Author Archives: The Night Writer

You may ask yourself, “How do I work this?”

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by the Night Writer

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful
wife
And you may ask yourself-Well…How did I get here?

Well, more than six years ago my beautiful wife suggested to me that I ought to look into this new thing called blogging. And then six years ago on Feb. 15 I actually launched this site, thinking I’d give it six months. And now, six years.

I suppose I could recount the number of posts, the number of visitors, the number of comments, etc., but more dear to me is the number of friends I’ve met, the thoughts shared, and the encouragement I’ve received. Not to mention, a son-in-law and a grandson!

It has also been a thrill to have used this blog to launch Tiger Lilly’s novel-writing career, and to see her win a prize (and $1,000) from the Writer’s Digest for best self-published on-line novel.

While I haven’t been as prolific here as I was six years – or even one year – ago, I have no plans to retire this site or disappear. In fact, even when I’m not writing here, I’m thinking about it, and I like the fact that I have a place here to post some of my deeper thoughts. It is good exercise for considering my words, examining my reasoning and challenging myself to communicate something that will either resonate or draw a laugh or – ideally – both. Over the years, this exercise has brought me to the point of a new venture and I’d like to take this opportunity to share this with you.

For some time I’ve been fiddling with a book in fits and starts. Some times the inspiration is there and more often there is doubt, but I believe the vision is there and it is valid and I will complete this at some point. Events in recent months, however, have galvanized me with an idea for a different book; one that I’ve already started. In fact, I started it nearly six years ago when I wrote my first post about my kids.

I am going through the old posts, collecting the ones that in one way or another reflected our family life and my wife’s and my philosophy of child-rearing. Now I am moved to organize these into a more cohesive and accessible on-line book. My objective isn’t to produce a how-to manual; there are a lot of those out there and I can’t say that my ideas are particularly original. Instead, I want this to be an exhortation, an encouragement that it is possible — against all the obstacles and distractions in the world around us — to raise godly children and to see them grow and flower in the nurture of their own convictions, becoming full-blooded, creative and inspirational adults in their own rights.

I’m doing a lot of my Night-Writing in this cause right now, as well as editing the sequel to Tiger Lilly’s first book. My expectation is that both of these will be brought out into the light this year. I will still be writing here at about my present pace, a post very week or so.

The fact is, I would never have thought such a thing was possible if I hadn’t been plugging away here all this time, and I know I would never have kept at this if it weren’t for the friendship and support of the readers (and writers) I’ve met as a result. Thank you for being there, and I’ll be seeing you.

All our best

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by the Night Writer

As with Job, that which I have feared came upon me.

Today was the day that had long been foretold and expected; my oldest daughter’s last day in our church. I had originally had a vision of this day coming about 11 years ago, and 18 months ago we had had a preview of this as the Mall Diva and Son@Night prepared to begin his pastoral internship (see the link for details) at a church in Savage, MN, but today was the real thing. S@N was officially ordained last weekend in a ceremony in his home church in Alexandria and they are leaving on Tuesday for their new ministry in Iowa. Today was the day our church finally laid our hands on them to impart our blessing in sending them on their way, hopefully lacking in nothing.

Despite the ample warning I was having trouble this week preparing for the inevitable. It began at last week’s ordination service as I met a group from the Iowa congregation that had come to Alex for the ceremony. Given the way I feel about my daughters, I started to say to the leader of the group, “We are giving you our best” but my throat got too tight. Perhaps it’s better for them to come to this revelation for themselves. A couple of times at work this week I was nearly overcome as I thought about today, but fortunately no one came into my office at those times and my phone didn’t ring. My wife and I have always tried to have the perspective that our parenting is a stewardship of what God has given us, knowing that we’d have to pass them on at some point. It’s a worthy objective, but when you start to get close to that time the mix gets lean on theory and long on reality and sometimes your thoughts close in on yourself.

This morning I was thinking about all of this and asking for strength for the service when I felt God say to me, “Your problem is you are looking at this in terms of what you are losing, when you should be looking at it as what you are giving.”

Of course. Ah, of course.

I’ve experienced the spiritual phenomenon — so contrary to the “natural” way of the world — of giving time and money and seeing these multiplied back to me so often in so many ways that there’s almost never a second thought now when an opportunity to do one or the other arises. But Matthew 6:21 also tells us that “where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” Time and money are one thing, but perhaps now we were getting down to the treasure closest to the heart and hardest to part with. But truly, I could no more withhold this than any of the other, nor expect any less to come back to me in return. In truth, I had given this long ago when we had set our feet on this path, putting in motion the desire of our heart to see God glorified and his plan come to pass; a path that also included my daughter making her own choices and embracing her destiny. And all of this in the realization of how much we had already received even before we had given a thing.

Challenger

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by the Night Writer

It was 25 years ago today when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded on live TV shortly after take-off, killing the seven astronauts (including a civilian schoolteacher who was part of the mission) while the nation watched in horror. I was at work that day and I don’t recall how we first heard the news. Nobody had internet access in the office in those days and few listened to the radio in our office. Someone probably got a call from outside, but the news spread quickly. One of my co-workers had a computer monitor that could pick up TV signals, so we gathered around that constantly, hoping minute by minute for more news or an explanation. After about an hour my boss came over and told us all, gently, that we needed to get back to work.

I felt depressed and almost ill all day after that and that night at home I got one of those junk calls – someone selling siding or something. Rather than hang up or ream him out or play with his mind as I typically did back then I said, “You know, I really just don’t feel like getting into this right now.” The caller responded, “Yeah, I know what you mean.” We then spent the next five or ten minutes talking about the Challenger and the astronauts, their families and what the President had said and then we hung up.

In those few minutes, in that most unlikely situation, and in that shared tragedy we, too, “slipped the surly bonds of earth” and our isolated lives to become part of something much greater.

The reason for grandchildren

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by the Night Writer

Down among the reeds and rushes
A baby boy was found
His eyes as clear as centuries
His silky hair was brown

Never been lonely
Never been lied to
Never had to scuffle in fear
Nothing denied to
Born at the instant
The church bells chime
And the whole world whispering
Born at the right time

Our pastor likes to say, “God gives you children so that you can grow up.” The point is that your thinking changes when you realize the long-term responsibility you have, and your behavior (hopefully) changes when you start to recognize your less admirable traits showing up in your children. Unless, of course, you don’t mind your child turning into a despicable evil genius.

watching the game blog size

A second thought along this line occurred to me the other day: “and God gives you grandchildren so you can mature.” By that I mean the satisfaction that comes from seeing all the things you worked so hard to put into your child manifest itself in and around your grandchild. It’s the pay-off for the blood, sweat, tears and unpopular decisions you made to strengthen your own character as well as your son or daughter’s and it comes when you see how they love and teach their own children in turn, perhaps even with a greater patience and discipline than you yourself possessed at the same stage in your life. It’s at this point that you realize that your hopes for the future are bearing fruit and your work has passed from your hands.

I also realized that the same thing applies not just to the natural children you’ve borne or created, but to the “supernatural” or spiritual children you’ve discipled in the faith. How warm and glorious a feeling it is to see these children living on and sharing the things they’ve learned with others. Whether with natural or supernatural children, this is the point where you are truly overcome with the realization that something of you really is going to live on.

As an aside, this revelation may have germinated with me last week at the Bible study I lead at the Red Wing correctional facility. As it happens, each of the men in the study will be released at some point this year and I was moved to read the short chapter of Isaiah 61:1 to them. The first verse — “the LORD has anointed Me To preach good tidings to the poor; He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted, To proclaim liberty to the captives, And the opening of the prison to those who are bound…” — was what had first caught my attention, but it was the rest of the chapter that was the most powerful because it deals with what can happen for those that receive that word and that liberty. Among these is in verse 3 — “that they may be called trees of righteousness” — and especially verse 9: “Their descendants shall be known among the Gentiles, And their offspring among the people. All who see them shall acknowledge them, That they are the posterity whom the LORD has blessed.”

The mens’ faces were a bit gob-smacked as I challenged them to be those trees and I saw the realization soaking into them of the effect they could have into the next generation and the next in the families they had yet to create. “You have the chance,” I told them, “to have your grandchildren say of you either that ‘Grandpa did 10 to 20’ or that ‘Grandpa was a mighty man of righteousness who was an example to our family and set my feet on the path.'”

And T. added, “Or they could say both.”

As for my own grandson, now five and a half months old, his face often has gobs of different things on it, but it is almost invariably smiling. And why shouldn’t he? He is literally surrounded by people who love him and are happy to see him and quick to want to hold him. As Paul Simon said at the beginning of this post, he’s never been lonely, never been lied to, never had to scuffle for fear or had anything he needs denied to him.  If called upon I would gladly and readily pour everything I am and everything I have into him, but I can relax because I see that my daughter and her husband already know what it is they have to impart. My heart overflows with joy when I watch my grandson or hold him close and at the same time I feel an ache knowing that every day the news brings stories of babies that are resented, cursed and abused.

I look into his eyes, as clear as centuries, and stroke his silky brown hair and think of those born into suffering now and the deprivation they face that goes beyond mere food, clothing and shelter. I think of their lives and future paths leading into captivity and the need for someone, someday, to bring the words of liberty. And I hold my grandson even closer and whisper into his ear, “Born at the right time.”

Correctification

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With the deep, unconscious sigh which not even the nearness of the telescreen could prevent him from uttering when his day’s work started, Winston pulled the speakwrite towards him, blew the dust from its mouthpiece, and put on his spectacles. Then he unrolled and clipped together four small cylinders of paper which had already flopped out of the pneumatic tube on the right-hand side of his desk.

In the walls of the cubicle there were three orifices. To the right of the speakwrite, a small pneumatic tube for written messages, to the left, a larger one for newspapers; and in the side wall, within easy reach of Winston’s arm, a large oblong slit protected by a wire grating. This last was for the disposal of waste paper. Similar slits existed in thousands or tens of thousands throughout the building, not only in every room but at short intervals in every corridor. For some reason they were nicknamed memory holes. When one knew that any document was due for destruction, or even when one saw a scrap of waste paper lying about, it was an automatic action to lift the flap of the nearest memory hole and drop it in, whereupon it would be whirled away on a current of warm air to the enormous furnaces which were hidden somewhere in the recesses of the building.

Winston examined the four slips of paper which he had unrolled. Each contained a message of only one or two lines, in the abbreviated jargon — not actually Newspeak, but consisting largely of Newspeak words — which was used in the Ministry for internal purposes. They ran:

page 25 – So I signed it and left. Miss Watson’s nigger, Jim …  rectify

page 68 – You know that one-laigged nigger dat b’longs to old Misto Bradish …  rectify

page 84 – But by night they had changed around and judged it was done by a runaway nigger named Jim … rectify

times 3.12.83 reporting bb dayorder doubleplusungood refs unpersons rewrite fullwise upsub antefiling

HTs: 1984. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. New edition of “Huckleberry Finn to lose the ‘n’ word.

Despicable Parenting

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by the Night Writer

Despicable MeBehind every super-villain is a lousy parent. At least that’s the message I picked up on when the family sat down the other night to watch the DVD of Despicable Me, the animated movie featuring the voices of Steve Carell, Jason Segal and Julie Andrews. Whether it’s the main character Gru’s self-centered and impossible to impress mother or the demanding and bullying father of Gru’s also-evil nemesis, Vector, the path to megalomania appears to start in the nursery.

These two parents are only minor elements of the story, however, as the central dramatic tension and humor comes from the diabolically dysfunctional Gru’s attempts at parenting three orphan girls he adopts as cover for one of his fiendish plots. In fact, as I think of it, the only “normal” kids in the movie are the orphans who don’t have any parents, though they do suffer a bit at the hands of Miss Hattie, the director of the orphanage who is an “iron fist in a velvet glove while wearing a pair of brass knuckles type”. The plucky heroines are unfazed by either Miss Hattie or the woefully ill-equipped Gru’s attempts at authority.

Granted, I’m not going to get too serious about the “reality” or message of a movie that also posits that the moon, having been shrunk and stolen, will snap back into its normal orbit again when it re-enlarges, but still.

If a key part of humor is doing the unexpected then a movie where the adults are smarter than the children would surely be the smash comedy hit of the year.

First Christmas, Last Christmas

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By the Night Writer

Christmas card file

This time last year the Christmas presents represented only a portion of everything that was under wraps. We had learned a couple of weeks earlier that the Mall Diva and Son@Night, looking forward to celebrating their first Christmas together, were also going to be looking forward to their first-born child. In due season their son Benjamin, aka Baby Moose, was born and it has seemed as if the summer and fall have flown by as we’ve watched him grow prodigiously in size and charm. As he has gotten bigger, and his first Christmas has gotten nearer, I’ve tried to hold the passing days as closely as I’ve held him; he has been full of giggles, the days not so much.

This year, as we count down the days until Christmas with the usual excitement I am also counting the dwindling days of what could likely be our last Christmas together, at least as we’ve come to know it. The Diva and the Senior Moose have lived with us since they were married as Ben finished seminary and renovated our porch to hold their unexpectedly growing family. While we waited for the baby to come he finished his classes and his internship and awaited his call to ministry. Just as Christmas and babies do, this too arrived at last and they will be moving to Iowa early in the new year to begin an exciting time in the life of their new family, even if it’s in a career field where your employers somehow don’t expect you to take Christmas off.  Tomorrow we’ll wake up one more time as the Mall Diva and Tiger Lilly romp downstairs to collect the stockings and bring them into my wife’s and my bedroom for the “appetizers” before we go downstairs to rip open the rest of the presents. That has become our tradition, though with twists; this year, for example, both Ben and our new friend from China, Lynx, will join us upstairs and there might be a baby as well. As for next year…

This year’s Christmas card photo is different from ones we’ve done in the past where we’re usually bunched up. I don’t know if it was intentional (you’ll have to ask the Reverend Mother who art-directed the photo) but symbolically as I look at it you can see the young family moving away, even as my youngest daughter herself has taken steps in the past year along a path that may wind itself far away. Standing together, of course, are my wife and I on our home turf. We’re not lonely, however – at least, not yet. Let’s not overlook our “adopted daughter”, Lynx, who is working on a Master’s degree in Accounting at the University of Minnesota. Her future and career are apt to lie far away but she stands in the gap in this picture to represent the new people who will come into our lives, perhaps even from unexpected places.

Last night I sat with the men in the Bible Study at Red Wing Correctional. For each of them, as well, this a “last” Christmas, as each is scheduled to be released in 2011. A couple of them have been in prison for around twenty years, and one man told me he actually feels a certain warmth and nostalgia about this Christmas. “As terrible as it is to be here,” he said, “I know that I have friends here who know me and understand what I’ve been through in a way that no one else in my life will likely ever be able to do. I want to be out, but at the same time I appreciate what I have here in a way that I never would have expected.” He’s looking at this Christmas as his best ever, and though he’s especially looking forward to next Christmas as well, there’s some nervousness about that. It can be hard, after all, to know how to go about starting a new tradition.

I can relate.

Come to think of it, though, we didn’t put a lot of thought into the traditions we started. We just did what seemed natural to us as we kept our eyes on a special future and somehow it all came together. I wouldn’t change a thing, and while I may hold my breath, I look forward to what is to come, confident that our vision is intact and the future we are standing on is as bright as the snow in our Christmas photo.

Hardwared

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by the Night Writer

I am not a particularly handy man when it comes to fixing things. In fact, I’ve often said of myself that I can do in half-a-day what it takes two men working all-day to undo. Nevertheless, I love going into old-timey hardware stores. There’s something about the faded floors, jumbled shelves and the scent of grease, oil, wood, copper and sweat that is hard-wired (or hard-wared) into my soul and stirs my imagination. The sight of rows of tools and implements made to fit the hand just make me feel useful and like I want to start some kind of project, even though I may only be able to tell you the true function of a mere fraction of these tools. For some reason I never feel this way when I go to Lowe’s or Home Depot, even though most of my “home improvement” shopping is done at these big box stores. Perhaps it’s because somewhere along the line “home improvement centers” replaced “hardware stores”.

I thought about this yesterday after reading that my local hardware store, Langula’s, is closing after 96 years and three-generations of being in business. I first wandered into Langula’s some 10 years or so ago because I needed my mower blades sharpened and they were the only place around that still did that on site, while you waited. The owner of the shop, Gary, usually did the sharpening himself, ensconced in his grungy workshop at the back of the store where you had to step down into an area  delineated by the original foundations of his grandparent’s store. Gary’s a phlegmatic guy, not much of a talker, but he can find parts and tell you how to use them. Sometimes I’d watch as he’d run the blades along the grinder in a shower of yellow sparks but usually I’d wander around the main part of the store, hefting this tool or running my hands over that piece of equipment. Somehow it all reminded me of when I was a boy and my grandfather would take me around with him when he’d go to visit his many friends who were fuel oil jobbers and mechanics. I remember their twill work pants, Eisenhower jackets and their billed caps with the ear-flaps on the side … and always the smell of petroleum. Okay, it wasn’t frankincense, but these men with their look and jargon seemed to me to be part of some esoteric priesthood of arcane knowledge.

If not a priesthood, it was certainly at least a club. My grandfather would tell me stories of a hardware store in his home town that was run by a couple of friends, one of whom had some talent as an artist. The men in town would congregate at the hardware store and drink coffee from mugs hand-painted for each man by the owner, usually in a risque manner. The men always left their cups in the back of the store, never to be seen by the casual public and definitely never by the wives or women-folk.

Another old hardware store that did things its own way was on Payne Avenue when I lived on the east side of St. Paul. It looked as if it could have been the model for a Norman Rockwell calendar. Hell, I think it probably still had a Norman Rockwell calendar on the wall from 1957. The aisles were narrow and things stacked on the upper shelves seemed to lean over my head like tree branches in an arbor, while the hardwood floor running down each aisle was worn into a smooth trench by generations of work-boots shuffling along, making it all feel as if I was in a tunnel. The haphazard clutter of odds and ends led me to suggest to the clerk helping me that it must be fun to do the annual inventory. “Never happens,” he replied. “When the old man dies, they’re just going to burn the place down and start over.”

Langula’s doesn’t have quite as much “character” as that place, and Gary never offered me a customized coffee mug, but the store is still a true, funky, living artifact of another time, complete with a shop cat that lounges about the place and often naps on the counter next to the cash register. Whenever I’d take a deep breath it seemed as if I could still smell the ghosts in their work-clothes. My grandfather and his friends all passed on long ago and the hardware stores they would have felt at home in are dying out, too. After nearly 100 years in the same location, this coming weekend will likely be the last for Langula’s.

I plan to drop in, browse the aisles, breathe deeply. I’m sure they’ve got something there I need.

For Your Christmas List: Your Chance to “Let Love In”

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by the Night Writer

About 16 years ago this month two little girls stood on stage with their Sunday-school classmates and sang “A Whale in the Manger” and other Christmas carols for an adoring public. One of those little girls was my daughter, the Mall Diva, and the other was her best friend, Casii (pronounced “Casey”) Stephan. The two of them would eventually partner as singers and songwriters and do a handful of public performances before little things like the Diva’s married life got in the way. Casii continued to hone her skills as a singer, a lyricist and composer however and even contributed a song to the soundtrack of the recently released movie “A Christmas Snow” (more about this movie in a later post). She also attracted the attention of a local music producer who helped her create a four-song EP that was released last week.

casii-stephan-cd-let-love-in-storeThe EP, Let Love In, features a mix of up-tempo pop songs and soulful ballads that showcase Casii’s luminous talents in the hopes of garnering wider attention in the industry. You don’t have to wait for Casii to be “discovered”, however, in order to discover her yourself. As of today all four songs from the EP — as well as her song “My Sweetest Dream” from the movie soundtrack — are available on both iTunes and Amazon to sample and to download, or you can contact her through her website to get the EP itself on CD.

Casii has always blown us away, even in her younger days when her big, big voice in a little body hardly required a microphone to fill the room when she sang. Maturity has brought depth and control to her voice as she sings with passion and nuance while also showing that she’s a top-notch songwriter and musician. It has been so much fun to watch her bloom over the years and I’m looking forward to her further development and success in the future. Be sure to take advantage of this early opportunity to witness the emergence of an exciting new talent!

For your Christmas list: a book about life, death, kittens and blue angels

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by the Night Writer

It turns out that I have a number of very talented friends who have, in the last few months, demonstrated their skills and creativity by publishing books, making award-winning movies and releasing EPs. With Christmas approaching I thought that over the next several days  I’d feature these efforts here with the thought they might make it onto your shopping list.

First up is a book written by best bud from high school. He later went on to become a marine and a motorcycle cop. So, what kind of two-fisted book do you think he wrote?  Would you believe…

kittensplay Turns out my friend Nick and his late wife were very involved with cat rescue organizations for the last several years and he has collected his thoughts, experiences and even some visions into a book that is both an moving account of their experiences and a touching tribute to his wife while offering an interesting vision of what happens to our pets after they die. The book, In Heaven Kittens Play: the Blue Angel and Her Garden of Pets is available from Amazon (including a Kindle version)  and from Nick’s own website.

It’s a very nice read for anyone who’s lost a loved one or a beloved pet, and especially for those who are cat lovers (I’m looking at you, Gino). Nick’s been criss-crossing the country on book tours, signing books and doing radio and TV interviews but we both found ourselves back in our old hometown last summer where we were also able to catch up with our former Creative Writing instructor:

Miz Reed, me and Nick

Miz Reed, me and Nick

If you’re an animal lover, or know one, this book makes a great stocking-stuffer for the holidays.