A Conversation

July 25
Wednesday

On the way to my noon meeting with pastor Mike I came upon an accident. A car and motorcycle had hit head-on. The rider was thrown over the car and seriously hurt. He is not expected to live. I spoke with someone who was present at the scene. He told me that the driver of the car said the cycle swerved into her lane. A witness, however, reported that the driver swerved while talking on her cell phone. The news reported the driver's version. The rider, in intensive care and on life support, was unavailable for comment.

My meeting with Mike lasted an hour and a half. We had a good talk. I wondered how he would approach me; as a former pastor or as a congregant. The answer?  Both. We shared experiences as pastors and he was very open. I appreciated that.

Pastors usually welcome an opportunity to speak with other pastors. With others we keep our feelings bottled up because most wouldn't understand.  

We spoke about church conflict. Mike's observation was, "Christians lie." So true. No one ever wants to admit there is a problem. Everyone pretends and is angry if you try to bring it to a head. He reviewed what he was doing in the church, what problems  were likely in the near future and in the immediate past.

He asked me what I was looking for in the church. I was honest. I told him I was looking for a place to rest and worship until I left for Mexico. I told him I had no idea how long that might be, but I would help him in any way I was able.

His approach was refreshing. He asked my strengths and weaknesses and if there was anything in particular I would or would not do. Mike also asks what my particular needs were spiritually. "Time," was my reply. He asked me if I would serve on a worship team. I said "Yes."

Three times during the conversation he made a point of telling me that he was "a conservative and an evangelical." I appreciated the heads up. I am conservative theologically for the most part, but liberal socially. I told him so. I didn't want him to be shocked if and when I disagree with him politically.

It will be a tightrope walk at times. He spoke of Promise Keepers. I refrained from comment. I love the premise, but it is a right wing political action group as far as I'm concerned.

I hope we don't clash, but if I am there too long we will. It is inevitable--unless I am prepared to lie--and I am not.  Politics aside, I like Mike. I pray we get along and learn from each other.

Angie had planned to show me a house but it fell through. She said we would reschedule. This Saturday is an open house. Let's get this sold. I'm ready to go.

In the evening Duke and I walked, I watered the flowers, watched an hour of TV, read and worked on the blog.



Flowers opening
as I walked and suddenly--
staircase in the leaves.

Woolf at the Door

July 24
Tuesday

Couldn't sleep last night. To bed at 2AM, back out at three and awake 'til four. Got up at eight to get to store and ready the meal for Dave and Kathy.

While I was working on the meal and Duke was working to sneak pieces of onion/onion skin out of the trash. He loves onion. I let a slice fall to the floor so he could "discover" it.

The meal plan was fish tacos (tilapia) and a skewer of mixed fruit & vegetables with a Kroger lemon roll for desert. The skewer held pineapple, red bell pepper, mushrooms, Roma tomatoes, zucchini, onion and yellow squash, all brushed with olive oil and seasoned with Tajin, a condiment I learned to enjoy on my last trip to Mexico.

I called Dave to remind him that lunch was at noon and then finished Pennant Race. Kerry called--he was in Florida for jury duty--and we talked about my impending move while I waited for Dave and Kathy. It is always good to talk with Kerry. He has been a trusted friend since 1985 and I love him like a brother.

Dave and Kathy were late. They drove by the house twice before they found it. Mystifying since Dave was just here last Tuesday. He wasn't going to tell me but Kathy ratted him out.

They seemed to enjoy the meal. We sat and talked 'til about 2:30. Kathy played tug and fetch with Duke. That made her one of his favorites.

I napped as soon as they left. Afterword Duke and I took a ride; it was too hot to walk. Home, I began reading Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway. I managed about 15 pages before giving up. It may be considered a classic by some but it is a classic waste of time to me. I feel the same way about James Joyce and Thomas Pynchon. If that makes me a cretin, all I can say is, "Ooga booga, ugh, grrrrr."

I read the first of the essays in Wallace Steven's The Necessary Angel. Much more satisfying.

The fellow from work called about Mexico again. I think he wants me to offer to share a house with him. It's not happening. I'll go somewhere else first. I need the time on my own.

I decided to give Woolf another chance--but not Mrs. Dalloway! I began A Room of One's Own and like it much better. I'll finish this one by reading a bit at a time. I don't think I can swallow it in one gulp. No, don't think I could do that. Not at all.

Leaving the city
hustle and bustle behind me--
a flower is company!

Duke's Surprise

July 23
Monday

Slept in until 8:30. Couldn't shake myself awake. Finished reading The Long Season.

Why a baseball book? First, it is a fine book; witty, well written and honest to a fault. Second, an entertaining book helps to clear "my reading palette." I've been reading quite a bit of Japanese literature. Japanese novels, at least those I am familiar with, inevitably center around death--either directly or symbolically. Given the anniversary of my father's death, Jim's death and the growing awareness of my own approaching demise, a mental diversion is  called for.

Duke and I met Ron at the old training field at noon. A hotel built since the days of training Mac had resulted in the re-routing of the road and I had to search for it.

Seeing Ron was good for me. He is such a sincere and honest guy. Much more so than many I know. We talked while Duke explored the field. Ron liked his looks. I explained how skittish he is.

Ron knows dogs. Period. After watching Duke and seeing how he responded to me he said he thought Duke would "train easily." By training he meant learning protection work. Duke is a smart dog. He is also large for a boxer, 80 pounds. He looks the part, but given his jumpiness I hadn't considered it.

Ron suggested we test him. Duke did very well. Not only was he not jumpy it was clear he enjoyed it. I was tickled, Ron was happy and Duke got a workout. Ron offered to work with us once or twice a week until I left for Mexico. That is not as easy as it sounds. I'm pretty flexible, but Ron works non-stop. 

While we were talking a police car drove up. Someone who clearly knew nothing about training dogs had called in a complaint that we were abusing a dog. We weren't, of course. Beating a dog doesn't teach him anything except to stay away from you. My dogs run TO me in times of trouble, not away.

Once he saw Duke, who was sitting in the van drinking from his dish, he relaxed. The side door was open, Duke's tail was wagging and it was clear he wasn't stressed. A light went on and the officer remembered seeing Ron putting on a seminar. All was well and he left.

This wasn't the first time some "well meaning" (read, "jackass") has caused trouble for Duke. Not long ago I was walking him through an art fair. The whole purpose was to expose him to crowds. I want him to be comfortable around people. He is a large, beautiful dog and person after person--adults and children alike--asked if they could pet him. That was exactly what I wanted of course. They loved it. Duke loved it. I loved it.

Someone didn't. They reported to fair security that Duke was jumping and growling at people. He wasn't. Never has. If he had we'd have sorted that out long ago. I told the gendarme someone had lied. Duke stood there wagging his tail. Any rational person could see Duke was calm and happy.

The security guy did his best to be intimidating. I kept myself from telling him to buzz off. Instead I contented myself by telling him I would enjoy meeting whoever had misled him. He declined my offer. He wandered away after giving me a stern look. Shortly after, I left, angry and wondering why someone would deliberately lie.

There are days I don't like people very much.

We left Ron and headed home. Both tired, we napped. I was still smiling at the thought of how well Duke had done.

It took a long time and several rewrites before I was satisfied with yesterday's post. It was too long. I wasn't satisfied with the poems. I couldn't fix the haiku, but I was able to cut the post down a bit.

After napping I caught up on email--including reading succinct feedback from the house showing--"No interest." Rats!

Dave and his wife, Kathy, are coming for lunch on Tuesday so I checked to see what I would need to get from the store and made a list. 

I began another Brosnan book, Pennant Race.

Though not as good as The Long Season, it is still a decent read. He has a fairly long entry covering the last game I saw in Cincinnati. I remember the game well. We sat by the Reds bullpen. The Reds beat the Braves 10-9. It was the only time I saw Warren Spahn pitch and he was horrible. The Braves hit four consecutive home runs and Brosnan, who was to write Pennant Race, got the final outs to save the game. A neighbor had taken me. It was the one bright spot between dad's death and my birthday.

Here I am, back at death again.

Birth the beginning
and death marks the ending--
Today I am alive!

Haunted House, Haunted Me

July 22
Sunday

I awoke anticipating church. I was not disappointed. The people were warm and the message excellent. I'm getting used to the order of worship. I met a couple, Denny and Peg who a friend of mine had suggested I should meet. Nice people. 

The woman at the sound board was an enigma. She was friendly, obviously bright--and confused me completely. She may have been as old as 40 and quite attractive. Her voice was a high pitched. The amazing thing was her mode of dress. She was wearing work clothes, a baseball cap and had what looked like grease under her nails. It seemed to me that she was deliberately dressing down. Why I can't guess.

The pastor, Mike, invited me to lunch Wednesday. I'm looking forward to it. He is about my age, heavy, and clearly loves his work. He does not stand in the pulpit. He paces, carrying his bible and returning now and then to glance at his notes. He has one disconcerting habit. He often gazes down and to one side or another while speaking and breaks eye contact. I wonder if that will carry over into our lunch conversation.

At the end of the service I hurried home to prepare the house for showing. I swept, picked up Duke's toys and bones, did the few dishes that were in the sink and tidied up whatever else I could see. Then I headed to Columbia City to pay my respects at the funeral home.

The line formed 15 minutes before the scheduled time and the doors opened early. I have been to many funerals. Some as mourner, others as officiant. They hold no surprises. But today as I approached the casket I could smell the chemicals used to prepare the body. They seemed overwhelming and I felt sick to my stomach.

I realize that Jim's death bothers me more than I have been willing to admit. I spoke with his wife, Darleen, offered my condolences to the rest of the family and left quickly.

Returning home I took another look around, took Duke's kennel out to the deck, gathered him up and we went for a drive until the showing ended. We left before we had to, but I was itching to get going.

I thought about Jim's life and death. He was 67. I'm 64. So far as I knew him he was one of the most caring and honorable of men. His example always challenged me to be better and made my faults more glaring.

As a child I had no concrete idea of death. It was something that happened in movies or on TV. It wasn't real. When my friends and I played cowboys and Indians we all died several times a day. Then we went home and ate cookies.

Later the death of a family friend made me aware that it did occur in real life, but only at the periphery of my child world. It was a bit more real, but remained vague.

Dad's death made it all too real and I felt real loss for the first time. It became personal. Within seven years of dad's death all four grandparents died.  Somehow the additional deaths eased the pain I felt over dad's. Years went by before death came close once more.

I became used to death. I didn't like it but I didn't fear it either. In time I made my peace with God. One day I would die. But that day was far in the future. It was senseless to worry.

Then contemporaries died. Some in accidents, others from cancer or heart attack. I even had a close call myself. I remember not being concerned at all. I didn't feel frightened or alone.

Now, with Jim's death I felt for the first time how close my own death is. It is as though death walks with me now, watching me as a picker might watch a piece of summer fruit, impatient for it to ripen. I am still not frightened, but I am disappointed--and very aware--that my time on earth will end in the not too distant future.

In the Analects Confucius us recorded as saying:

"At fifteen I set my heart upon learning, At thirty, I had planted my feet firm upon the ground.  At forty, I no longer suffered from perplexities.  At fifty, I knew what were the biddings of Heaven.  At sixty, I heard them with docile ear.  At seventy, I could follow the dictates of my own heart; for what I desired no longer overstepped the boundaries of right."                                                Analects 2:4

Had he written something like this about death it might have read:

At fifteen I was introduced to death. At thirty I accepted it was real. At forty I saw it come to contemporaries. At fifty I accepted it would one day come to me. At sixty I became aware of its nearness to me. At ______ it became a looked for friend.

The leaf falls;
the runner stumbles--
funeral music

I drove first to a swamp/pond I have passed many times. I find it's starkness compelling. Each time I bemoaned either having no camera or having a camera and no time to stop. Today I stopped to ask permission. An old woman (80?) gave me the  OK, saying, "Others have asked, too. I don't understand. We think it is ugly."










       











I find it beautiful in a desolate, haunting way. When I approached the pond a number of frogs jumped.

Stagant water
silver tree trunks--
A frog jumps!    

We went on to Wolf Lake. I drove past my old church and out into the country. Without thinking about it I ended up at a small cemetery. I had once officiated at an interment service on nasty winter's day.

Something about this particular cemetery strikes me. Perhaps its name, Thorn. It is not large. It is old. It sits on a slight rise adjacent to a country road and bordered by fields on three sides. It feels lonely.

Though side by side
No one speaks--
a line of tombstones.

From Thorn I went back into Columbia City to another place I had wanted to photograph, the old jail.

Vacant now, it is the site of a haunted house on Halloween.

A swamp, a cemetery and a haunted house. I needed to lighten up. I went home and began reading The Long Season, by Jim Brosnan. I had read it 45 years ago. I knew it would be witty and entertaining.

Kittens, Kids & Poets

July 21
Saturday

Early morning walk to Shriner lake with Duke. We had a bit of an adventure. As we walked up the hill a kitten walked down. It shocked Duke enough that he didn't even lunge--his usual reaction to any living creature other than human.

It was a beautiful kitten; long haired, and darker grey than the usual tiger. It stepped into the bushes and sat watching. I had the camera, told Duke to stay, stood on the leash and tried to get everything in focus. That's when Duke lunged. The cat ran off and I gave Duke a boot in the butt. He looked at me like I was crazy. He thinks he's supposed to terrorize critters.

Kitten on the road
meeting a boxer on a leash--
rustling bushes

Racing out the door
the dog flies to the water--
Flapping and quacking

O red-winged blackbird
It's not safe in this yard--
The dog. Fly!

The rest of the walk went better. No cat pictures, but some others.

There is a house showing scheduled tomorrow. Mike brought the lawn mower over and cut the grass. It had shot up after the rain. He and Duke are good buddies and we all enjoy his visits. He wondered when the neighbors will finish clearing the downed tree. Me too.

Caught up on email and then checked the web for news. On the Christian Science Monitor site there was a link to a quiz: Are you as well read as a third grader? I'm a sucker for quizzes so I took it. One of the books the site claimed third graders read was the book I finished yesterday, Things Fall Apart. A third grader won't understand that book. No way a third grader pronounces the names.  They can only be reading it to stroke some teacher's/Principal's/board member's ego. There were other questionable claims: Ovid's Metamorphoses, The Iliad, The Odyssey, Macbeth and more. I first read Macbeth in high school and had a difficult time with it. I'd never give it to a third grader to read.

There are many wonderful books for young people. They should be reading The Wind in the Willows, The Chronicles of Narnia, Tarzan, Heidi, The Hobbit or dozens of others . . . Why won't we let a child be a child? I don't know who makes these decisions. Give them forty strokes with a cat-o-nine-tails.

A fellow I worked with at GM called to ask about Lake Chapala. I hope he doesn't move there. He is a nice guy but he won't like not knowing anyone. That means he'll be on my doorstep. I'm moving to get away from Indiana--not to see old friends except as visitors. Is it selfish of me? Yes. Do I feel badly? No. I need to be selfish for a time.

I read two short books: In Praise of Shadows, by Jun'ichiro Tanizake, and a book of Robert Pinsky poetry, Gulf Music.

I am reading Japanese books, and haiku. I'm also reading other poetry. I would like this to be more than just a diary. That will take work. My haiku isn't very good, I know. My understanding of Japanese heritage and custom is sketchy at best. The only way to improve is to continue to read and write. 

Tanizake's book was a revelation. It is short--not much more than a pamphlet--but I learned as much about Japanese tradition (pre-WW2) from it as in anything else I have read. Pinsky, a four or five time poet laureate, was interesting reading but not so helpful to me. I'll read it again. There may be more there the next time.

I have found that in the oeuvre of any poet there are only relatively few poems that grab me. The Library of America has a complete collection of Ezra Pound's writings. I'd read a number of his works in anthologies and liked what I saw. I bought the LOA book, read it, and made very few additions to my favorites list.

With the exception of Emily Dickinson that has been true with most collections I have read. Maybe because I'm not a "real" poet I don't see the beauty that is there in many poems. For me, a poem must elicit a strong reaction/emotion to matter. For example, Pound's Ballad of the Goodly Fere, Ancient Music, and Meditatio do that. Likewise, e e cummings' What if a Much of a Which of a Wind and I Sing of Olaf knock me out. But not all, or even an overwhelming number of their poems produce that same effect in me. (Although I do like more than the few cited here.) It is the same with Keats, or Donne, or Stevens or Thomas. Some poems grab me. Some don't. 

Raindrops Fallin' on My Head

7-20
Friday

Rain! Thunder and lightning as I went to bed last night. Then came rain. A good rain. All night. I went to sleep smiling, woke up smiling and stayed smiling until I went into the kitchen.

Water was dripping from the ceiling fan. That was a disappointment. I called Ron, a friend with a roofing business and he said he would send someone out, and did. He patched the leak.

I met Ron training dogs. He is a great guy; honest to a fault and I like him alot. In addition to seeing about the roof we set up a time to meet Monday to catch up on old times. I'm looking forward to that. He'll laugh at Duke. He looks so tough and he is so skittish.

It was cool--in the 60's--so Duke and I headed out for a walk when the rain stopped. Having been pent up so long Duke was ecstatic. We walked to Shriner Lake. Duke splashed around in the water like a little puppy. A woman jogged by with a huge grin. "Isn't this great!," she said. We all need a break from the heat.

At home there were several calls about Jim's death. No one expected it. No one understands. No one ever does. I'm no different. The best I can do is understand that there are many things I'll never understand. The saying goes, "Man proposes, God disposes." The Tralfamadorians say, "So it goes." Why did Jim die? I don't know. I will accept his death--but not without making my objections known to God. He permits such things.

I have always told those dealing with "unfair" events that they should tell God they are angry; he knows anyway. We should get it out and not let it fester. Keeping it in will eat you up.

Thunder and lightning,
then sun and blue sky--still
the tree has fallen.


Duke and I made a quick trip to the grocery before it warmed up. When we got home I sat on the porch swing and read Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe. An excellent book. While I read Duke brought his frisbee. I'd toss it; he'd chase it and bring it back, etc. We were both in good spirits.

I went in to edit the blog. Duke stayed out. Then things fell apart. After a time I got up to look for him. He wasn't there. He was over at Jimmy and Ashley's house. A friend of theirs was visiting and brought his chocolate Lab. He was jumping in the water. Duke, having been taught by Jeanne's daughter Tracy and her two dogs, figured it was OK,too. 

I called him home, put him in the house, and went back to talk to Jimmy. He had been surprised when Duke came over. He hadn't done it before. He promised to shoo him home. I explained that I would have to put the shock collar back on Duke and retrain. Jimmy understood. I just wish Jeanne and Tracy did. It sucks for Duke. He's not a bad dog--but he is badly confused. It sucks for me, too. I don't want to use the collar, but better that than have him wander off and get run over or picked up by the pound.

Once that was finished I read another interesting book, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, by Mark Haddon.  The central character of the story, Christopher, is the narrator and writer of the book. He is autistic. I have spent a great deal of time with a nephew who is also autistic. Haddon has done a great job capturing how some autistic children reason. A splendid concept well executed. It was two AM when I finished. 

Rain and Pain

July 19
Thursday

There were thunderstorms last night. We badly needed the rain. Today the plants look tired, but happy. The grass grew overnight.

Today would have been dad's 100th birthday. Every so often I speculate what my relationship with him might have been had he lived longer. I was just shy of 13 when he died. He was not quite 49.

I idolized him of course. I hadn't yet turned into an angry, petulant teenager. He hadn't had to drop the hammer. We would have had problems but I like to think we'd have done OK.

He taught me to love baseball, card games, words and spicy food. He told me that you can find the best food--and sometimes the best people--in plain Jane restaurants, and that you can learn from anyone. Later, when I read Confucius and saw this, I wasn't surprised:

The Master said, "Even when walking in a party of no more than three I can always be certain of learning from those I am with.  There will be good qualities that I can select for imitation and bad ones that will teach me what requires correction in myself."

                                              Analects, Book 7:21

He taught me to play chess and poker and he taught me to listen closely. This is how he did it:

It was a Saturday morning breakfast. I had just been given my first allowance; two quarters--a fortune. He told me he "would give me a nickel for every quarter I could stand on end." I tried and tried and couldn't do it. Then I had a brainstorm. I leaned the quarter against my milk glass and held out my hand. He gave me a nickel and took the quarter. I howled. He told me that he had done exactly what he had agreed to do--give me a nickel for the quarter. He told me he'd give me a nickel for every quarter I could lay on its side, too.

He wouldn't give that quarter back. He told me I had to learn to hear what the words really said, not what I thought or wanted them to say. I was furious but he was firm.

Years later when I was bargaining labor agreements for the UAW that lesson saved me more than once. And more than once it enabled me to get a favorable agreement from a manager who failed to pay attention. It was worth a lot more than that quarter.

I missed dad growing up. It would have been great to have someone teach me how to shave, tie a tie, drive a car. I learned all that on my own--including driving. Mom was nearly deaf. When she was asleep my friends and I would take her keys and take off. She never checked the odometer. I drove 10,000 miles before my first test . . . which I failed for speeding and driving with one hand on the wheel. Thankfully we were never hurt . . . and we were only caught once.

For a long time I was angry; at God, at mom, at every kid who had a dad. Finally I was angry at everything and everyone. It took years for me to understand why. And, it took still more years to begin to control that anger. I still fight my temper. That will never end, I suppose. But I have accepted his death and am thankful for the time I had. So many have less. Some have none at all.

There is never a good time to lose someone you love.

This afternoon I received three calls and several emails telling me that Pastor Jim Haugen died today.  He and his wife were picking up food for the food bank they began in the church across the street from mine. She was backing up, he was directing. Something happened and she ran over him, pinning him under the car.

My heart breaks for her. They were so in love even after all these years. How she will deal with that is beyond me. Not long ago their son died of complications following a stroke. I can't imagine her grief, her loss.

This community loses, too. Jim was a hard-working, willing servant. He planted that church and in no time he had a kids group, bible studies and the food bank up and running. He was a fine man.

Rain softly falling
golden leaves drop quietly--

life passes, passes

No Highlights

July 18
Wednesday

It was hot again today. I tried listening to music, reading--even listening to an audio book--but nothing worked to better my mood. Toward evening I tried watching television, proving the extent of my desperation. That didn't work either; nothing held my interest.

Napping mid-afternoon was the most successful gambit. I forgot for a time how bored I am. For Duke's sake we went for a ride . . . to nowhere.

It is frustrating. Though I am seldom bored if I said I wasn't now I'd have to lie. With the heat it is as though I am in prison. Poor Duke feels worse than I do. He is used to walks and runs, not forced inactivity. I sat outside with him for awhile and he halfheartedly chased a frisbee. Mostly he just looked at me and panted. Once we were back indoors he flopped on his side and moaned. I moaned with him.

I checked: it is cooler in Guadalahara. Again.

Guilt keeps me from leaving Duke and going to see the art show at St. Francis. I can't stand the thought of penning him. He's suffering enough. Normally I avoid malls like the plague . . . but they are beginning to sound like fun.

Aside from cooking and watering flowers the only constructive thing I did was to call a doctor friend. We chatted a bit and then I pestered him for the name of a good immunologist for another friend. Her doc retired and she doesn't feel comfortable with his replacement. 

After the TV failed to help I gave up and surfed the web for Japanese woodcuts and read news and sports.

Best would have been to use all this time for critical thinking . . . Except I couldn't concentrate. Bedtime will be a blessing.

Out and back again
the swing out and back again--
got a firecracker?

New Baby, Old Regrets

July 17
Tuesday

My meeting with my pastor friend was cancelled. He and his wife were out of state. We rescheduled for next week.

I made out checks, a short grocery list and got deposits ready. Duke and I headed to town. By 9:30 it was already 86.

Stopped at the credit union first. Had to keep the car running and the air on for Duke. Asked about Heather, a teller there, to see if her baby had been born. Mandy said, yes, and showed me a photo on her phone. It is amazing what these phones do. Quite different than rotary dials, cords and party lines.

Heather is sweet, twentyish and unmarried. She lives with a fellow and they seem to be doing well. Still I worry. Alone she likely could not support the child. Without a marriage she could easily end up alone but for the child, and, no prospects except isolation or endless stream of partners. Few single men are likely to want to assume the responsibility for the child.

It is a shame what has been done to marriage. I know, I have been a part. With two ex-wives and a number of live-ins I have set a poor example. I've been alone now since 1993. Regret is small consolation to me.

Quick stop at the store for bread, tin foil and a small salad, got gas, mailed letters and headed home. Thermometer said 91. Still trying to shake yesterday's mood.

Fooled with the camera with no good results, but when I downloaded the shots I found yesterday's "shadow" picture to be OK.

Quiet as rose petals
Soft as a summer breeze--
shadow on the wall.

Spent the rest of the day reading. Watched two hours of TV in the evening before answering emails and working on the blog.

Wherever I go . . . ?

July 16
Monday

Duke let me sleep in. Didn't wake until 8:00. A shadow falling on the garage caught my eye and I took pictures.

I was certain it was Tuesday and that I had my weekly meeting. It was almost meeting time before I realized it was not. Did dishes and read. Too hot to do anything else. Took a short nap and awakened with a restless feeling.

It didn’t get better. The people yesterday didn’t like the house. Went to Ft. Wayne. Three Rivers Festival closed off much of downtown. Got something to eat at a drive-in and was disappointed. The food looked  much better than it tasted. Drove aimlessly for a while with Duke panting alongside. Tried to reach my friend to deliver the books. No answer.

Ended up in my old neighborhood. The events of the day and seeing the old house renewed a feeling of loneliness.

I am alone. I have not dated since 1993 or 1994. I have often been in crowds but felt isolated from them. Those who know me would be shocked to hear that.

I meet people well and am usually engaging, but have few close friends. I care for--even love--many people. I don’t feel unconditional love from any but one or two.

My dad died in 1961; mom in 1999. They loved me without reservation. Another couple loved me like a son, Joe and Catherine Darling—and at a time when I was nothing but trouble. They have been dead a number of years now, too. Their children and I remain close.

My past is replete with broken relationships. The number suggest I may be the cause. Not in every case, perhaps, but I will not argue.

People in need of comfort, counsel and money have come to me for as long as I have been an adult—even earlier. They don’t stay.

I have always been "doing" something for someone. Sometimes because I could. Sometimes because I felt I should. Sometimes from guilt—but always in part so that I might feel wanted. I’ve never admitted that before.

That was the genesis of my decision to take time away from the church. I want to go somewhere I am not known and "try again" to find a life and love. I know the Buddhist proverb/admonition, "Wherever you go, there you are." It haunts me. This time will tell me how true that is. I hope is is not.

Duke, confined to the yard, runs and looks through the fence at the neighbors. He whimpers a little. He wants to be part of the group. I know how he feels. If invited Duke would joyously go. When invited I find an excuse not to.

Gathering in flocks
the geese prepare to migrate--
O this loneliness!

Some Heaven, Some Hell

July 15
Sunday

The Cromwell Lutheran church is a beautiful church. I first saw it in 2000 at a Lenten service and hoped I might one day preach there. The opportunity came in 2007. I looked forward to preaching there again.

I was warmly greeted. As it was communion Sunday I reviewed the service beforehand with help from a kind woman named Holly. The church secretary?

The service went well. I made mistakes, but I had asked for forgiveness in the welcome so my errors were accepted in good grace. At one point in the service the worship assistant picked up my part when I was lost. I appreciated that.

There were not many present; perhaps 30. Most were women. All seemed to receive the message well. The singing voice of the worship assistant was lovely. One of the hymns I particularly enjoyed: My Life Flows on in Endless Song. An awkward title, but a fine hymn!

As folks left they made certain to say something kind to me about the service. It was nice to hear. New and visiting pastors are told they have done a good job. Much like a backup quarterback in the NFL they can do no wrong. It is different for the full time pastors and quarterbacks. They get praise when they begin. Then it comes sparingly and sometimes not at all. Once they have been there long enough only the newer members and visitors think to be positive. A few will rarely say anything except to complain.

After the service I took the long way home. I was in no hurry to lose the warm feeling I had. I thought about Matt, the new pastor in Wolf Lake. I knew he was being treated very well. I pray it will continue. But in time I know he will have to make do with less reinforcement. I wish it were not so.

After driving for 45 minutes I forced myself to go to the store for needed items. Then it was home to free Duke and feed him.

It was hot again, and again we stayed indoors for the most part. I played awhile with Duke. Took a short nap. Then I answered emails, read and listened to music. I retrieved yesterday's mail. There was a book, A Confederacy of Dunces, and a another lovely card from a couple at church.

It is undeniable that I need this time off. It is also undeniable that I miss the church. One can't have both.

There was a house showing at 3:00 so Duke and I went for a drive. We stopped by an abandoned house that has intrigued me for some time. I took photos to send to Angie, my friend and realtor, and asked her to check its status. Duke had a much needed romp in the long grass.

It looked forlorn. There were toys outside the front door. Painting of the brickwork had been halted before completion. It is criminal what has happened in this country. It is even more criminal that those who caused this mess are not harmed at all.

There is a pool behind the fence. The toys by the door, the basketball hoop, the peeling paint break my heart. This was one family's dream. There are hundreds like it in this area. More should be said but I leave it for another time.

This day that began so well ended badly.

The warmest summer
gives way to winter's cold--
Shattered dreams

The Rabbit Hole

July 14,
Saturday

This morning there was a blue heron fishing in front of the house. I kept Duke away from the window and got the camera. The bird saw me and I had to stand still for a time. Finally I was able to take a picture.

My previous attempts had been poor, but I was pleased with this one. It is a joy to watch herons fish. It is all in slow motion. They look ungainly. But when a fish is near they react like lightening. I am pleased when one stops by.

I laid down for a nap in early afternoon and was awakened by the phone ringing. It was from a couple I had recently married. Would I come to the hospital to pray with her Aunt Mary? She had asked for a pastor.

I am no longer pastor. I should have said,"no." Instead I said yes, dressed and went to Ft. Wayne. On the drive I chastised myself for not standing firm.

Once there I joined the couple and her parents at Aunt Mary's bedside.  They remembered me from the wedding. Ninety-nine and struggling to breathe Mary was still in good spirit and ready to talk. She thanked me; thanked God for her salvation and we prayed. All thanked me for coming. Shortly after, I left.

On the way home I could not stop thinking about how it was I, not Aunt Mary, who had been blessed. Many times I have had a task before me I would sooner not do. Each time I have done what I must, and each time the blessing has been mine. I know I should have said no. I also know that saying yes was wrong by the book but right by the heart. It will be difficult to wean me from my "pastor" persona.

At home there was an email from a pastor I am friends with. He is bipolar and on disability. He is bright, witty and most times, happy. I hadn't seen him in a year or more. He told me that in Mexico I may have to learn to speak "Catholic with a Methodist twang." He also wrote that he had read my blog and invited me to read his. I did.

He had begun the blog in 2007. The entries were sporadic and depended on how manic or depressed he was at a given time. He began the blog to chronicle what he termed "his trip down the rabbit hole." He is heartbreakingly honest. His goal is to give other pastors with similar problems a shoulder to lean on.

I read all the entries. It took two or three hours. When I had done I felt ashamed. I knew he was bipolar. We talked together often when he had problems in his church. But I had no idea how difficult his fight was or how much it eats at him. His memory is very poor now. He forgets almost immediately. Somehow I have to be a better friend.

No translator can
decipher this message--
words from the rabbit hole.

Old Talk

July 13
Friday

This afternoon my friends Shirley and Kathy stopped by. They had been kayaking on the lakes. Shirley put in the flowers the heat is trying to kill. Kathy had taken me to dinner not long ago when she heard I might be leaving. Kathy (a.k.a. Spike) I have known since 1977 or 1978, Shirley since 1986.

They were a nice surprise. We talked about old times and mutual acquaintances. I am amazed at how well they keep up with everyone. I learned more in the forty-five minutes of the visit than I had in months. After they left I thought of a painting I picked up in Trinidad. It is a watercolor of women sitting together entitled "Old Talk." It is one of my favorites. Connecting it to our conversation made me smile.

                OLD TALK, Ward, Trinidad, 1990

The Bullfrog croaking,
cricket chirping, petals dropping--
Thinking of old friends

I spent part of the day reading and did a bit of housecleaning. My habit is to read 2-3 books at a time. A book in this room and a book in that. Today it was a V.S. Naipaul novel, A House for Mr. Biswas, and Henri Nouwen's Life of the Beloved.

This is the first time I have read Naipaul. My good friend Jim recommended the book. I am enjoying it. Biswas is a fascinating and unlikely central character. A hero without redeeming qualities who has never-the-less intrigued me. I won't hesitate to read more Naipaul.

The Nouwen is a re-read. He is one of the better Christian writers--Less concerned with politics than Christ. That is a redeeming quality. His books are profound and to the point. I have several and re-read them now and then. His honesty is refreshing and his struggles are dealt with openly. I am always better for reading him.

My favorite quote of his is not from this book, but from another--In the Name of Jesus: Reflections on Christian Leadership:

"What makes the temptation of power so seeming irresistible? Maybe it is that power offers an easy substitute for the hard talk of love. It seems easier to be God than to love God, easier to control people than to love people, easier to own life than to love life."

A striking observation. One that I have taken to heart--such as I am able. Those words and Ephesians 2:8-10 are on my refrigerator where I cannot avoid them. I need their reminders. It is easy to drift off course. 

While I read I had music playing in the background. The I-phone was playing random cuts from the CDs I had loaded. I was struck by the incongruity of the Alabama Blind Boys singing Amazing Grace following Tom Wait's  Heart Attack and Vine. From the sacred to the profane. Much like my life.

This evening I received a touching email. A couple from church had written to thank me. They are kind, quiet individuals. I was unaware that my ministry had affected them so. It left a lump in my throat and  feelings of thankfulness and humility.

Sharing Shelter

July 12
Thursday

For more than a year I have met regularly with another pastor-friend. We share prayer and problems; successes and failures. It is a good meeting. I look forward to it. Sometimes we cancel due to ministry needs. Each time we do I feel cheated. The meetings are a safe place. I always leave feeling refreshed.

They continue even though I am no longer a pastor. That will cease once I leave for Mexico. My friend and I will both miss them. He will need another partner to confide in. So will I.

This mist cannot hide
the old barn and willow tree--
friends who are dear


Pastors need a safe place to share their failures; their problems. Sharing with church members is not good. A church member shouldn't pastor the pastor.  Most members assume the pastor to be strong. That is why they go to him with their cares. If they think him weak it is less likely they will share problems. They won't want to be a burden.

There is another problem sharing with members. When someone is making you crazy or angry you must keep it quiet. You don't want people to take sides. I learned that the hard way. 

My friend's church is doing better than he realizes. He can only see the failures and is discouraged. We all make mistakes. He is no different. But he is very hard on himself. We all are, perhaps. I try to encourage him.

Depression and disillusionment are common among pastors. I have known a number who have left the pulpit. I am now one of them.

One cannot see songbirds
while gazing at the ground--
defeated warrior

I went shopping and bought too much food. More than I can eat.

Fresh loaves of bread
fish, fruit and vegetables--
a table for one.

Tomorrow I preach. Sooner than I thought a week ago. How long will it be until the next time?   

Clay Pots and Kings

July 11
Wednesday

A realtor was supposed to bring someone today for showing at 3:30. They were no-shows. Very disappointing.

Another episode of Duke and the lake. The girl and her dogs were there. She wanted to sun on the raft. Duke expected to play. He jumped in. I heard her yelling for him to go home and called him in. I was steaming. For my part and his. He had no idea why she yelled at him. He thought he was doing what she wanted.

The fellow who first taught me how to train a dog once said, "I've met very few stupid dogs--but more than a few stupid people." I concur.

Confused, desperate;
the dog's behavior cries out--
Imperfect master!

This morning a local pastor had surgery to remove a cancer. She has asked me to supply the pulpit Sunday. The church is Lutheran. I'm Methodist. Once when I was headed to a United Church of Christ to fill in I was asked, "How can you preach to a different denomination?" Answer: "I plan to use the same bible."

Sister Elsie asked me to preach from the lectionary passage Mark 6:14-29. It is a long passage describing the events leading up to, and including, the death of John the Baptist. Mark places it between the sending out and return of the disciples from their first mission without Jesus. Does he place it there to hint at the danger their task entails?

The text begins at the ending, with Herod believing that Jesus is the Baptist risen from the dead. The rest is given as a flashback. There are any number of sermons here. I will focus on Herod's ignorance of the truth of who Jesus is.

I read the passages before and after a text when preparing a sermon. I read all of Mark 6. Also Mark 7--even though it doesn't appear on the lectionary calendar until the first week in September. As I read the "cups, pots and bronze kettles" (NRSV) Mark 7:4 describes, I thought of the clay pot Lao Tzu speaks of  in chapter 11 (in Mair's translation--chapter 55) of the Tao Te Ching.

The thoughts of Jesus and Lao Tzu are not connected directly. Nor are they parallel. Yet they were together in my thoughts.

Jesus speaks of the importance of cleaning  the inside vs the outside of the pot. He contrasts the inside (heart/thoughts) of a person to the outside appearance. The importance is underlined by Jesus' reiteration of the message to the disciples after the crowd had left.

Lao Tzu gives this:

"Clay is molded to make a pot,
but it is in the space where there is nothing
that the usefulness of the clay pot lies."
                                (Victor H. Mair, trans.)

Where is the connection? Is it located elsewhere? I think so. They intersect through Jesus' proclamation in Mark 10:15 that " . . . whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it," and in Matthew 11:25, "I thank you father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants." (both NRSV)

In the conclusion of Lao Tzu's thought he gives this:

"Therefore, benefit may be derived from something, but it is in nothing that we find usefulness."

Is the connection tenuous? I see the necessity of renouncing the ego essential in all worship. A difficult task.

Dandelion necklace,
pond-jumping with frogs--
truly he is a king!

All religions are not alike. Only the blind don't see similarities.

Thistles and roses
look no different-- 
if one cannot see.  

Summer Heat, Summer Cooling

July 10
Tuesday

Cooler today. The expected high is only eighty-two degrees. The morning walk was beautiful. Those we met on the way seemed giddy at the thought of the "cool down."

Toward noon my neighbor's daughter brought her two labs to play in the lake. She throws tennis balls or hits them with a tennis racket. The dogs dive in after them. They do this for hours.

Duke was trained not to go out in the lake. Sounds mean, I know, but there are good reasons. He fell through the ice his first winter and nearly drowned. Most boxers are poor swimmers. Because of their muscle mass they are not very buoyant.

Other reasons: A dog will expand his territory so long as he is able. Duke is trained to stay in the yard so he will not wander freely. I don't want him in the street or in another's yard except with me. Once he visits a place on his own that place "belongs" to him. He will return.

Duke is friendly but large. He would frighten many children and some adults. Even though he could easily walk around the end of the fence or jump in the water and bypass it altogether he has been trained not to do so. 

My neighbor is a wonderful person in many ways. Very kind. I could hardly ask for a nicer neighbor. Neither she or her daughter understand why Duke can't visit. They think I am hard on him.

Duke was outside. I was reading. After some time I went to check on him. He was in the water with the girl and her dogs, chasing a ball. I was upset. I went out to scold him and was told, "Its alright, we asked him to play."

It was not alright, but I couldn't scold Duke. He wouldn't understand. Past experience informed me that it would do no good to speak with them. I was angry but defeated. I let Duke play because I would have felt badly to spoil his fun. It was a mistake. Later I found out that he nearly drowned and was rescued by a passing jet-skier. After the girl and her dogs had gone, he jumped in the water again. I did scold him and brought him inside.

To deaden my anger I read from a beautiful book: Haiku: Japanese Art and Poetry. The images are from the Art Gallery or Greater Victoria, Canada and are lovely. Many of the poems are of Basho, Issa and Buson and I am familiar with them. There some by others I enjoyed too. The book is a collaborative effort by three authors: Judith Pratt, a professor of Asian history; Michiko Warkentyne, a Japanese linguist; and Barry Till curator of Asian art at the museum.

The reading helped, but I returned to James for a scolding:

"So then, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath; for the wrath of man does not produce the righteousness of God."                               James 1: 19-20 (NKJV)

Calming, soothing
a whisper in passing--
Summer book pages.