twain said, “That when somebody you love dies, it is like when your house burns down; it isn’t for years that you realize the full extent of your loss.” Sometimes I feel like I’m still sifting through the rubble. Sometimes I get blindsided by a memory, or I uncover a hidden trinket of hers in my dad’s cupboard that transports me decades in the past.

I was so touched by the numerous sympathy cards and emails that I received. A friend wrote, “I suppose the truth of these things is that the grief we feel is really for ourselves, as your mom certainly wouldn't trade her current address for the one she just left.” I wondered what her new address looked like. Perhaps it resembles the home she dreamed of building herself.

My friend’s words were prophetic. In July of 2004, my first birthday without her arrived. I sat on the sand in Redondo Beach wishing for her to call and say, Happy Birthday. Oddly enough, that night she did, in the only dream I’ve had about her since she died. In the dream, my family was all together. My mom was still alive, but she was also still sick and because of her illness, she had to live somewhere else, some kind of hospital or care facility. Often we would go to visit her and we had pre-arranged that when she was all better, she would come back to live with us. One day we went to visit her and to our amazement she was no longer sick. We were beyond ecstatic. She was healthy, she could return home! But, then she calmly told us that she didn’t want to come home. I was crushed.

Devastated, I awoke in a fit of tears. It was November all over again. I shared my dream with my sister over breakfast the next morning. She was quickly able to discern the truth of my dream. It was a dream worthy of rejoicing. Like in the dream, my mom is healed. She is cancer-free. She is home. A home she didn’t build, but one of which she dreamed.
Living in the home her Father prepared for her.
Dwelling with Him forever.

Love Wins

I’m so glad the elections are over. I was exhausted from fast-forwarding over all of the mudslinging commercials on my DVR. Now, I can return to fast-forwarding over the regular commercials. Voting conservatively in California is like being a Cubs fan. Cursed.

There’s an old adage that says you never discuss religion and politics … except on Facebook. Social networking is more than networking. When it comes to religion and politics, Facebook is social witnessing, social soap-boxing, and social bragging.

I saw someone’s religious views listed on Facebook as, “Love Wins.” I have no idea what that means. It doesn’t tell me if the person loves Jesus or Buddha or Mohammed. But I dig it.

There’s a group in our society that is supposed to be the most loving, but they can be very unloving and, to me, appear to be quite misunderstood. There’s another group in our society that claims to be the most accepting and tolerant, but they seem to be very selective with their acceptance and tolerance.

The first group is the Christians. The second group is the liberal left.

A couple of months ago I wrote in this space how we as Americans are overlooking the dangers of Radical Islam because the vast majority of Muslims are fine, peaceful people. However, when it comes to Christianity, the radical meatballs spoil the soup for how the majority of fine, peaceful Christians are viewed and perceived. Just as all Muslims don’t fly airplanes into buildings, neither do all Christians want to bomb abortion clinics, burn the Koran on 9/11 and hate homosexuals.

I’ve been a Christian for many a year and I haven’t taken out an abortionist, set fire to any holy books, or walked the sidewalks with large cardboard signs blaming homosexuals for AIDS, the 9/11 attacks, or the general downfall of American society.

But I have been selfish.
Gossiped. Lied. Slandered. Gotten angry. Made mistakes. Basically been hypocritical.

But, it seems these days that Christians aren’t allowed to be imperfect. Last year, in a conversation with a USC football fan, I defended the Stanford head coach for running up the score in a win over USC, not because I think running up the score is admirable but because I love when USC gets beat. The USC fan yelled at me, “But you’re a Christian!” You see how imperfect I am? I let my football passions get the best of me. I should have chastised the Stanford coach. What a horrible display of disrespect! What a poor impression to make upon children (Uh, because USC never runs up the score)! Such a JWDT (Jesus wouldn’t do that) moment! I really blew it. That person will probably never come to a saving faith in Christ because I defended the Stanford football coach.

In addition to me, there are some really rotten people out there. Broken, hurting, cheating, corrupt, scandalous. In all walks of life. Politicians, athletes, businessmen, doctors, lawyers, teachers, and (gasp) Christians. If you encounter a crooked auto mechanic do you stop seeking mechanics? No, you get recommendations for a good one. Hopefully, if you run into a bad doctor, you search for a good one. I hope that one unscrupulous politician doesn’t keep you from voting. Do steroid-pumping, bribe-taking athletes prevent you from watching all sports? But if a Christian makes a mistake, we get written off as hypocritical, seriously offensive or hateful people.

As a Facebook fan, a majority of my “friends” are Christians. I am pretty sure that I haven’t seen one of them post a derogatory comment about a person of another faith, race, or sexual orientation. But I have read some comments or been given links to follow that are downright mean about Christians. Usually, these remarks come from very politically liberal folks. Now, I’m not trying to whine. Or be a crybaby. Things are much better for us believers in this day and age. I mean, early on, when our little sect was trying to get off the ground Christian-killing was a spectator sport.

Obviously, the reason for such slander is because most conservative Christians don’t agree with the social and political viewpoints of the liberal left. But I thought the left was all about equality, tolerance, and acceptance? It seems they’re … I must be careful not to fall into the same practice I’m trying to point out …. It seems that SOME liberals are not very tolerant and accepting of those who don’t agree with them.


To me that seems hypocritical. Okay, everybody’s got their own political wants, social agendas, religious worldviews. Everybody wants to make their point, get their law passed, prevent so-and-so from winning an election. I get it.

But, does that mean that respect has to be thrown out the social networking window? Just because somebody or a group of some bodies don’t agree with you, doesn’t give you the right to pick and choose who you are tolerant and accepting of. Remember that what you write, post, and share is available for people of all walks of life to read. If you have to err, please err on the side of respect.

I’d love to rebuke some Christians are that giving us a bad name. But other than myself, I don’t know anyone in this habit. But, Mr. Liberal Lefty, I do want to apologize for those who have offended, hurt, and slandered you. There is no place for that. You deserve the same amount of respect that I’m asking of from you. Please remember that we Christians are allowed to have and defend our beliefs. But we must hold them and articulate them in a loving and respectful way.

The Apostle Paul knew a thing or two about hate, love, and hypocrites. A man who once persecuted Christians, became their greatest traveling preacher, setting up churches and writing epistles. And yet he considered himself the “chief of all sinners”. (Imagine if Paul had Facebook: rough day today, got stoned again.)

He also wrote some pretty good passages about love. He said that a Christian without love is a resounding gong and a clanging cymbal. It’s hard to think of a more annoying or offensive sound, except maybe the USC fight song. So, Mr. Conservative Christian, don’t be a gong.

Because love should win. For both sides. Even on Facebook.

Please Don't Start the Music

There’s a conspiracy brewing in our land.
Last Sunday’s temp hit the low 90s, and since my home-cooling system is as effective as the Michigan football team’s defense, I tried my best to stay indoors and away from home. After church, I dined at my favorite hotdog spot, graded a stack of papers at Starbucks, and did some shopping. My last stop was at Kohl’s. As I crossed through the Home section on my way to look at some new sneakers, I was suddenly stopped in my tracks.
Flabbergasted amid the picture frames.
Dumbfounded in the towel department.

I was ear-to-ear with my worst nightmare.
Christmas music.
In October.

A display of Christmas wares was on one of those annoying floor stands that make navigating the aisles harder than avoiding big-rigs on the 710. It was a plastic, plug-in gingerbread house with illuminating gumdrops playing Jingle Bells. I looked at the date on my phone to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. October 10. Halloween is still 21 days away. Seven weeks to Thanksgiving. Two-and-a-half months until Christmas. It can’t be.

I love Christmas music. I love the Hymns. Give me some Oh Holy Night and a little Joy to the World and I’m a junior Pavarotti. In DECEMBER! I love the old favorites and the latest remake of the old favorites by the star-de-jour. (Look for Katy Perry’s remake of “Christmas with the Beach Boys” album in November). But already? There needs to be a national law mandating that Christmas music cannot be played in any store until the day after Thanksgiving.

I dislike the fact that stores need to light up there Christmas displays soon after packing away the Back-to-School Items. But I understand it. They need to milk the Christmas season for all they can, and I’m sure there’s some super-anal, overly prepared people out there already buying presents, wrapping paper, and cards. They’re the same people who visit their tax guy the day after receiving their W2s, and never miss a visit to the dentist.

You see, Christmas is a season, like baseball or football. It starts with the day after Thanksgiving and runs until the day after New Years. Or until the last college football bowl game is over. Yes, baseball players have spring training in March, and football teams start practicing in July, but the Christmas season doesn’t have to start in October.

I like that Christmas in California can sneak up on me. The days are shorter and the weather cooler, but it’s still sunny and sometimes even downright hot in December. I like that come the first week of December I get to attend my school’s Christmas dinner, think about what crafts to have my students make for their parents, and count down the days to my three-week vacation. I don’t want to use one-fourth of the year to think about Christmas. I like to enjoy the season for what it is: the birth of the savior, cards, letters, traditions, cookies, family, advent services, parties, mangers, angels, sheep. The whole nine cubits. And the music.

Last year, I discovered a group looking to make the most out of Christmas by prompting people to cut back. It’s called the Advent Conspiracy (adventconspiracy.org). I hope that for you Christ’s birth changed your life. But are stress, traffic jams, debt, and lists what we really want out of Christmas? What if Christmas became a life-changing event again? Year after year.

Advent Conspiracy was started by five pastors in 2006. It is a help for churches to encourage their congregants to Worship Fully, Spend Less, Give More and Love All. The website offers resources for pastors, videos, blogs, and ideas about what people around the world are doing to make the most out of Christmas.

AC realizes that Christmas starts with Jesus and its hope is to encourage others to worship Jesus fully by putting down burdens and celebrating a King. “To enter the story of advent means entering this season with an overwhelming passion to worship Jesus to the fullest.”

AC doesn’t take in any money. In fact, it hopes Americans will spend less. “America spends an average of $450 billion a year every Christmas.” Have you ever felt obligated to buy someone a present? How about received a present you didn’t want or need from someone you didn’t need or want a gift from? How about cutting back on the stress and burden of the season by purchasing one less gift this Christmas?

How do you spend less and still give more? By giving presence. “Time is the real gift Christmas offers us, and no matter how hard we look, it can’t be found at the mall.” Take the time to make a gift. Write a note with each Christmas card instead of just signing your name. Bake some cookies. Take the kids out. Spend time with others.

Things are tough these days. Many people may simply be spending less this year because they’re out of work. But we all have love to give. By spending less at Christmas we have the opportunity to give resources to those who need help the most. “When Advent Conspiracy first began four churches challenged this simple concept to its congregations. The result raised more than a half million dollars to aid those in need. One less gift. One unbelievable present in the name of Christ.”

AC also sponsors a clean water program. A lack of clean water is the leading cause of death in under-resourced countries. 1.8 million people die every year from water-borne illnesses. That includes 3,900 children a day, the number of children at 6.5 medium-sized elementary schools. “The solution to this problem is directly beneath our feet. Drilling a fresh-water well is a relatively inexpensive, yet permanent solution to this epidemic. Ten dollars will give a child clean water for life. Solving this water problem once and for all will cost about $10 billion.” Remember that stat about what America spends on Christmas?

AC is not trying to create a country of Grinches or Scrooges. Every December my family sends out Christmas lists. I find myself saying I don’t need anything, but I can usually think of a dozen things I want. We draw names and agree to buy a gift for the person whose name was drawn. But I always break the rule and get something for each family member. I really don’t need any gifts. If I truly need a book or a new cheese grater, I have the means to buy it myself. By not spending my own money on something I “need” just so I can ask a family member for it at Christmas seems selfish.

It is fun to bless others and surprise loved ones with gifts they don’t expect. There is joy in that. AC is not prescribing to stop all shopping. What’s better than watching a pajama-wearing, bed-headed child unwrap a new toy? I think the child in each of us still cherishes that gift-opening experience. Some people have the giving and receiving of gifts as their own love language. But as I get older, the Christmas memories I relish are the family meals, my annual cookie baking sessions with my sister, the night my wife’s family and I took donations to the Ronald McDonald house.

Perhaps the key to Christmas is balance. If you need to start planning and preparing for Christmas in October so you have more time and less stress in December, by all means go for it. Maybe that will be the sweetest music of all.

The (Face)book on the Baseball Playoffs

“The one constant through all the years,” said James Earl Jones’ character Terence Mann in the classic movie Field of Dreams, “has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It’s been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again. But baseball has marked the time.”

If you haven’t noticed, I love baseball. Before I was potty-trained my dad instilled in me a passion for the pastime. Today the postseason begins, making October the most exciting month in all of sports.

Baseball appears to be as predictable as a price-hike at Starbucks. It’s easy to pencil in the teams with the deepest pockets for the playoffs. Back in the spring, I forecasted that the Angels, Redsox, Yankees, and Twins would reach the postseason from the American League and the Phillies, Braves, Giants, and Cardinals would be battling in the National League playoffs. I was correct on five of the eight teams. The Angels tanked this year and the Redsox suffered more casualties than General Custer and still won 89 games. To be honest, I don’t know what happened to the Cardinals.

But what makes baseball great is its uncanny ability to be unpredictable. Who knew the Reds would run away with NL central, the Rangers would cruise in the AL West and that the Padres would contend for the postseason before losing on the last day of the season? The Rays were in the World Series two years ago, so their great season is not a shocker.

After falling in love with baseball, my father taught me to hate. Abhor. Despise. Loathe. Detest. The object of my hatred: The Yankees. The Bronx Boogers. I would root for the Taliban if they played against the Yankees in the World Series. It’s a national holiday at my house when the Yanks lose a postseason series. Yankee Elimination Day, I call it. It started when Luis Gonzalez blooped that Texas Leaguer over a drawn in Derek Jeter to win the 2001 World Series for the Diamondbacks. Between 2002 and 2007 the Angels, Marlins, Redsox, Angels, Tigers and Indians knocked New York to the mat. And each year I popped the champagne as if it were New Year’s Eve. The Yankees missed the playoffs in 2008, but bounced back to win another world title last year. Which is why, starting today, I’m lifelong resident of the Twin cities. If Minnesota falters, I’ll be shopping online for Rays or Rangers gear.

Baseball appears to be dominated by the ultra-rich because of the Yankee’s success. But seven of the top nine teams with the largest payrolls missed the playoffs this year. Also, just because the Yankees have consistently overspent their way to October doesn’t mean that the competition isn’t balanced. This year’s postseason features five new teams. And starting in 2001, eight different teams have won the World Series. Only the Redsox won more than once in the past decade.

Rooting against the Yankees causes one to be a fan of the underdog. The once-cursed Redsox were the poster child for loveable losers. But now they’ve won two championships, they spend nearly as much money as the Yankees, and their fans are doubly obnoxious. Having the Redsox miss the playoffs this year is nearly as sweet as celebrating Yankee Elimination Day.

In the NL, the Phillies have reached the World Series for two straight years. So they’re just pinstripes of another color. With the way players shift from team to team these days, I find myself pulling for players I’ve grown to appreciate. I liked Reds shortstop Orlando Cabrera when he was on the Angels, so I hope he and his untested Cincinnati teammates can take down the Phillies. Now that Barry Bonds is no longer in San Francisco, I don’t have to cringe if the Giants do well. Plus, that pitching staff will be fun to watch.

The conundrum is what to do with the Braves. Back in 1991, Atlanta unexpectedly went to the World Series and lost a thriller to the Twins. For nearly a decade and a half Atlanta was a model of consistency, but only captured one championship. Somehow, all that winning did not spoil the Braves experience for me. Bobby Cox is a classic. The trio of Maddux, Glavine, and Smoltz was just too good to deny. Atlanta didn’t overspend, but instead used trades and their farm system to maintain excellence. However, the annoying tomahawk chop does take them down a notch. It’s nearly as bothersome as having to listen to FOX broadcast Tim McCarver for the next three weeks.

The other day I was following status updates on Facebook of my friends who are also baseball fans. Somehow, unbeknownst to me, I stumbled on some sort of World Wide Web portal where I was getting status updates from ballplayers involved in some of the most famous postseason moments.


Vic Wertz: I should have pulled the ball. I hate the Polo Grounds (Willie Mays “Likes” this).

Bobby Thomson: I <3 the Polo Grounds.

Enos Slaughter: Running out for milk. Be back in a sec. Literally.

Johnny Pesky: I’ll be “holding” all my phone calls this October.

Kirk Gibson: Teaching my Diamondback players to hit a back-door slider …

Reggie Jackson: With one more at-bat I woulda hit four!

Bill Buckner: Going out for beers with Schiraldi and Stanley.

Don Larsen: Just returned from the chiropractor. Rizzuto, you hoist Berra next time.

Carlton Fisk: So excited! I start my new job tomorrow directing airplanes on the tarmac!

Bill Mazeroski wrote on Joe Carter’s wall: Joe, you may have been the highest-paid player at the time of your homer, but I’m in the Hall of Fame. Scoreboard!

Don Denkinger: Will be sending thank you notes to the first umpire to blow a call in the playoffs. Need Jim Joyce’s address.

Shoeless Joe Jackson: Twelve hits including the series’ only homerun. I’m just saying.

Annie Kinsella: If I had a dime for every time my husband hears voices …

Terence Mann: Corn. It is what it is.

Karin Kinsella: Likes handsprings and dislikes hotdogs.

Doc Graham: Hat shopping for Alicia (Again). Sigh.

Ray Kinsella: Plowing under another field. It’s how I roll.

Tony Gervase: Hey! Dad? You want to have a catch?

An Education in the Constitution

Did you remember to celebrate last Friday? It was Constitution Day and in schools across America from Lexington, Kentucky to Concord, California the Constitution was the star of the day.

I bet it would make our founding fathers proud to know that the document they signed on September 17, 1787 is still alive and kicking. Several notable dads were present that day, including, George Washington, John Adams, and James Madison, the only future presidents who penned their names. Thomas Jefferson was off in France, probably laying the necessary ground work for swindling the French out of the Louisiana territory.

Ben Franklin was in very poor health, and he signed with tears streaming down his face. Madison is known as the Father of the Constitution and he is the only convention member to attend all 100 sessions. It must have been arduous work, forming a country, until I read that the delegates only worked from 10:00 – 3:00. Got to love that five-hour work day. No wonder it took 100 days. But to their credit, they did have meetings on Saturdays.

The constitution was “penned” by a man named Jacob Shallus for $30.00. It was printed by John Dunlap and David Claypoole in Philadelphia. There appear to be quite a few spelling errors in our grand document. Apparently, Noah Webster wasn’t there to proofread. And Dunlap and Claypoole were probably running Window’s Vista on their printing press.

The most obvious is Pennsylvania written with only one “N” in the list of signatories. Actually, it was a common spelling at the time, for example, the Liberty Bell is etched with the one-N spelling. However, the constitution also uses the two-N spelling in other locations.

Other spelling issues are the words “choose” and “choosing” spelled as “chuse” and chusing”. But this too was a common alternate spelling at the time. Additionally, several words were inked using their British spelling counterparts: defence, controul, and labour.

To celebrate Constitution Day, I decided to write a constitution for my classroom. I began with a preamble: “We the students of room 32, in order to form a more perfect classroom, establish learning, insure a caring classroom environment, provide for the common understanding, promote the general friendship, and secure the blessings of education to ourselves and our teacher, do ordain and establish this constitution for the 2010-11 school year.”

My constitution mirrors our national document in several areas:

The right to bear arms (and clean hands) – (1) Every student has the ability to raise his or her hand instead of blurting out questions or calling my name over and over. (2) All students are capable of washing their hands after using the restroom, eating, or playing on the yard.

Free speech – (1) Every student is permitted to quietly ask questions to their neighbors before asking me. Especially if it’s about something I’ve already explained. (2) All students are expected to write and speak in complete sentences. This includes the written response section on the daily math homework. (3) All students are mature enough to read quietly in the library, pay attention in the auditorium, and save conversations to the lunch benches and playground.

Assembly – (1) See article 3 above. (2) Each student is expected to line up silently and walk swiftly to the destination in a quiet, timely manner. This does not mean lollygagging, hopping, twirling, and meandering in serious conversation on the way to lunch.

A classroom constitution needs to differ from one designed to oversee a country. Therefore, I had to establish a few other “rights.” Such as:

Freedom to organize: (1) Every student is expected to take excellent care of their materials and belongings, as well, as keep the tops and insides of their desks neatly arranged. (2) Each student is adept enough to take home their returned paper and tests, including the ones with non-passing grades.

Freedom to think: (1) Each student is allowed to think for themselves instead of waiting for me to give them the answer.

Freedom to be responsible: (1) All students are skilled enough to remember to take home their homework, complete it at home without complaining, and bring it back to school on time.

Freedom to read: (1) All students are free to read for pleasure or to learn. However, this does not mean wasting time by going back to the bookshelves over and over in a three-minute period.

Freedom to pee and to hold it: (1) Each student is capable of remembering to use the restroom before school, during recess, and at lunch. (2) All students are able to wait at least an hour at the beginning of the day or upon returning from both recess and lunch.

John Adams was a grammar school teacher before becoming a lawyer and a statesman. I found a quote of his interesting, “My little school, like a great world, is made up of kings, politicians, divines, fops (a vain person), buffoons, fiddlers, fools, coxcombs (a conceited pretentious person), sycophants (a self-seeking parasite), chimney sweeps, and every other character I see in the world. I would rather sit in school and consider which of my pupils will turn out to be a hero, and which a rake (an immoral person), which a philosopher, and which a parasite, than to have an income of a 1,000 pounds a year.”

I love it. My little classroom is my little world. But a democracy it isn’t. It’s my little monocracy. It’s an exhausting but wonderful job. I have the honor of trying to give them not just an education but also a little guidance to help them grow up and be thoughtful, caring, productive members of their communities, under the freedoms and protections that our grand Constitution provides.

Public education has quickly become all about test scores. Teachers and students are being judged not on a whole body of work but on few dozen math and reading questions. My job is to not only get children to pass the test but to also make sure they passed with a higher score than the previous year. I don’t take that responsibility lightly. But I’d rather my students be dependable, responsible, and compassionate adults than coxcombs and sycophants, regardless of their test score.

So, I hope my classroom constitution is helpful this year for both building knowledge and character. We’ll know in about 10 years when my students have to chuse what they want to do with their lives. Err ... I mean … choose. Thank God for spell checkers.

Life as a Lions "Fan"

My hometown of Detroit and my current home city of Los Angeles are about as similar as Aretha Franklin and Lady Gaga. There is one similarity in that both cities don’t have professional football teams. Ok, ok, I know the Lions “play” in Detroit, but they haven’t been relevant since the Eisenhower administration.

As summer slides into fall and football season starts up, my childhood pigskin memories come floating back to me like a Tom Brady pass to the corner of the end zone. There were the countless back yard, front yard, and school yard football games. There were sunny Saturdays listening to Michigan football announcer Bob Ufer. And there were frigid Sundays watching the NFL on the couch with my dad, a bowl of popcorn, sodas, and needlepoint.
Yes, needlepoint.

You see, my mother was more into pyramids than King Tut. If it could be sold with a pyramid-marketing scheme, she tried it. Tuperware? Totally. Avon? Always. She tried a powdered milk product called Meadowfresh. My sister and I called it Meadowbarf. She got into a clothing line called Queensway that had our living room looking MGM’s costume department. She eventually worked in computers and banking for a number of years, but she could never shake a good sales plan. She even sold May Kay cosmetics in her retirement years.

Ah, but the best one of all was a needlepoint company called Creative Expressions because she had cheap labor. If it could be made with a needle and thread, Creative Expressions sold it. Pillows, wall hangings, and coasters come readily to my mind. She needed a full supply of finished products before heading off to some neighbor’s house for a sales party. So, my dad and I were coerced into using our Sunday afternoons as a yarn-based work camp.

But we got to watch football, and lots of it. Da Bears, the Giants, the 49ers, and the Redskins were the power teams back then. So, while watching Lawrence Taylor, Walter Payton, Joe Montana, or John Riggins, I’d be working my fingers to the bone making coasters.

A young football fan in Detroit has to become a frontrunner at an early age. A frontrunner is a fan who roots for first-place teams. It’s an allowable act for a child, but not for an adult, because it’s, well, childish. I discovered the NFL in the late 70s when the Steelers and the Cowboys ruled the gridiron. Friends on my block were fans of one or the other. Allegiances were forged in iron, like auto parts built in a downriver factory.

I sided with the Steelers, and with hands as soft as feathers I could catch any Nerf ball thrown my way while dodging trees in Danny Emmons’ front yard or using Alec Rogers’ swing set as my end zone marker. I dreamt of catching balls like Lynn Swan or John Stallworth, tossed through blizzard-like conditions by quarterback Terry Bradshaw at Pittsburgh’s Three Rivers Stadium. I knew the Steelers’ starting roster by heart, but even to this day I can’t name one player from the Lion teams of the same era.

I’ve been to two Lions games total, both against the Bears. My dad had a friend in Chicago who would come to see the Bears play in the Pontiac Silverdome. He would load up one of those giant 70s vans with his buddies and enough beer to stock a college dormitory. My dad took me along and I got to play football with other kids on the grass surrounding the stadium before the game. My dad’s only rule: Don’t tell your mother anything. Apparently, what happens in Pontiac stays in Pontiac.

Detroiters have to view the NFL differently than other sports such as baseball or basketball. The Lions don’t have any rivals, because they lose to everyone. Without a rival, I don’t have a team to dislike. But Lions “fans” also have to live without the hope and anticipation that each new season brings. It’s a benign existence. We don’t have any thrilling playoff wins to recollect. But neither are there any heart-breaking losses to haunt our football-watching history. We live with disclaimers and sympathy. Whenever I meet a new acquaintance and the chatting turns to football, I have to sheepishly say, “I’m from Detroit,” when asked which team I follow. The person will always say that they’re sorry, as is I’ve lost a loved one.

So I watch the NFL almost as an alien in a foreign land. I am unable to give my heart to a team with which I don’t have a geographical connection. I grew out of my childhood crush of the Steelers. I didn’t fall in love with the Rams before they left LA. Who in their right mind wants to be associated with the Raiders? I don’t front-run and claim allegiance with the Colts or the Saints.

How bad are the Lions? Since 1930, that’s 79 years of football, they’ve won 46 percent of their games. They’ve appeared in only 17 playoff games. They are one of only four teams to NOT play in a Super Bowl. Since 1978 when the NFL went to its current 16-game schedule the Lions have had only seven winning seasons. They won 42 games in the 2000s. The Colts won 115.

I feel sorry for the players the Lions draft. They’ve had the first or second draft choice in three of the last four years. Reciever Calvin Johnson, quarterback Matthew Stafford, and defensive tackle Ndamukong Suh would probably be standout performers if they were on better teams.

True to form the Lions lost to the Bears yesterday. Stafford got sent to the locker room with a bum shoulder. Johnson almost made a game-winning catch but had his touchdown taken away by a weird rule. Suh had a sack. But a loss is a loss.

Living in LA gives me plenty of things to do on a Sunday. Sometimes I’ll do something outside, or I can stay in and watch football. Mercifully, the Lions aren’t on TV in LA. Maybe someday, in the distant future, they will win a Super Bowl. If so, I’ll be ready to needlepoint a set of championship coasters.

Pearl Harbor and the Ground Zero Mosque

My alarm clock was set to an all-news station and I woke to the report that an airplane had crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers. The story was still sketchy and sleepily I pictured a small private aircraft bouncing off of the indestructible building like a rubber ball against a brick wall. Yet, I was intrigued enough to flip on the TV in time to see the impact of plane No. 2.

A modern times Day of Infamy.

Last week I went to the U.S. Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. The starch white memorial stretches like a floating band-aid over the sunken battleship. Plans for the memorial began in 1943. Initial recognition came in 1950 when Admiral Arthur Radford, Commander in Chief, Pacific ordered that a flagpole be erected over the Arizona’s remains and on the ninth anniversary of the attack, a commemorative plaque was placed at the base of the flagpole. The memorial was finally dedicated in 1962, 21 years after the bombing of Pearl Harbor.

Nine years after 9/11, construction of an Islamic mosque and community center two blocks from Ground Zero is making more news than the building of the memorial to the World Trade Center victims. While at Pearl Harbor, I failed to notice a Japanese garden or temple. Not even a Benihana.

Initially, I found the plans to build the mosque insensitive and inappropriate. Sure, Imam Faisal Abdul Rauf is legally and religiously free to build there. Personally, I don’t want to see a mosque casting a shadow over Ground Zero. And I’m not alone. A recent New York Times poll showed that two-thirds of New Yorkers think the mosque should be built elsewhere. I think Ground Zero is hallowed territory and the 9/11 memorial to the victims needs to be completed soon. It better not take 21 years. Those people need to be honored. As September 11th approaches, I suggest you take a look at the website for the memorial … national911memorial.org … because it looks like it’ll be pretty amazing.


But, what is the radius on insensitivity? Three blocks away from Ground Zero? Four? Ten? This question alone causes me to pause and rethink the building of the mosque. Religion is a very hot topic now-a-days and the controversy of the mosque ignited Time Magazine to ask if America is Islamaphobic.
I am not Islamaphobic, but I’ll tell you what I am: terroristaphobic! I don’t believe that all Muslims are terrorists. But, there is a fanatical group of Muslims that want to see America destroyed like those ships at Pearl Harbor. There’s an email circulating these days comparing radical Islam to Nazi Germany. The email is a text from a 2007 Op-ed column from Israelnationalnews.com written by Paul Marek of Saskatoon, Canada whose grandparents fled Czechoslovakia before the Nazi invasion.

In the article, Marek explains that like most Germans in the 1930s, most Muslims today are fine peace-loving folks. He says that the German people were enjoying the return of national pride under Hitler and were too busy to care about how Germany was being restored. The majority sat back and let things just happen. Before long the people had lost the power.

Marek says the fact that most Muslims are peace-loving is irrelevant because it is the radicals who rule Islam at this moment. “It is the fanatics who march. It is the fanatics who wage any one of 50 shooting wars worldwide. It is the fanatics who systematically slaughter Christian or tribal groups throughout Africa and are gradually taking over the entire continent in an Islamic wave. It is the fanatics who bomb, behead, murder, or honor-kill. It is the fanatics who take over mosque after mosque. It is the fanatics who zealously spread the stoning and hanging of rape victims and homosexuals. It is the fanatics who teach their young to kill and to become suicide bombers.”

In his view, peaceful-majority equals silent-majority.

The Nazis were not history’s only fanatical killing machine. Europe and Asia certainly were not fun places to live in the years leading up to World War II. Those killed by the Russian (20 million) and Chinese (70 million) Communists dwarf the number of people Hitler murdered. And don’t leave out the Japanese who killed upwards of 12 million Chinese, Korean, Filipino, Indonesian, and Indochinese civilians as they romped through Southeast Asia. If you want an exercise that’ll have you thinking about sticking your head in the oven, try spending a few minutes researching this stuff on the Internet. Marek doesn’t even mention the atrocities committed by such sweethearts as Pol Pot and Idi Amin. He does bring up Rwanda. “Could it not be said that the majority of Rwandans were ‘peace-loving’?”

The gist of Marek’s column is that the peace-loving Muslims will one day be our enemy if they stay as silent as the peace-loving Russians, Chinese, Japanese, and Rwandans were. He ends by saying, “We must pay attention to the only group that counts – the fanatics who threaten our way of life.”

Now, if you don’t think that Radical Islam wants to destroy America, look no further than the words of Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad who has vowed to annihilate the United States. He has given speeches in which he’s asked, “Is it possible for us to witness a world without America?” He continued, “You had best know that this slogan and this goal are attainable, and surely can be achieved.”

In his 2002 State of the Union speech, President Bush delivered his famous “Axis of Evil” line in regard to Iraq, Iran, North Korea, and their terrorist allies. In the speech he talks about the potential attacks on America or our allies if these nations put nuclear weapons in the hands of terrorists. “In any of these cases,” he said, “the price of indifference would be catastrophic.”

Presumably, the indifference Bush referred to was America’s response to the 9/11 attacks. But, just maybe, the indifference, nine years later, is better applied to the peaceful majority of Muslims worldwide. Is it their indifference that would be catastrophic? Would allowing the Ground Zero mosque or others like it enable Islamic-Americans to passionately plea for peace from their radical brethren?

I pray it will. If not, there are going to be a lot more Ground Zeroes in our future.

Snickerdoodles for Strippers

I like to bake cookies for the teachers at my school.
Meg Munoz likes to take cookies to strip clubs.

In doing so, Meg is striving to bring Jesus’ love to a segment of our society with which most of us are unfamiliar. It’s a group with which she can identify. It’s a group that’s hurting and one that needs to be wrapped in the loving arms of the church.

The sex industry employees.

God has called Meg to start a ministry to the sex industry called, Abeni, which in Swahili means, “A girl prayed for.” She gets a little squirmy when the word “ministry” is used. She’d prefer to lose the word altogether. She’s just trying to live out a lifestyle of love and build relationships. Relationships built on trust, commitment, follow-through, availability, and consistency.

Meg is not one to hide her past. Her website (abenionline.org) includes a three-page testimony that at first reads like an episode of A&E’s popular show Intervention. She was drinking by age 7, smoking at 9, and using drugs at 11. The buzz words read like the script for a bad dream: depression, porn, anorexia, bulimia, speed, methamphetamines, physical, verbal, and emotional abuse, beatings, failed rehab, abortions, and attempted suicide. And that’s only page 1.

Page 2 doesn’t get much better. Next came part-time work in the sex industry doing private shows to pay for her drug habits. Later she toured southern California full-time from Ventura to San Diego for five years as an escort. And though the money was good, many of the old buzz words remained, and included their very unfriendly emotional colleagues; scared, unlovable, worthless, ashamed, guilty, degraded, unsafe, used, and rejected.

Before I cheer you up with the good news of page 3, let me hit you with the OMG-statistics of the sex industry:
• It’s an industry that makes 97 billion dollars a year.
• There are 2,700 strip clubs in the United States, more than any other nation. In comparison, there are only 1,724 Target stores in our country.
• Members in the sex industry have a higher rate of substance abuse issues, rape, violent assault, STDs, domestic violence, depression, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and Dissociative Identity Disorder.
• Commercial sexual exploitation or forced sex work is growing and is about to overtake the illegal drug trade as the largest criminal industry in the world.
• Between 200-300,000 children in the U.S. are at risk for being pimped out this year alone.
• Craiglist.com ads featuring adolescent females yield three times the transactions per ad… meaning that under-aged girls are purchased for sex three times more than adult women.

God’s loving fingers pried Meg from this industry. And now she’s going back in. She and two others from Abeni head out twice a month to visit local strip clubs armed with cookies and gift bags chock full of girly lotions, soaps, and lipsticks. The cookies are for the bouncers and managers of the strip clubs, because what guy can’t pass up a batch homemade cookies. And it helps to be able to get past the muscles at the front door. Just think of what Jesus could have done with cookies. Forget the fish and loaves. Had he been multiplying Snickerdoodles, half of the Roman Empire would have been listening to his sermons.

Anybody who’s been turned off by a Christian witnessing on the street corner probably thinks Meg is also filling her gift bags with evangelistic tracks, or pocket New Testaments. Nope. All that’s included is a simple, artistic card listing her website and email address. Meg doesn’t want the girls in the clubs to feel preached to. She wants them to know that they are amazing and are loved. In a world where everything is a transaction, where every lap dance or striptease comes with a price tag, she wants the girls to know that they’re getting something for nothing.

Abeni is not a new concept, though she is the first to reach out to Orange County’s strip clubs. Other such groups around the country include Hookers for Jesus, JC’s Girls, 4 Sarah, Pink Cross, Silver Braid, and Scarlet Hope. In Los Angeles County there’s Treasures (iamatreasure.com).

But neither is her ministry model new, in fact it goes back a good 2,000 years. However it is something of which I and many other Christians need to be reminded. Jesus lived counter to his culture and spent years tending to the physical and spiritual needs of the outcasts of his day: the lepers, the tax collectors, the prostitutes, the blind, and the crippled. Meg’s goal is to be a friend and to be available. Because she knows how these girls live and think, she’s there to help them move to a new apartment or to provide child care. Maybe they just need a cup of coffee or someone to listen to them, understand them, and pray for them.

Meg is open to whatever God wants to do with Abeni. She hopes for a prayer team, she senses extending Abeni’s reach into the Riverside area. She dreams of a scholarship fund and a transitional living facility. But, she also has great desires for the church to be different, to be more Christ-like; and less critical, judgmental, and exclusive. She wants Christians to stop grading sin and to study Jesus’ life and not let theology get in the way of bringing a love like his to their neighbors, because in her words, “The state of the world depends upon it.”

After talking with Meg you can’t help but come away encouraged, and also with a feeling that she deeply cares for the women in these clubs. And I’ve got to believe it’s because of page 3. It tells how God led her out of “the industry,” helped her gain sobriety, and walked with her down the path to freedom from the enemies of our souls – shame, guilt, fear, self-loathing, and rejection.

I am reminded of the story in Luke 7 in which a ‘sinful’ woman anoints Jesus with kisses, tears, and perfume. A Pharisee named Simon is aghast that Jesus is letting the woman touch him. It’s an incredible picture of Jesus’ heart. He doesn’t judge the woman or rebuke Simon. He calmly tells a story of two men, one with a larger debt than the other, who both have their debts canceled by a moneylender. He asks Simon which man will love the moneylender more? The one with the bigger debt, of course, is Simon’s answer. Jesus agrees and then goes on to contrast the woman’s grand gesture of love to Simon’s indifference.

Spiritually speaking, can one man owe a larger debt to God than another? In Matthew chapter 18, Jesus tells a story of a king’s servant who owes his master ten thousand talents, a sum equal to 2,000 years wages. In the story, the king forgives the debt. Translated into a spiritual context, the sum represents the magnitude of our sin-debt before God. I can imagine that at one point Meg thought her debt of sin was too much to be forgiven. But, in reality, her debt is no greater than yours or mine. The story of Simon and the sinful woman shows us how two different people view themselves and respond to the expansive covering of Jesus’ forgiveness of our sin: One is poor in heart; the other self-righteous.

You’ve seen what Meg’s response has been. What will yours be? Mine?
I know I’d like to be more loving to the people in my sphere of influence. And, perhaps, it’s also time to start baking some Snickerdoodles.

Muskets and Meatballs

The Redcoats are coming, the Redcoats are coming!
Calling all Durbins, the Redcoats are coming!
Janine, make like Paul Revere and ride, ride, ride.
Christy, keep your eyes peeled on the Old North Church.
Marybeth, grab your medical gear and prepare to treat the wounded.
Mariah, survey the battlefield.
Jeff, Bill, David, Brian and Jimmy don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes.
Trish, start sewing uniforms and flags.
Kayla and Angie, prepare the soldier’s meals.
Denise, get General Washington’s teeth.
Jenny, find your fife and drum.

I recently learned that an ancestor on my mother’s side of the family fought in the Revolutionary War. This makes my sisters, female cousins, and aunts Daughters of the Revolution. I am ready to sign up to be a member of the Sons of the Revolution. But why the segregation? This is 2010. It’s time for a new club. Beware King George, here come the Durbins of the Revolution!

I have always been proud of my father’s Italian heritage. I find it glamorous. We have DiMaggio, Pacino, DeNiro, and the Corleones. There’s calzones, gelato, and cannolis. Italy has so much history and culture. There’s Rome, Pisa, Florence, and Venice; Michelangelo, Pavarotti, Botticelli. I love my grandma’s powerful maiden name: Zanzano. The Gervase and Zanzano history is easily traceable back to the turn of the century when my great-grandparents passed through Ellis Island, settled in Buffalo, NY and set up shop running booze from Canada during prohibition. But we Italians are better lovers than fighters. My dad always said the thinnest book in the library is titled, “Italian War Heroes”. When it comes to the battlefield, it’s a bit of a bummer to be related to the bad guys in WWII.

My mother’s branch of the family tree is a little more nebulous. I’ve been told that I’m part English and Irish. When did my ancestors arrive on the continent? Sometime after 1620 I presume. Cities in my mom’s history are Detroit and Paducah, Kentucky. Not exactly Naples and Sicily. I’ve never thought of my mother’s lineage as all that exciting. That is until I learned about John Goatley; Revolutionary War Private John Goatley.

I recently had the pleasure of meeting Carolyn Kiesling, a relative and the resident genealogy guru of my mother’s family. My great-grandfather, Ivo Goatley had three wives. From wife number two came my grandma, Ruby Goatley. Her husband and my grandfather was Lloyd Durbin. Carolyn hails from Ivo’s third wife. She has been bombarding me with documents, photos, and historical records. Working backwards Ivo’s dad was Thomas Peter, who was the son of William, the son of Peter, the son of John, born in 1752 in Monroe, Virginia.

John was 24-years-old when the war for independence began. According to one of Carolyn’s documents, John signed up in 1776 and served under Captain John Allison in the Third Virginia Regiment. Apparently, private Goatley also served in the Corps of Horses under Colonel William Washington. He was taken prisoner by the British, tried to escape, and was wounded. He was sent to Richmond where he remained unfit for duty until the end of the war.

The Third Virginia Regiment was quite active in the war. It took part in the battles of Trenton, Princeton, Brandywine, Germantown, and Monmouth. One of its commanders was Thomas Marshall, the father of Supreme Court Justice John Marshall, who served in the regiment alongside Lieutenant James Madison. The regiment was also holed up during the siege of Charleston that occurred from March to May of 1780. Following the siege, much of the regiment was captured by the British. My research also turned up a mounted unit led by William Washington known as the Light Dragoons, which went up against Lord Cornwallis in the Carolinas.

I can only guess at the details of private Goatley’s wartime action. But the battles of Trenton and Princeton immediately followed George Washington’s famous crossing of the Delaware. Did John ride in the boat with the general? The battles of Brandywine and Germantown occurred in the fall of 1777, after the treacherous six-month stay in Valley Forge. Did John shiver and starve for liberty in that small Pennsylvanian village? Was he captured along with the rest of the Third Virginia after the siege of Charleston? Did he chat with Marshall and Madison about trial procedures or a certain woman named Dolly? I am anxious to work alongside Carolyn to see if more details can be discovered.

John Goatley’s involvement in the war explains some genetic characteristics of the Durbin clan. They are a very hardworking, resilient, and feisty bunch. My own dear mother probably would have fired the shot heard ‘round the world if she’d had the chance. Her mother Ruby was a born minute-woman. She would have kept the cleanest mess hall in the entire army, all the while serving the best cold ham and green beans in the outfit. I can see my Aunt Betty heading up the Continental Navy. My aunt Shirley, a talented letter-writer and a former nun, would have been at home issuing Last Rites and notifying the next of kin.

While my dad’s family is known for crafting the tastiest meatballs this side of the Trevi Fountain, I am proud that my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was active in firing musketballs at the Redcoats. Both sides of my heritage are wonderful and something for which I am thankful. I think the two are best summed up by the famous words, “Give me lasagna or give me death.”

Coming to America

Neil Diamond sang about it in 1980.
Eddie Murphy made a movie about it in 1988.
In 2010, Talgat Abuov is living it. He’s Coming to America.

I first met Talgat during a 1995 church trip to his native Kazakhstan. Myself and two comrades stayed in a flat with he and his mother in Aktau, a former Soviet industrial town on the shores of the Caspian Sea.

Aktau in August was as hot as the engine of a Russian Mig. I haven’t sweated as much in the 15 years since that trip as I did that month in Kazakhstan. Talgat’s second-floor apartment was often without running water, let alone air conditioning. We “flushed” the toilet by pouring a bucket of water into the bowl. On days when the pipes were flowing like a rock hit by Moses, water couldn’t be wasted with showers. I remember Talgat’s mother helping me wash my hair by dowsing me with water from a sauce pan. She was a generous host and treated us like kings, making sure our tea cups were filled with chai and our plates full of arbuz, the Russian word for ‘watermelon’.

Thanks to the internet and Facebook, I reconnected with my Kazakh friend before he arrived in America. Since our first meeting, Talgat, now 34, completed his education and earned a MBA at the Kazakh American Free University. He also relocated to Ust-Kamenogorsk in 2000, a beautiful but factory-filled city in eastern Kazakhstan. There he became a skilled translator and started his own Russian-English translation business.

Talgat arrived in America in June, after winning a green card in a lottery. Here we try to win concert tickets in radio-station giveaways. In Kazakhstan, you get to win a chance at a better life.

Growing up behind the iron curtain, Talgat said his impressions of America were formed by the government and the media. In school he regularly took Political Information classes. The Soviet TV news programs and the newspaper Pravda (Truth) portrayed America as an “imperialistic aggressor who intervenes everywhere around the world.”

Western influences began pouring into Kazakhstan after the USSR crumbled in 1991. Talgat began to see America through the eyes of Hollywood. With Stalone and Schwarzenegger leading the way, he saw America as a “pretty cool country.”

Perhaps the best way to learn about a country is to get to know its people. During the 90s more and more Americans visited Aktau. Talgat began to see America not so much as the world’s big bully, or the land of Rocky and the Terminator, but as a “rich country, full of opportunities, with a different culture, better supplies, and promising salaries.”

Spiritually speaking, Aktau under the Soviet rule was as lively as Lenin’s tomb. He said that he never heard about God and that people lived without prayer and without the Bible. “We believed in Lenin, in Communism. They were our gods.” Sure the Russian Orthodox Church was present, as was Islam. But Talgat said nominalism was the liturgy of the day. He said the protestant church was hiding underground and that slanderous rumors about such religious sects kept people away.

In the book, “What’s so Great about America,” author Dinesh D’Sousa devotes a chapter to the magnetism of the American ideal. Obviously, money is a main factor. D’Sousa spends a few pages highlighting the differences between the USA and Third World nations. America is a country where even the “poor people are fat.” But a lot of countries have rich people, not just America, and in those other places the rich are treated like kings. The difference is that while the wealthy in other lands may enjoy the “pleasures of aristocracy,” in America, somebody like Bill Gates isn’t fundamentally any better than you or me. “America is the only country where we call the waiter, ‘Sir,’ as if he were a knight,” writes D’Sousa.

And yet, socio-economic status is not the only pillar of appeal for the American Ideal. Here in America we get to blindly map out our own lives. My college, career, and spouse were not hand-picked for me. In most of the world, this is not the case. We are “architects of our own destiny”. D’Sousa says that the founding fathers captured this notion perfectly with the phrase, “the pursuit of happiness.”

The author writes that the founders primarily succeeded in meeting their goals. Ever been to New York City? Ever seen tribal or religious battles there? But have you seen white and African-Americans lunching together? How ‘bout Jews and Palestinians, Hindus and Muslims, Serbs and Croats, Turks and Armenians, Irish Catholics and British Protestants all working, eating, dreaming, and playing chess in the park together. In New York, and America, every immigrant is competing to “get ahead,” to “hit it big,” to strike it rich. “And even as they compete, people recognize that somehow they are all in this together, in pursuit of some great, elusive American dream.”

“The founders invented a new regime in which citizens would enjoy a wide berth of freedom – economic freedom, political freedom, and freedom of speech and religion – in order to shape their own lives and pursue happiness … the American founders created a rich, dynamic, and tolerant society that is now the hope of countless immigrants and a magnet for the world,” said D’Sousa.

Which brings us back to Talgat. He left his home and came here without a job or a car or even a driver’s license. He’s found his own church and is making his own friends. He loves peanut butter and fresh orange juice. He’s amazed at Downtown Disney, but even more by the produce aisle at Albertson’s. He’s pursuing happiness, reaching for the American dream. He’s attacking it like a child eating arbuz at a Fourth of July picnic. He said, “while I’m here, I’m going to suck out all the juices of America.”
Isn’t that just what the founders had in mind?

Repairing our Pastimes

The letter I had been waiting for from the White House finally arrived yesterday. It read,
Dear Mr. Gervase,
I have decided to appoint you secretary of my new Homeland Sports Repair cabinet post. Please send me your recommendations for fixing sports as soon as possible. I’m positive I can get the country, Congress, and EPSN to buy into your changes. Hell, I got Health Care Reform passed, I can do anything. Besides, I’m not doing much these days anyway.
Sincerely,
President Obama

Naturally, I jumped right into my new task. Here’s what I sent back:

Dear Mr. President,
These are my recommendations for the following sports:
Baseball:
• Widen the use of instant replay to include everything except balls and strikes or check swings. The Mets and Giants recently had a game decided by a bad call at the plate. Imagine if either team makes or misses the playoffs by a game. And what about poor Armando Galarraga? Not only did he miss out on a perfect game because of an ump’s boneheaded call, he also got sent down to the minors. Thus, the manager of each team gets one replay challenge per game. Get Apple to create a video replay application for the iPad. On challenges, the ball boys will bring it and four camp chairs out to home plate and the umpires can sit and watch the replays. Until the iPad is ready, the crew chief will have to walk up the stairs to the field level concourse, stand in line for a hotdog, and watch the replay on the TVs before making his call.
• Enshrine Pete Rose in the Hall of Fame. But he may not work in baseball. His accomplishments as a player merit his enshrinement. His crimes came after his retirement. If we can forgive President Clinton for what he did in your office, Pete can get his atonement too.
• Fix the All-star game. It no longer should decide home-field advantage for the World Series. Instead the teams from the losing league will have Tim McCarver’s audio feed from every game he’s ever announced piped into their clubhouses. If that’s not incentive enough to win, I don’t know what is. Cap the All-star rosters at 25 players. Every team doesn’t have to be represented, except for the host team.
• Tell the networks that they no longer get to dictate the start times for postseason games. No game will start later than 6:00 p.m. on the east coast. Wouldn’t it be nice if kids actually got to see their teams play in October? Don’t worry about us in the West. We can set our DVRs (Shhh. Don’t tell the networks that we don’t watch commercials).

NBA
• Dictate the league to go to back to having two refs. Maybe it’ll cut the number of fouls in a third.
• Mandate that the director of televised games is only allowed to use one camera during live action – the one at center court. I like that my couch is actually the best seat in the house. He needs to stop hindering my view. No half-court floor camera that shows nothing but the ref’s backside. No behind-the-basket shots that flattens out the court. No more switching from the standard view to an under the basket view in the middle of a fast break.
• High Schoolers can go straight to the NBA if they’re able, but if they go to college they must stay for three years. Baseball players do it, so can basketball players.


College Basketball
• Order the NCAA to not expand the tourney. It’s completely fine as it is.
• Send Dick Vitale to Afghanistan. There he could announce or coach in the TBL (Taliban Basketball League). After a week they’ll give us Osama Bin Laden just to get Dickie V (With his height, he’d make my all-Windex team, baby!) out of their beards.

College Football
• Playoff. Nuff said.

NFL
• Not much to tinker with here. Although the players’ off-the-field actions need to be cleaned up. Command all the teams to hire a family from the show, “World’s Strictest Parents.” Each rookie must then live with that family for a week. Then the parents get to administer all discipline to any player caught doing something off the field the parents wouldn’t approve of.
• Mandate that all preseason-game ticket prices are set at $5.00 each. Did you know that only two percent of NFL TV fans have actually attended a game? Going to an NFL game is a Bucket List item right up there with climbing Kilimanjaro or seeing the Great Wall of China. Wouldn’t it be nice if a few more fans saw the inside of a stadium before they died?

NHL
• It’s hard to even know where to start here. The sport recently returned from the ICU, but is one work stoppage away from a frozen cemetery. I’d start by enlarging the net, decreasing the size of the goalie’s pads, and using two pucks at once. More scoring can’t hurt.
• Eliminate the three periods, two intermission system. Like football and basketball, hockey needs four quarters and one halftime. Take a five minute break to clean the ice between periods. A normal intermission can then be had after the second period.

Soccer
• I think you can easily get Congress to generate some revenue from this global sport. Add a page to the Obama Care Bill requiring the FDA to bottle the World Cup and sell it as an over-the-counter sleep aid.

Decent Exposure

Dear Grandma, your grand kids are not cuter than mine.
If I had some grand kids, they would be much cuter than yours. And for that matter, my wife is prettier than your daughter, my dog is smarter than yours, my roses smell lovelier than yours, and my toaster makes better toast than yours!

I spend more time than a proctologist looking at rear ends and often I am both amused and shocked at what some people will stick on theirs. I’m talking about automobiles. I enjoy seeing what people have placed on their cars for my reading pleasure, but other times I cringe at the R-rated material.

I like trying to decipher the letter-limited vanity plates. Some people are very creative. Others are a little more cryptic. Yesterday I saw a plate that read, CSTMBLD. Was it custom build? Custom bold? Costume bled? I grow so curious that I want to get out at the first stoplight to inquire about the exact meaning. Other people can be so inane with their plates. BMER4ME: Yeah, no clue Buster, you’re driving a BMW. I hadn’t noticed. You have to advertise your status on your status symbol? Cool.

In ultra-conservative, mega-churched Orange County, the Jesus Fish has been replaced by the “Not of This World” window decal. It’s a reference to John 18:36 in which Jesus said, “My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, my servants would fight to prevent my arrest by the Jews. But now, my kingdom is from another place.” Sometimes I take things too literally. So, does it mean the car is from heaven? I bet God didn’t need a government bailout for his auto industry. Or does it mean the car is “saved” and is going to auto heaven. It’s been cleansed at the local John the Baptist’s car wash? Maybe the car just has a great deal of faith. “I can do all things through Castrol.” Yes, I know the driver of the car is a Christian and is signifying his or her membership in Jesus’ otherworldly kingdom. However, I’ve never felt the need to advertise my faith in Jesus on my car. I hope my life is advertisement enough.

Then there’s Grandma’s boasting about her ever-so-cute grand children. Give me a break Granny Braggadocio. I certainly hope that you think that your grand kids are really cute. But are they cuter than someone else’s? Can’t you say, “I think that my grand kids are really cute?” Why does our society have to be so into one-up-man’s-ship? Is life a game and you have to be the winner? Is everything Coke vs. Pepsi, McDonald's vs. Burger King, my grand kids vs. your grand kids?

As entertained as I am by some license plates, I am also shocked at the vulgarity and obscenity that a few people slap on their cars. I don’t need to see Calvin from “Calvin and Hobbs” taking a leak. I don’t need to see cuss words, including the F-word, while driving on the freeway. And grandma’s cute grand kids don’t need to see naked women on the way to day care.


Free speech and the first amendment are good things. But I also believe in decency. Decency is defined as “a standard of propriety, good taste, and modesty”. What happened to good taste? Do people with naked women and cuss words on their custom built pick-ups not care about decency? Obviously not. They certainly don’t care what others think of them. That’s fine. It’s a free country. But to not care about their personal impact upon others is sad. They don’t care that children who are learning to read will be sounding out those cuss words. I often imagine what it’s like for a parent to have to explain words and images that can be found on the backs of vehicles today. Just because it’s allowable to be indecent in the privacy of one’s own home, does not mean it’s in good taste to be a billboard of indecency on our surface streets.

I think what it comes down to is a lack of consideration of others. People are so concerned with themselves that they don’t give a second thought about how what they stick on their cars affect others or reflect upon themselves. We’ve gone from the “It’s all about me” generation to the “I don’t give a flip about you” generation.

I wish that some citizens would order up a generous helping of decency. From watching one’s language at the ballpark to removing items of poor taste from a car, showing a respect and concern for others, especially children, can certainly go a long way toward delaying the timetable in which our youth will get their exposures to indecency.

Unless of course Grandma is bragging about how cute her bleepin' grand kids are.