don't eat alone

I had the kitchen to myself today.

Since I was gone this weekend and it turned out to be one of the busiest of the year at the restaurant, I worked today so the others could have a day off. I got to the Inn about 10:15 am and left around 10:15 pm, with a steady stream of customers and a prep list as long as my arm to work through. I’m tired and, as Jackson Browne sings, “When the morning light comes streaming in I’ll get up and do it again. Amen.”

As much as I work, I’m surrounded by folks who work more than I do. Robert, our head chef, pretty much lives at the Inn. Most of the other cooks and dishwashers have at least one other job. Pedro, who is my dishwasher on Monday nights, works a construction job all day and then washes dishes from six to midnight. He bounces in every evening with a loud, “What up?” and a smile on his face. Tonight, at 9:30, I could hear him singing in the dishroom. When he came out to put the clean dishes away, I told him his happiness helped me.

“It’s good to be happy,” he said. “I got problems, but I leave them at my house. Everybody got problems. Why I need bring mine to work? I like my job. I work hard. I like people. I’m happy.”

Ginger got home tonight after an extended day of travel, thanks to Northwest Airlines and some nasty weather around here. I came home to a familiar and welcome sight of my wife and schnauzers all curled up together on the couch. I showered, put on my pajamas, and hung out with them for awhile before I came up to write. Gracie followed me upstairs and has curled up in the armchair next to my desk, as she usually does. With each tap on the keyboard, exhaustion gives way to sleepiness. In the few hours between when I left work and when I go back, I am, as Martina McBride sings, safe in the arms of love.

Tonight, I go to sleep more grateful than tired.

Peace,
Milton

Farrier was the word on the way to Birmingham; pedorthics was the word on the way home: “the art concerned with the design, manufacture, fit, and modification of foot appliances as prescribed for relief of painful or disabling conditions of the foot.”

On the flight from Atlanta to Manchester, I sat next to a woman who is a cobbler and had been at a pedorthics symposium to learn more about how to help people with their feet. Much like the guy who shoed horses so they could feel healthy, this woman did the same thing for humans. They also shared a love for their work. I came away amused that my trip had been bookended by feet.

Ginger doesn’t come home until tomorrow night, so I stopped at Blockbuster to pick up a movie to pass the time and ended up taking an unexpected journey. Kevin Wilmott wrote and directed The Confederate States of America, a mock documentary history of our nation as if the South had won the Civil War. It has the look and feel of Ken Burns’ work, using some original footage, along with old newsreels and educational films, and peppering it all with some bitingly satiric commercials.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when it started. I was half prepared for a very anti-Southern diatribe, which it was not. It was much more about “us” as a nation rather than “them” as the South. Wilmott does a wonderful job capturing our personality as a nation and resituating it in the changed outcome of the war; he also has a keen eye for what the consequences might have been. The most disturbing thing is some of them are not that much different than what life looks like in America today. It’s worth watching – and watching with some folks who can talk about it afterwards.

My father-in-law had a good weekend for the most part. There was obvious evidence that his short-term memory is fading and the family reunion offered him the chance to relish in the times he remembers with astounding detail. He’s a good storyteller and he’s got some great stories to tell. My favorite moment of the weekend came I was getting ready to fix dinner Friday night. Soon after Ginger and I met, I told her one day the difference in our families’ attitude towards food was when my family ate it was an event; her family ate so they didn’t die. Neither of my in-laws feel compelled to spend a lot of time in the kitchen.

“What are you fixing for dinner?” my father-in-law asked.
“Pot roast,” I answered.
With a mischievous look in his eye and a gentle smile aimed at his wife he said, “Pot roast – what’s that?” And then he laughed. We all did.

One more movie note that’s just too good to pass up. When I clicked back to the TV after the CSA movie was over, Cool Hand Luke was on. Paul Newman is the coolest guy ever. For no other reason than the scene just grabbed me, here is Luke’s prayer in the closing scenes of the film:

“Anybody here? Hey, Ol’ Man, You home tonight? Can you spare a minute? It’s about time we had a little talk. I know I’m a pretty evil fella. Killed people in the war and got drunk and chewed up municipal property and the like. I know I got no call to ask for much but even so, you gotta admit, you ain’t dealt me no cards in a long time. It’s beginnin’ to look like you got things fixed so I can’t never win out. Inside, outside, all ’em rules and regulations and bosses. You made me like I am. Just where am I supposed to fit in? Ol’ Man, I gotta tell ya. I started out pretty strong and fast. But it’s beginnin’ to get to me. When does it end? What do ya got in mind for me? What do I do now? All right. All right. (He kneels on his knees and cups his hands in prayer.) On my knees, askin’. (pause) Yeah, that’s what I thought. I guess I’m pretty tough to deal with, huh? A hard case. I guess I gotta find my own way.”

A few police cars drive up in front of the church. Dragline calls out to his friend from the church door: “Luke?”

Luke looks up and addresses an aside to God: “That’s your answer ol’ Man? I guess you’re a hard case too.”

Peace,
Milton

I want to take time to mention three culinary-related adventures during my short visit to Irondale, Alabama.

• The Irondale Cafe is better known as “The Whistlestop” because of the movie Fried Green Tomatoes, which they serve when in season. I went for the fried catfish and hushpuppies this time around.

• The Krystal. (In this part of the world, you say “the” in front of most store names.) I’ve been in this monument to small square hamburgers everyday because they have free WiFi. Seriously, how can they have free wireless and Starbucks still make you pay for it? More seriously, you have to try the Corn Pups.

• La Cucaracha. That’s the name of the closest Mexican restaurant to my in-laws’ house. I’m assuming they know they named their eating establishment for an insect whose presence violates the health code, but that’s not important now. They have really good food and even better margaritas, but what I will remember most is the mariachi band who do a mean rendition of “Sweet Home Alabama.” I wish Neil Young could remember what the song sounds like with guitar, fiddle, and guitaron. Roll, Tide, roll.

Time to sign off and get some sleep before my sunrise flight back home. But first, I think I’ll have one more Corn Pup. Though I don’t have video of the mariachi, I did find this:

Turn it up.

Peace,
Milton

Not long after I finished writing yesterday, I boarded the plane for Birmingham and sat down next to a big guy from Moody, Alabama, which is not far from Irondale, where my in-laws live. He was ready to talk. Usually, I sit down and fall asleep when I get on a plane, but this time I was awake, so I listened and asked questions.

He told me he was returning home from a trip to Salt Lake City where he had been teaching. He was about six foot three, maybe sixty, with salt and pepper hair and a mostly grey moustache and goatee. I had the sense that he usually wore a cowboy hat, though he was not wearing one on the plane. He had an affable, Slim Pickens sort of manner, all of which left me wondering what kind of classes he taught. So I asked him.

“Proportional horseshoeing,” he answered.

I still had no idea, so I asked some more questions. He was happy to answer. After a lifetime of shoeing horses in Alabama, he developed a way of looking at the horse more holistically and then shoeing the horse appropriately.

“I look at horses to see what they’re built for,” he said. “You can learn a lot by looking. I look at you and I know you can cook ‘cause you told me, and I know you could play lineman for the Green Bay Packers. But you ain’t gonna play center for the Detroit Pistons. You could be a lineman. You’re a large man.”

I got the point.

“I stand on one side of a horse and take a perfect mental picture and then go around to the other side and notice what muscles are out of place. God made horses to turn left and right and go forward and backward. When they can’t do those things, something is out of line. I look at the horse and find out what needs to be corrected.”

“And then you can fix it by the way you shoe the horse?”

“That’s right. It’s like putting on orthopedic shoes. I may put a pad in between the hoof and the shoe, or something like that. I’ve got horses people thought were through that are back at work and going strong just because I taught the people how to shoe them properly. It’s worked out pretty good for me,” he continued. “I’ve been self-employed all my life and this has turned into a pretty good retirement plan; people pay good money for me to come teach ‘em.”

My mind jumped to metaphor like a well-shoed horse in a steeplechase.

“What strikes me, “ I said, “is how often life changes for us when we pay attention to the small stuff and take time to notice what’s out of line in our lives, or have someone else point it out.”

We spent the rest of the flight talking about what kind of eyes we needed to see our lives the way he looked at his horses. Just a half hour before, I’d been sitting on the floor in the airport watching people walk, lemming-like, to baggage claim and now I was sitting nest to a guy who paid attention for a living – and changed lives because of the way he looked at things. All this from a farrier (my word for the day).

As I sat down to write today, an old nursery rhyme rose to the top of my memory:

For want of a nail the shoe was lost.
For want of a shoe the horse was lost.
For want of a horse the rider was lost.
For want of a rider the battle was lost.
For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

The explanation that followed on the web site where I found the poem said:

A clever set of lyrics encouraging a child to apply logic to the consequences of their
actions. Perhaps used to gently chastise a child and explain the possible events that might follow a thoughtless act.

The horse sense I found in my conversation on the plane and the rhyme together leads me to think about the possible events that might follow a thoughtful act. The man next to me was making a living helping people see their animals in a life-giving way, rather than discussing how to cut their losses. The biggest consequence to thoughtlessness is we give up too easily. The more we are acculturated to expect planned obsolescence, the more intentional we must become in looking for ways help each other last.

When they brought the adulterous woman to Jesus, he saw her not as an exception, but an example of humanity worth saving.
When he saw Zaccheus in the tree, he saw more than a crook; he saw a philanthropist.
When he saw the blind man, he didn’t see someone who was being punished by God, but someone through whom the love of God could shine.

I want to learn how to see the world – to see the people around me – with those kind of eyes. For now, I’ll say thanks for the farrier: he made flying fun again.

Peace,
Milton

When I was a kid, I loved to fly. Heck, for most of my life that’s been true.

There’s always been a certain romance to getting on a plane and crossing a continent or an ocean in a matter of hours. When we lived in Zambia, we used to drive out to the airport in Lusaka to watch the British Airways VC-10s land. No one in the country had ever seen a plane that big. The flights were still long and often inconvenient, but we were stepping into the world of the Wright brothers and Charles Lindbergh and Ameila Earhart. We were doing what Icarus dreamed of and this time the wings didn’t melt.

When we came back to the States on leave, we took a flight from Amsterdam to Montreal to Houston twice. I was going into sixth grade the second time and I remember taking off from Amsterdam right about sunset and flying due west all night long just fast enough to keep the sun from going down until we landed in Canada. Then there was the time – a little more harrowing and turbulent – when we flew on an old DC-3 from one end of Malawi to the other at about 7,000 feet. The next week, my brother and I were playing tennis at the Baptist encampment at Limuru, Kenya at the same altitude.

I’m writing tonight from the Atlanta airport, one of my least favorite places in the world. I’m sitting on the floor next to an electrical outlet (so I can plug in my MacBook) and wondering where the romance went. It’s not so much fun to fly anymore. Part of the reason is the size of airports like this one. It took me about a third of the time it did to fly from Manchester, New Hampshire to Atlanta just to get from the gate where I landed to the gate where I’m making my connection to Birmingham. In between, they’ve managed to turn the airport into a hybrid shopping mall, another dehumanizing environment. While I’m in hell I can still shop!

Part of the reason is flying is much more common. Airlines are flying buses these days; it’s how we get around. When the Space Shuttle made its first landing, I remember Frank Reynolds lamenting the end of our romance with space. Now, he said, it will become commonplace – and it did. Mine was the last generation that stared up into the starry night hoping to see satellites and wondering what it felt like to be Neil Armstrong.

The rest of the reason is fear. (Yes, I realize this is a recurring them for me.) While I’ve been sitting here on the floor writing – about thirty minutes – the same Homeland Security (I hate that name) announcement has played telling me the alert color is Orange (relatively high) and I have to put any liquids and gels in a separate clear plastic bag, which they will provide and which can be searched separately of my carry on. The woman behind me in Manchester had to forfeit her eye drops because they were in a 4.5 ounce container rather than a three ounce one. Once they confiscated it, I was sure the color would drop to yellow.

Fear makes us lose our sense of humor. Southwest, I will say, has managed to keep theirs, for which I’m thankful. My favorite instruction came the day the flight attendant was telling us how to use the oxygen masks and said, “If you are traveling with a child, put your mask on first and then fix theirs. If you have two children, pick the one you like best and tell the other one you’re sorry.”

I’m not sure there’s much romance in that, but it was funny. I like funny.

There’s probably not a way to keep the romance in flying. The world got smaller and we kept getting on airplanes until it was not as big a deal. They really are buses with wings. Maybe it’s not the romance I’m missing. Chasing that turns me into a nostalgic those-were-the-days-and-you’ll-never-know-what-it-was-like kind of guy. I don’t want to be him.

As I’m writing, a flight has just unloaded at the gate across from me. The people walked out single file as if they were in Jonestown looking for Koolaid. Maybe that’s what bugs me. We know it’s ridiculous to give up our eye drops in the name of safety, but we do it. We know a bag of peanuts and a biscotti does not qualify as a meal. We know if we ever have to use our seat cushion as a flotation device we’re done for. We know the color of the day makes absolutely no difference. We know we’re being fed a load of crap.

And we still line up with our boarding passes and do what they say.

Rise up, O men and women of God; be done with lesser things.

At the end of Arlo Guthrie’s wonderful song, Alice’s Restaurant – all twenty-five minutes of it – he tells his audience:

And the only reason I’m singing you this song now is cause you may know somebody in a similarsituation, or you may be in a similar situation, and if your in a situation like that there’s only one thing you can do and that’s walk into the shrink wherever you are ,just walk in say “Shrink, You can get anything you want, at Alice’s restaurant.”. And walk out. You know, if one person, just one person does it they may think he’s really sick and they won’t take him. And if two people, two people do it, in harmony, they may think they’re both [nuts] and they won’t take either of them. And three people do it, three, can you imagine, three people walking in singin a bar of Alice’s Restaurant and walking out. They may think it’s an organization. And can you, can you imagine fifty people a day,I said fifty people a day walking in singin a bar of Alice’s Restaurant and walking out. And friends they may thinks it’s a movement.

Hear me clearly: I’m not advocating bomb jokes or demanding to carry your Big Gulp sized shampoo in your carry on, yet there has to be a way to be creatively subversive to reclaim our humanity.

Sit in the corner and sing while you’re waiting for your flight.
Skip from gate to gate.
Give a package of Peanut M & Ms to the surly gate agent.

Maybe I’m crazy, but all I need are a few of you and we’ve got ourselves a movement. I guess that’s why I’m wearing my orange shirt today. I wonder if the TSA has noticed.

Peace,
Milton

For the first time in about four months, I have four days off in a row.

I’m flying to Birmingham tomorrow to meet Ginger and hang out with my in-laws and go to a family reunion (well, at least part of the family – Ginger’s cousins are all over that country); I come back on Sunday in time to be back at work on Monday. I’m glad to be getting away. I hope it gives me a chance to find some perspective on the disappointment of the week. I walked up to the bakery this evening – it closed as of this morning – to find everyone just walked out. They didn’t clean up or put up or do anything. There was still pancake batter, eggs, and fruit in the refrigerator and cookies and pastries in the display cases. It looks like it should be filled with the sounds of people sharing meals and the aroma of breads and cookies coming from the kitchen.

Instead, it stands hollow, more than empty.

The main reason I’m working so hard to get to Birmingham is to see my mother-in-law and my father-in-law. She had triple coronary bypass surgery in September and is doing wonderfully. I haven’t seen her since the surgery. He is dealing with the early stages of Alzheimer’s and is fading incrementally. I want to be with him as much as I can. I thought of him as I stood in the bakery this evening, a room that looked like it should be inhabited but was not. He is the man I have come to love dearly over the years and he’s not the same: he is not completely inhabited anymore. He is fading away and I don’t want him to go. He’s one of the good guys.

He is a man who has always put his arms around the world. He never met a stranger, he is always ready to have a conversation, and he always feels “fine, wonderful, magnificent.” One of my favorite stories about him happened a few Thanksgivings ago. My in-laws were here for the holiday, as were a few friends who have become intentional family. One of them is gay. We have a sectional couch and between Thanksgiving and New Year’s we put a futon mattress down to make a big palette in front of the TV. My father-in-law and our friend were lying on the mattress together watching a football game. I, the straight son-in-law, was in the kitchen making Thanksgiving dinner. Ginger walked through and said, “Hey Dad, did you ever think you’d be lying on the couch with a gay guy watching football while your straight son-in-law was cooking in the kitchen?”

He said, “No, but he’s a pretty good guy,” and then let out a belly laugh. For our friend, whose father won’t let him come home until he’s willing to be straight, the moment was grace incarnate.

Northern Alabama is filled with people who have been touched by his love and hopefulness. There are folks in our church here in Marshfield who love him deeply, even though he only gets to come up once or twice a year. He is a man of open heart and gentle spirit, one of the finest people I know.

John Prine has a song called “Hello in There.” The chorus says,

old trees just grow stronger
and old rivers grow wilder everyday
old people just grow lonesome
waiting for someone to say
hello in there
hello

The thought of him fading into loneliness breaks my heart. Hopefully, the medicine he is taking will keep him from fading quickly and give us all some good years together. As deeply as so many names are etched upon his heart, it’s going to take a lot to make him forget.

Peace,
Milton

I was heading to church tonight for the “Affluenza” class when I hit a big rock or piece of curb stone or something along the edge of the road in the town center. I felt it. My right front tire sort of skipped.

I kept going.

About a half a mile from the church, I started to hear a flapping kind of noise coming from the right side of the car and I knew my tire was going flat. Since I was on a dark two lane road with no real place to stop without putting myself in danger of getting hit by another car, I slowed down and drove on to the thc church. After the class, which was full of good things, I came out to change the tire. Since was the first flat we’ve had on the Wrangler, it took me a bit to find the jack and other tools; then I found that the axle was lower than the jack was tall and I called AAA. Of course, what I found out next was our AAA membership had expired, I renewed it over the phone and then gave the operator the specifics of my problem.

Forty-five minutes later, a giant tow truck pulled in the Parish House parking lot with two guys in it. The driver got out, filled out the paper work, and then changed the tire — all in about ten minutes. The other guy never moved from where he was sitting on the passenger side — even when the driver turned his motor off and the truck’s inside lights went out.

I put the flat on the back of the Wrangler and drove home an hour and a half later than I had intended. I drove down the same stretch of road I traveled last night about the same time after finding out the owner didn’t seem to be willing to think about my proposal for the Bakery.

I rode home on a metaphor: something unexpected took the air out of my tire; I did what I could and called for help, which came; and I drove home, a bit wounded by still able to travel. It’s not the most profound comparison anyone ever drew, but it spoke to me. I deeply appreciate the words of encouragement several of you wrote in response to yesterday’s post. You, like the tow truck driver, are keeping me on the road.

Peace,
Milton

I brushed up against a dream today but nothing happened.

No, that’s not true. About three weeks ago, the manager at the Inn asked me to make a proposal to run the Bakery, which could be a really cool breakfast and lunch coffee house kind of place. I can see it. I worked hard on the proposal to give to the owner when he came back to town last Friday. Today he told me he’s going to close the Bakery all together. We had no further discussion.

Though I’m familiar enough with him to know that may not be the last word, I drove home tonight with “No” in my pocket. I turn to songs I love in times like these. One of my favorites, which I referenced before in a different context, keeps the light flickering for me: Steve Earle’s “Some Dreams.” (You can listen to it here without too much complication.)

When I was a little guy
My daddy told me “Mister,
Don’t ever try to climb too high
‘Cause it’s the fall that gets ya
And some dreams can never come true
They’ll never come true”

Well, I heard every word he said
But I don’t guess I listened
But every time I banged my head
Against the wall insistin’
That some dreams don’t ever come true
Don’t ever come true
But some dreams do
If you just hang on
And your heart is true
And your hope is strong

Well, just because you’ve been around
And had your poor heart broken
That’s no excuse for lyin’ down
Before the last word’s spoken
‘Cause some dreams don’t ever come true
Don’t ever come true
Aw, but some dreams do

When you’re feelin’ low
And you think you’re through
That’s when you will know

Yeah, when you wish upon a star
Buddy, don’t you miss it
Catch it ‘fore it falls too far
Keep it with your secrets
‘Cause some dreams don’t ever come true
Don’t ever come true
Don’t ever come true
But some dreams do

I think I’ll let him sing me to sleep.

Peace,
Milton

One of the first scripture verses I learned was, “I was glad when they said unto me, ‘Let us go into the house of the Lord.’” Actually, it was a song we sang in Sunday School or VBS – that detail I don’t recall. The verse came back to me as I sat down to write because today was one of those days when I was reminded – again – why I love being a part of the church and of my church.

Worship at North Community Church is always a bit of a whirlwind, with the congregation sitting in the eye of the Spirit Storm. Ginger and the rest of the team do a great job planning the services, making each detail matter. There are no discards. In the course of a service, there are often eight or nine people participating in everything from scripture readings to prayers to children’s sermons. All of our readers and participants are given clear direction as to what it means to lead worship. It shows in how they are able to lead us.

I got to church early to get things ready for Coffee Hour. I entered the Parish Hall to find a few members of the youth group who had had a sleep over and were eating breakfast. About nine o’clock, the fifth through eighth graders arrived because they have Sunday School before church. A couple of people came in to return dishes from meals delivered to them during the week. I turned on the coffee pot and went over to the sanctuary, which is across the street, and had time to greet a few folks before things began.

The announcements gave a quick snapshot of what makes up the whirlwind: the coming Church Fair, Coffee Hour, thanks for care during illness and recuperation, Community League – those were just the verbal ones; there was a page of printed announcements in the worship guide as well.

We make a clear distinction between “having gathered and preparing our hearts for worship.” Our call comes after the announcements, as the choral introit brings us to focus. Many of the elements stay the same: an opening hymn, a prayer of confession and words of assurance, the Psalm of the Day, the offering, the children’s sermon, another hymn, the prayers of the people, the scripture reading, the sermon, and the benediction. Today we had some added extras (as we often do): a baptism, a liturgical dance, and Communion (which happens every first Sunday). After church, the storm didn’t stop: Coffee Hour, Teaching Parish Committee, another youth group gathering, Confirmation, and a couple of other ad hoc meeitngs. Ginger and I drove out of the parking lot about one.

Ginger is a very gifted, dancer, choreographer, and worship leader. Though she has danced most of her life, today was the second time (I think) that she has danced here in Marshfield. She, along with Dana (one of our seminarians) and Heather (our CE Minister) danced to a song my friend Billy and I wrote called “Twenty-One Times.” We got the idea for the song from reading Paul Bowles’ wonderful novel, The Sheltering Sky, and this quote in particular:

Because we don’t know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that is so deeply part of your being that you, that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more, perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps 20. And yet it all seems limitless.

Our take on his sentiment, which resonated deeply with us came out this way:

she saw the sun go down twenty-one times
twenty-one times in thirty-five years
she saw the sun go down
she thought there’d be a million
and she thought that she would see them
but she saw the sun go down twenty-one times

she stayed and danced all night only one time
only one time in thirty-five years
she stayed and danced all night
the moonlight fell like laughter
on her happy ever after
but she stayed and danced all night only one time

and over new England
geese are flying south
a November night fall
settles round about
and a lighthouse calls another home

she walked away from love so many times
so many times times in thirty-five years
she walked away from love
and hearing lesser voices
she turned them into choices
but she walked away from love so many times

and over new England
geese are flying south
a November night fall
settles round about
and a lighthouse calls another home

The woman in the song was thirty-five because that’s how old Billy and I were when we wrote the song. Fifteen years and some 5,500 sunsets later, I still believe what we wrote. If, as they sang in RENT, life can be measured “in daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee,” then it can be measured in coffee hours, children sermons, hymns, and prayer requests. I’ve been alive for almost 2,600 Sundays: 2,600 morning worships, 2,600 choral anthems, 2,600 invocations, 9,000 hymns, and about 25,000 announcements.

There are days I grow weary of the details that require attention in order to live in community. What matters to some does not matter as much to me, and vice versa. I always wish Church Council Meeting was shorter and I have no idea how to make sense of the Treasurer’s Report, even though he works hard to make it make sense. Our faith will not thrive because of political lobbying efforts, nor will it crash and burn because of public spectacles like the one we saw this past week. Our faith lives and thrives in the everyday motions of its people between every sunrise and sunset.

For two millennia, Christians have come to the Communion Table and fed one another as we did again today. As Ginger offered us the bread, in an unscripted moment, she said, “If you’ve ever felt alone, broken, hurt, isolated, judged based on your appearance or by your behaviors, this is the place of acceptance and grace where you are welcome, a place you can trust. You are loved. Take and eat.”

Over New England, the geese are flying south and I’m writing as another November nightfall settles around me. I’m grateful that part of the way I learned to mark time in my life is in counting how many sunsets must pass until I can say, “I was glad when they said unto me, ‘Let us go into the house of the Lord.’”

Oh – I wish you could have seen the dance; it was amazing.

Peace,
Milton

For the month of November, Ginger and I are writing down everything we spend so we can get a good picture of where our money goes. (All of a sudden, all I can hear in my head is Robert Palmer singing, “She’s so fine, there’s no telling where the money went.”)

It was her suggestion, brought on by her reading of Your Money or Your Life in preparation for an adult education class we are doing at church based on the PBS show, “Affluenza”:

Af-flu-en-za n. 1. The bloated, sluggish and unfulfilled feeling that results from efforts to keep up with the Joneses. 2. An epidemic of stress, overwork, waste and indebtedness caused by dogged pursuit of the American Dream. 3. An unsustainable addiction to economic growth.

I haven’t been to class yet, but I can self-diagnose: I’ve got it. I’m not a daily visitor at the mall, but I’ve got lots of stuff I don’t need and would gladly invest any amount of money in CDs – the kind you play, not the ones you get at the bank.

Today I spent $54.72 on groceries and $2.10 on a cup of coffee while I was doing some reading and writing, which turned into a bit of web surfing after looking at the Affluenza site. My friend Doug bought my lunch at our Pastoral Spouse Support Group meeting today. While I was drinking my coffee, I came upon a wonderful web site called AfriGadet, which says it’s “solving everyday problems with African ingenuity.”

The first story was about a man in Ethiopia who builds coffee makers out of old mortar shells from the war between Ethiopia and Eritrea.

“These shells have all been used.” says Azmeraw Zeleke, the creator of these wonderful things. “We all need peace and we don’t want war but once these shells have been used, we should use our skills to do something with them. Sometimes I think about the fact they were used for war but I want to change them to do something good. They could be a symbol of war but I am doing something good out of the bad.”

Mr. Zeleke is still surrounded by war. Ethiopia is bordered by Somalia on one side, which has been a failed state for fifteen years, and Sudan on the other, which is not a viable nation these days either. His own country languishes in poverty and corruption, yet he is making coffee makers, something that promotes community and hope. According to the BBC story, “After meals, the traditional coffee ceremony allows family and friends to get together to share news and discuss the issues of the day.”

Ethiopia also shares a border with Kenya, which a little more stable but also quite poor. Afrigadet linked to a YouTube video about two handicapped guys in Kenya who make a living by turning their wheelchairs into mobile phone booths.

Massachusetts is one of the top three wealthiest states per capita in the country. When it comes to charitable giving, we fall to about forty-eighth on the list. Many of our churches struggle to make their budgets not because we are too poor to give, but because aren’t particularly generous. I’m talking about Massachusetts because that’s where I live. not because it’s some sort of exception. Though it’s true that Mississippi, who comes in at the bottom end of the wealth scale is the top giver, nobody’s really knocking it out of the park. Things get tight for most of us financially because we’ve been raised to want more stuff, not because we have to live on a dollar a day like most of the world.

My point is not to hand out boarding passes for a guilt trip. I’m writing out loud in hopes of figuring out what sort of chemotherapy my soul needs to cure my affluenza. I want to learn to live within my means. I don’t want to buy into the lie that my Mastercard is what makes moments priceless anymore. Beyond being out from under financial pressure, I want to learn how to share what I have – what we have – with people who have to make coffee makers out of bomb shells and strap phones to their wheelchairs.

On Randy Newman’s prophetic record, Land of Dreams(1988), he sings:

Of all of the people that I used to know Most never adjusted to the great big world I see them lurking in book stores Working for the Public Radio Carrying their babies around in a sack on their back Moving careful and slow It’s money that matters Hear what I say It’s money that matters In the USA

The verse that kills me is the last one:

Then I talked to a man lived up on the county line I was washing his car with a friend of mine He was a little fat guy in a red jumpsuit I said “You look kind of funny” He said “I know that I do” “But I got a great big house on the hill here And a great big blonde wife inside it And a great big pool in my backyard and another great big pool beside it Sonny it’s money that matters, hear what I say It’s money that matters in the USA It’s money that matters Now you know that it’s true It’s money that matters whatever you do”

Five days before midterm elections, Newman’s satire bites hard. As disenfranchised as I feel, sitting somewhere in the middle class, I’m far from being one of those who is worst hit and hit over and over and over. We, as Americans, have convinced ourselves that being rich and being smart are the same thing. We’re wrong.

If we were smart, we would have learned long ago that money is not the root of all evil, but our affluenza is. One of my favorite stories of Jesus’ healing is at the pool of Bethesda when he asks the man who has been poolside for thirty-eight years, “Do you want to get well?”

I’m trying hard to learn how to answer, “Yes.”

Peace,
Milton