Hoping for Snow in Newtown

I hope it snows in Newtown today.

The slow-falling, soft, huge, puffy flakes that you can catch on your tongue kind of snow.

Not a blizzard, the folks there don’t need that stress. And not the dry powdery snow that stings your cheeks in the wind. But a few inches of the good stuff, the wet snow that rolls up into boulder-like balls. I’m hoping for the snow that soaks your mittens, packs firmly together into perfect white orbs, and squishes into puddles under your boots.

If it did snow, I’d want to go there and throw snowballs at street signs, and trees, and fence posts like I did as a kid. I’d launch one snowball for each tear I’ve shed since last Friday. I’d put all of my anger and sadness and disbelief into every throw and I keep hurling until my shoulder hurt.

And then I’d get to work. I’d build a snowman. But one snowman wouldn’t be enough. I’d make 20, all about three feet tall.

One each for Charlotte Bacon,

Daniel Barden,

Oliva Engel,

Josephine Gay,

Ana Marquez-Greene,

Dylan Hockley,

Madeleine Hsu,

Catherine Hubbard,

Chase Kowalski,

Jesse Lewis,

James Mattioli,

Grace McDonnell

Emilie Parker,

Jack Pinto,

Noah Pozner,

Caroline Previdi,

Jessica Rekos,

Avielle Richman,

Benjamin Wheeler,

And Allison Wyatt.

I’d arrange about eight in rows, seven others in a circle. Some would be in a group of three, next to another group of two. I’d place seven taller snow-woman in and around the 20.

Vicki Soto would be up front, teaching.

Rachel Davino would be helping a small group.

Lauren Rousseau could sit with the circled-up seven.

Anne Marie Murphy would be reading to the group of three.

Mary Sherlach would be observing.

Nancy Lanza would be there to volunteer.

Dawn Hochsprung will stand in the back, overseeing.

When finished, I’d invite the people of Newtown to surround my snow classroom. I’d seek out the first-responders, the pastors, and rabbis. I’d ask the grieving parents and the heart-broken neighbors to be there. I’d gather the counselors, acupuncturists, art therapists, and massage therapists who came from all over the east coast to lend support. I’d thank the guy from North Carolina who brought nine huggable, face-licking service dogs to help comfort the families. I’d greet the old man who lives across the street from Sandy Hook School and sheltered six kids who escaped the bullets. I’d find Lt. Paul Vance and shake his hand, tell him thank you.

People would bring scarves and hats to adorn the snow children. We’d put lights in the nearby trees. I’d tell anybody who’d listen about how I started my teaching career in a first-grade classroom. Those children in my initial class graduated from high school in 2012. I’d mention my chilling sadness that these 20 students will not see second grade, let alone a commencement ceremony. I’d remember the first graders that I currently tutor and stand dumbfounded that this could happen to little, innocent, happy, hungry-for-learning kids.

I’d ask the congregants to link hands and surround the children. Anybody would be free to share their thoughts, maybe say a prayer. We’d light candles. Following a moment of silence, we’d start with the Christmas songs. Silent Night. O Little Town. What Child is This? I’d think of the scene in “The Grinch” when the people of Whoville woke up on Christmas morning and still celebrated despite their missing gifts and decorations. And even though someone took so very, very much from this community, he couldn’t stop Christmas either.

I’d ask the people to end the singing with O Holy Night and then I’d slip away into the cold darkness with their voices drifting like snow behind me. I’d pause at the words that symbolize Christmas in my own mind and heart:

A Thrill of Hope,

A Weary World Rejoices …

… I’d fall on my knees and say my own little prayer. A prayer for healing and recovery in this weary place. A prayer for the thrill of hope to settle over this town the way it did many years ago in a small city in Israel.

I’d end my prayer with thanks.

Thanks for hope.

Thanks for Christmas.

Thanks for the children.

Thanks for the snow in Newtown.

The Great Syrup Heist!

I love a good heist movie.

There’s the Italian Job, the Bank Job, the Inside Man and coming you a theater near you, the Syrup Job.

If you’re a syrup lover, as am I, we recently avoided a major dilemma that could have had prices on Log Cabin going through the roof. On Tuesday three men were arrested in conjunction with the Great Canadian Maple Syrup Heist of 2012. The syrup, estimated to be worth over $18 million, was stolen over the summer. Police have tracked down two-thirds of the missing goods, most of which poured across the border into the U.S.

The province of Quebec produces 75 percent of the world’s supply of maple syrup. Canada has an OPEC-like organization that oversees the syrup distribution known as the Federation of Quebec Maple Syrup Producers. You have to love how sweet Canada is. Whereas Mexico has drug smugglers, Canada has a syrup cartel. Canada also has a strategic maple syrup reserve similar to the United States’ strategic oil reserve. The reserve is what the thieves targeted. Without its reserve, the Federation would have been forced to jack up the prices on every bottle of syrup from here to Pancake, West Virginia.

The reserve was harvested back in 2011 when the sugar maples were gushing sap like chocolate in Mr. Wonka’s factory. The Federation had to open up an extra warehouse to store its river of syrup. The surplus was pasteurized and stored in 16,000 drums, each containing 54 gallons. That’s 864,000 gallons or enough to fill 30 average-sized in-ground swimming pools. The syrup was ignored except for the occasional inspection. It was ripe for the picking. So, the thieves rented out an adjacent part of the building, drove in a few trucks, and siphoned out the syrup.

The caper wasn’t exactly straight out of Hollywood because the crooks got caught. The thieves never get arrested in a proper heist movie. First of all, it takes more than three guys to pull off a first-class heist. There should be a minimum of five. One guy has to be the mastermind, able to acquire the capital needed for the heist (Think George Clooney or Marky Mark). Another guy has to be the driver, able to navigate mini-Coopers through subway tunnels or over the fountains at the Bellagio. Another team member has to be an explosives expert. He can acquire enough dynamite to level a large mountain. The dynamite can be installed in about 12 minutes and detonated with a Wii controller. Also, every heist squad needs a computer geek who can program the White House Keurig machine with his smart phone or shut down all the electricity in the western hemisphere with an iPad.

Heist teams usually have a beautiful woman to cause any needed diversions or seduce a security guard or two. The group should have an international flair with someone from England, as well as an African-American or an Asian-American. It’s always good when you can get an African-American with a British accent (think Don Cheadle) or a pretty woman who can blow things up.

Lastly, the team has to have a set of blueprints, preferably downloaded by the computer guru. Because the internet apparently holds the blueprints to every building constructed since the Civil War.  

If Hollywood doesn’t produce a movie about the stolen syrup, perhaps A&E or Bravo can turn it into a television series. It can be the sequel to Breaking Bad. In Breaking Sap, Walter White and his partner Jesse Pinkman move to Canada and start their own illegal syrup producing lab. Mr. White uses his chemistry background to mix up the sweetest, purest tasting maple syrup outside of Vermont and slowly begins to eat away at the Federation’s monopoly of the world’s market. Walt and Jesse are able to get their syrup into every Denny’s and IHOP on the eastern seaboard. Walt wants to be the Syrup King of North America. The only thing in his way is the Federation and its vast reserve. Walt decides he has to steal it all.

To steal the syrup, Walt will need a top-notch heist team. Once he has the syrup he can move it across the border and attempt to put Mrs. Butterworth and Aunt Jemima out of business.

Hmm? Perhaps reality isn’t any stranger than fiction. But its probably much more stickier. Just ask the three guys who were arrested Tuesday.

A Christmas Chicken Conspiracy

“Regard it just as desirable to build a chicken house as to build a cathedral,” Frank Lloyd Wright.

Thanksgiving. Over.

Black Friday. Finito.

Small Business Saturday. See ya.

If you can make it past tomorrow’s Cyber Monday, it’s all downhill until Christmas. Like it or not, the holidays are here. Are you one to embrace the full five weeks of the Christmas season, or do you dread the food, parties, shopping, wrapping, and travel?

I think I fall somewhere in between. I don’t shudder at the season, but I try to delay it as long as possible. For me, the Christmas spirit doesn’t usually kick in until mid-December. From now until then I’ll try to avoid the music and the stores. I’ll cringe at the December to Remember commercials. I’ll even ask for a regular white cup at Starbucks. But then, about a week before the big day, something switches within my soul. I’ll shop. I’ll wrap. I’ll bake. I load up my favorite Christmas playlists. And I’ll try to remember the meaning behind it all.

For that last one, I welcome the reminder from a group called Advent Conspiracy (adventconspiracy.org). AC was started back in 2006 as an effort to get church-goers to consider Christmas in a completely different way. AC’s four-pronged mission is to encourage people to Worship Fully, Spend Less, Give More, and Love All.

AC is not suggesting you cease all gift-giving. It’s more of a call to stop spending frivolously, on gifts that aren’t necessary and that won’t be remembered. Instead, put that money or the hours spent acquiring and wrapping those extra gifts toward devoting time with those you cherish in your life. By doing that you’re actually giving more … of yourself.

Another way to give more is to donate to those who are truly in need. To those who didn’t just have a massive feast, to those who think a Doorbuster Deal is when the local market has few extra eggs, to those who camp out all night or walk few miles for fresh water. By spending less you’re actually freeing up your resources to love others. If you are a follower of Christ, by loving others in his name, you’re loving Him and worshipping Him more fully. Of course, you don’t have to go to church to do these things.

I’d like to add another pillar to AC’s platform: Raise More Chickens!

The small church I attend, Life Covenant in Torrance, CA, has been helping out in the African nation of Mozambique. It’s not the easiest country to find, but if you were on the island of Madagascar and started swimming west, you’d hit Mozambique. Like most of Africa, it’s a pretty rough place economically. According to businessinsider.com, Mozambique ranks 12^th on the list of poorest countries in the world. Over the years, Life Covenant has been working with an orphanage in the city of Beira called the Melanie Center. In addition to housing and caring for orphans, the Melanie Center also serves as a hub for the community, providing educational resources and health care services for the local villagers. Additionally, the couple who run the center, John and Maria Jon also train up pastors who set up churches in the outlying villages.

The Melanie Center has a goal of becoming self-sufficient. To do so it’d like to start a local business. The decision has been made to begin a chicken raising enterprise that the church is calling: Operation Mozambeaks!

Operation Mozambeaks will call for the building of two large chicken pavilions and two houses for families who will live onsite and oversee this little chicken industry. Once the pavilions are built, the first wave of chickens can start being raised. These chickens will be used as food for the locals. The revenue will bring the Melanie Center one step closer to being self-sustaining. It is believed that as much as 25 percent of the Melanie Center’s operational costs can be earned from the chickens. This would then allow Life Covenant to give more elsewhere in the area.

Life Covenant is definitely not counting its chickens before they’re hatched. After nearly a year of planning, researching, and crunching numbers, it’s been determined that this project can get up and running for $7,500.00. This total includes the first 500 baby chicks, food, and warming lamps.

Operation Mozambeaks is just one way you can live out the Advent Conspiracy this Christmas season. AC also promotes two additional means of helping others. One is through Living Water International (www.water.cc) which is trying to end the world’s clean water crisis. The other is the International Justice Mission (ijm.org) which strives to bring rescue to victims of slavery, sexual exploitation, and other forms of violent oppression. By the way, AC doesn’t take in a dime.

Online donations for Operation Mozambeaks can be made at lifeformoz.com. Gifts can be given directly at Life Covenant on Sundays. I’d also be happy to drop off a contribution in your behalf if you’d like me to do so.

In closing, take a quick second and write down what you received and gave last Christmas. Exactly. Except for a possible big ticket item, it’s hard to recall everything. So, this Christmas, how about taking the Advent Conspiracy to heart? Maybe put less under the tree and more into the building of an African chicken house.

Emailing Heaven

To: Helen D. Gervase

Cc/Bcc:

Subject: Nine Years

Hey Ma!

It’s hard to believe that it’s been nine years since you drew your last breath here on earth and crossed heaven’s horizon into your new home. I’m not sure how accessible you are to the activities down here, so I thought I take a minute to update you.

First of all, did you know that Neb and I get together every November 8^th to honor you? It’s our little tradition. We always have a shot of Irish whiskey and a back of stories, laughter, and tears. Ma, you should see what that girl has accomplished. She’s about a month shy of becoming a nurse! We’re so proud of her and I know you’d be too. She’s worked tremendously hard and has been studying her butt off! She’s been doing all this while being a mom to those two amazing kids. Helena, just turned five and already has as much spunk as you did. Enzo is two, and he’s a gentle soul. He adores his stuffed dog and loves following his big sister around the house.

So, Nurse Neb has a nice ring to it. You know she’s taking after her big sister, right? Yep, Christy paved the way. She’s a Perioperative Nurse. I’m not sure exactly what that means, but I think it’s the major leagues of nursing. Life and death kind of stuff. Surgeries and the like. Christy is another tireless worker. She’s looking great, staying in shape, and keeping a busy household afloat. She has a special glow about her. Then there’s Hannah and Joe. Get this, Hannah is a senior in high school and will be off to college next fall. Joe is a sophomore. They’re both incredibly smart, articulate, funny, and well, a lot of fun to be around.

Dad is the “Geeze about Town”. Just like Norm on “Cheers,” everywhere you go in Monterey, there’s somebody who knows his name. Big G was a prominent columnist for a good seven years, but his ink space dried up. He’s staying busy by helping to get another local newspaper off of the ground and serving on a dozen local committees. When I go to visit him, I expect to see his face on the side of a bus, he’s that popular. Which I guess is better than seeing his face on the wall at the post office.

And me? Well, I’m okay. Still teaching the kiddos. I’ve finally made it up to fifth grade. On the side, I get to play a lot of softball. My health is good. I went to Peru a few years ago. Other recent trips have taken me to Oregon and Washington D.C. I have a new dog. The previous one passed on in January. Maybe you’ve seen him? Brown, medium-sized, cute as can be, a bit of a whiner.

Anyway, I sure miss you. There were times in those first few years that were tough; the first year especially. In church, if heaven was mentioned, I was wrecked. I quickly learned to prepare for the major “sorrow” events such as Mother’s Day, your birthday, and Nov. 8th. But it was the random memories that popped up and dropped me to the canvas. For example, one day I was walking on the wharf in Monterey and I turned a corner and saw the landing where we went whale watching together. Sucker punch. Or the time I found your magnetic sewing needle container in dad’s pantry. Right cross. I was immediately taken back to youthful days of playing on the floor and watching you sew. One little tangible object of yours had the power to open the floodgates of grief.

Grief is strange. It’s like an active volcano that erupts without warning. The eruptions have definitely lessened. But, strangely, there’s a part of me that wants them to occur. As if through moments of heartache we can still connect. I sometimes feel guilty because the time between eruptions stretches out for months. I desperately want to feel those connections, but I can’t control when they’ll happen.

I’ve discovered that grief is the most profound and formational emotion I’ve encountered. I think it worked me over, spun me around like a washing machine, and spat me out a changed person. Of course it’s a long process. The spin cycle can take years. And during that phase I was probably a jerk more times than not. I think perhaps I am softer and more gentle. I hope to believe I am more compassionate and more in tune with the sorrows and needs of others. I think grief caused me to grow. I wouldn’t want anyone to experience such pain, but after all these years, I can say with certainty that it had a maturing effect on my life. I hope that’s not bragging. Others may not be aware of it. But I am.

And you know, mom, looking at Christy, Jenny, and dad, I think they’ve come out of the spin cycle just as smoothly. I still don’t understand why you had to leave when you did. But I think I have a better understanding of the good that’s come of it.

Of course, you’ve probably known this all along. Knowing you, you may have even had a hand in it.

Pour the Jameson’s … and thank you.

Love,

me