Author Archives: The Night Writer

A Christmas re-run

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It’s the season for the rebroadcasts of all the TV Christmas specials, so I guess I’ll re-run one of my own. Yes, it’s time for the second annual “The True Meaning of Christmas Specials,” brought to you by…well, I guess I haven’t found anyone to sponsor this, so in the true spirit of Christmas I’ll give it away.



The True Meaning of Christmas Specials



Perhaps I was like Scrooge seeing Marley’s face on his door knocker, but I’m almost certain that when I watched the Charlie Brown Christmas special I heard Linus stand on stage and say:



And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree to render unto Caesar, and that all the world should shop and pay sales tax, and all went to be taxed, everyone into his own mall. And Joseph also went up from Shakopee, into Bloomington, unto the Mall of America, (which is called MOA) because he was an American, to shop with his wife Mary, they being great with debt. And so it was, that, while they were there, the items were purchased that needed to be delivered, and they brought forth their credit card, wrapped in promises to pay and laid it on the counter because there was no money in their checking account.



And there was in the same country stewards, abiding in their homes, keeping watch over their televisions by night. And lo, the commercials from Mammon came upon them and the glory of the goods shown round about them and they were sore afraid they would miss a good deal. And the commercial said unto them, “Fear not, for behold I bring you great tidings of a good economy, which shall be to all who do their part. For unto you is laid out this day, in a store near you, all manner of precious items, and this shall be a sign unto you: 40% off.” And suddenly there was within the commercial a multitude of friends and family praising their gifts and saying “Glory to the Giver with the highest credit card balance, and on earth peace, good will toward all, just $29.95.”



And it came to pass that I kept all these things and pondered them in my heart.



Fear not, for this is not going to be a complaint on how commercial Christmas has become. Frankly, those complaints have become as traditional and meaningless to most people as holly and ivy (if you don’t know what these represent, look it up). Complaining about how the true meaning of Christmas is being ignored, without actually dwelling on this meaning, is merely spiritual lip service; kind of like singing “Gloria In Excelsis Deo,” without knowing what it means. For me the issue is not that commercialism obscures the meaning of Christmas, but the cultural camouflage that diverts attention. As a case in point, let’s look at the Christmas specials we watch with our families.



Despite my parody of the Linus speech earlier, the Charlie Brown Christmas special is a classic and a true Christmas special because it is one of the few that deals specifically with the birth of Christ. “The Little Drummer Boy” is another old one and favorite of mine that also does this, while the Veggie Tales “The Toy That Saved Christmas” is the highlight of the new generation. Many so-called Christmas specials, however, purport to be about finding the true meaning of Christmas, but where is the Christ in “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer,” “How the Grinch Stole Christmas,” “It’s a Wonderful Life” or “A Christmas Story”? Watch these and most other shows and you’ll get the message that you can be what you want to be and you should do kind things for others, and that Bumbles bounce. Nice shows and nice sentiments all, but while Jesus would exhort us to be “nice” it isn’t why he came. Don’t forget that “for unto you is born this day in the city of Bethlehem a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.”



Enjoy the shows with your family, but look for ways to highlight fundamental Christian concepts within the programs, even if these messages appear unintentional. Since everything will ultimately prove the word of God true, teachable moments are everywhere if we are alert to them. The classic movie “Miracle on 34th Street,” for example, really focuses on the importance of faith, at one point virtually reciting Hebrews 11:1 and 11:5-6. Don’t miss the opportunity to call this to your children’s’ attention. I once sat open-mouthed (but not slack-jawed) watching the SpongeBob Squarepants Christmas program for the first time. The story is that SpongeBob has never heard of Santa Claus until his friend Sandy fills him in. SpongeBob get so excited that he stands on a street corner proclaiming the good news to everyone (no one else has heard of Santa either) about how kind Santa is and about all the gifts he will bring. Soon, everyone is shouting, “We love Santa!” I turned to my daughter and said, “SpongeBob is an evangelist!”



Of course, SpongeBob is focusing on all the benefits that Santa brings, which is also a failing of modern evangelism. People are exhorted to “try” Jesus for all the blessings that will be added to their lives but if these don’t show up right away (or don’t show up in the way people expect) they get disillusioned, even bitter. This, too, happens in the SpongeBob Christmas show. We lose sight of the fact that the first benefit of the salvation we receive from believing in Christ is not in getting what we deserve, but in avoiding what we deserve.



A good story for illustrating this concept can be Charles Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol.” You may think you know the story of Ebenezer (there’s a Biblical name) Scrooge, but look at it as a parable. Scrooge is greedy and cruel and oblivious to his iniquity. He doesn’t heed warnings to change, but because of another’s desire for him to avoid his fate, he is visited by spirits that convince and convict him of his sins and show him what is in store for him. In horror he repents and asks for forgiveness, vowing to change. He’s not concerned about the benefits of a new way of life; he just wants to escape the fruit of the old way. Waking the next morning and realizing his opportunity he says “Thank you (Holy Spirit) Spirits!” and is ever after known as “a man who kept Christmas (Jesus) in his heart.” (By the way, I happen to think the George C. Scott “Christmas Carol” is the best, but I’ll always have a soft spot for Mr. Magoo as well).



I’m sure there are many more examples in Christmas programs that I’ve left out but that have occurred to you. I’d love to hear what message or blessing you and your family get out of different Christmas shows, so feel free to leave a comment. Just don’t shoot your eye out!



Merry Christmas, my friends, and to your families!



By the way, Fraters Libertas has conveniently compiled a listing of many of the upcoming holiday specials. Joy!

All the news to rinse and spit

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There was an interesting story in the Minneapolis StarTribune yesterday about an elderly man who heard someone breaking into his home and, when confronted in his bedroom by the intruder, shot and killed the burglar. The original story was pretty spare on details, though the police indicated that the homeowner was within his rights and was not likely to be prosecuted.

Considering that it’s the Strib, however, and its well-established anitpathy toward guns in the hands of law-abiding citizens, I wasn’t suprised to see in today’s follow-up story that the paper, in its commitment to informing the public (as long as it can advance its own agenda, that is) solemnly informed us that the homeowner’s house was dilapidated and likely to be condemned, thereby suggesting that the intruder may have mistakenly thought the house was abandoned (which, of course, makes it all right to break and enter). At least the condition of the house had some connection to the story. The article finished by reporting that the homeowner was a former teacher and school principal who had been fired 25 years ago for being “unfit to teach” due a “list of deficiencies” including having a “rigid and stiff” classroom manner and for picking on and swearing at students. He’s evil!

No doubt tomorrow we’ll have another story focusing on the young “victim” who will turn out to be a troubled young man just on the verge of getting his life together before his fatal misadventure, which could have been prevented if only someone had “done something.”

Okay, that’s the news business. When you’ve got a story that gets a lot of attention you naturally want to follow up and include more details to keep the readers coming back. For example, let’s take one of the biggest stories of the past few days that has both a local and national following: the “flying Imams” who were cold-bloodedly persecuted for innocently scaring the bejeezus out of their fellow passengers and the flight crew:

The imams say they were removed from the Phoenix-bound flight because they were praying quietly in the concourse. They had been in Minnesota for a conference sponsored by the North American Imams Federation.

But other passengers told police and aviation security officials a different version of the incident. They said suspicious behavior of the imams led to their eviction from the flight…

…The passengers and flight crew said the imams prayed loudly before boarding; switched seating assignments to a configuration used by terrorists in previous incidents; asked for seat-belt extensions, which could be used as weapons; and shouted hostile slogans about al Qaeda and the war in Iraq.

Flight attendants said three of the six men, who did not appear to be overweight, asked for the seat-belt extensions, which include heavy metal buckles, and then threw them to the floor under their seats.

Wow, holy indignation, airline security and national attention! I can’t wait for the Strib to bring us more information about the backgrounds of these now frequent flyers, or to tell us more about this important Muslim conference held in our very own Twin Cities and attended by our very own first-ever Muslim congressman-elect, Keith Ellison!

Perhaps I’m expecting too much, given the Strib seemed to have a lot of trouble getting anything other than sketchiest of details about Ellison’s background such as his campus writings and long-time affiliation with Nation of Islam leader Louis Farrakhan. Finding out more background information on these humble holy men is probably even more difficult. Unless you’re Michelle Malkin, that is:

Will they mention Shahin’s admitted ties to Osama bin Laden and denial of the 9/11 al Qaeda plot?

Or his connection to a Hamas-linked terror charity front?

Will they mention Mahdi Bray’s terror-sympathizing statements and stances?

Or the Muslim American Society’s radical embrace of sharia and faux pose as the “moderate” front for the Muslim Brotherhood? (My debate on Laura Ingraham’s radio show with one of the double-talking MAS spokesmen here.)

Or will they mindlessly play along with the grievance-mongers, lazily echoing the cries of “Islamophobia” and joining in self-flagellation?

Oh well, see you in the funny papers.

Happy Birthday, C.S. Lewis

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Today’s the birthday of C.S. Lewis, author of The Chronicles of Narnia, Mere Christianity and numerous other books of allegorical fantasy, inspiration and Christian apologia, including my favorites, Surprised by Joy and The Screwtape Letters. In light of yesterday’s post, the following quote from Lewis seems appropriate:



Much of the modern resistance to chastity comes from men’s belief that they “own” their bodies – those vast and perilous estates, pulsating with the energy that made the worlds, in which they find themselves without their consent and from which they are ejected at the pleasure of Another!



Today’s Writer’s Almanac has this account:



C.S. (Clive Staples) Lewis (books by this author) was born in Belfast, Ireland (1898). He said of his childhood, “I am a product …[of] books. There were books in the study, books in the drawing-room, books in the cloak room, books in a bedroom, books piled as high as my shoulder in the attic, books of all kinds reflecting every transient stage of my parents’ interests, books readable and unreadable, books suitable for a child and books most emphatically not. Nothing was forbidden me. In the seemingly endless rainy afternoons I took volume after volume from the shelves.”



Lewis’s parents were Anglicans and took him to church as a boy, but he found religion cold and boring. He preferred pagan mythology: Irish, Norse, and Greek myths he read in storybooks. He created an imaginary country called “Boxen” and wrote stories about it. He said, “My early stories were an attempt to combine my two chief literary pleasures — ‘dressed animals’ and ‘knights in armour.’ As a result, I wrote about chivalrous mice and rabbits who rode out in complete mail to kill not giants but cats.”



He began teaching philosophy at Oxford, where he met J.R.R. Tolkien. Tolkien was a devout Christian and Lewis was an atheist, but they shared a love for mythology. They took a long walks around the Oxford grounds, debating the existence of God. Tolkien tried to persuade Lewis that the story of Jesus was a myth but that it had also actually happened.



The morning after one of those walks, Lewis went with his brother to the zoo. He said, “When we set out [for the zoo] I did not believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and when we reached the zoo I did. Yet I had not exactly spent the journey in thought. Nor in great emotion.” He became the most prominent Christian apologist in the world. He recorded a series of lectures for radio, which were broadcast in England during World War II, and many people gathered around their radios to take comfort from his ideas in the midst of bombing raids. The lectures were collected into his book Mere Christianity (1952).



But he is best remembered for the seven books in the Chronicles of Narnia, which he started publishing in 1950. Lewis decided to write for children, even though he never had any children himself and had never had any strong relationships with children. He wanted to give children what he had gotten himself from fairytales when he was a child.



C.S. Lewis said, “You can’t get a cup of tea big enough or a book long enough to suit me.”


Oh, boy

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There was a story in the newspaper last week just before I left town that kept going through my mind. It was about a 16-year-old boy who was on the run from his home and from the juvenile authorities and who was upset that — for some strange reason — his girlfriend’s father wouldn’t let them see each other. Therefore he got a gun, went to his girlfriend’s house where the father was alone, confronted the man and put the gun to his own head and threatened to shoot himself if the father wouldn’t let them be together.

Boy, just when you think you’re going to have a problem…

I’m thinking that if it’s me I’d say something like, “Don’t pull that trigger, son! You want to squeeeeze it gently or you might miss.”

Okay, I probably wouldn’t say that. I’d probably think it, but I wouldn’t say it. Maybe. I’m generally a pretty compassionate guy, and I know that this story involves a real kid who obviously has some real problems, and I pray he gets some real help. Who knows, I may even meet him some day, though you can be pretty sure he wouldn’t make it through the first interview if he had any thoughts of achieving “boyfriend” status and hadn’t picked up a clue or two along the way. If someone showed up around here drinking self-pity out of a sippy cup and thinking he had a “right” to see my daughter then his self-esteem is probably the first thing that’s going to be hurt. And don’t tell me that that kind of attitude on his part reflects low self-esteem; it shows that it’s really all about him — and believe me, that’s not someone who thinks too little of himself.

What I’m looking for is a return to “honorable intentions” and the awareness that certain things have to be earned, and a willingness to do so. Would you spend years carefully maintaining your SUV, waxing and washing it, only to have some joker think he can jump in and take it off-roading with barely a “by-your-leave”, let alone a promise to have it back by ten?

Of course, a SUV doesn’t have much of a say in the matter, whereas a daughter might. There’s no question I’ve got a paternalistic outlook, which is another word that has fallen into disfavor these days, but I don’t apologize for it when it comes to my daughters. Look, I’ve changed the diapers, paid for the braces and educations, sat them on my knee and put them across it as necessary and not because they are “mine” but because I know that ultimately they’re Someone else’s, just as I am. They know what loves looks like, so they don’t have to go around trying to find it from others. They know the value I put on them and they know my values; along the way, if I’ve done my job, those values have grown inside them to be better armor than any I can put around them. The high expectations aren’t just mine now.

The Greatest Generations

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Emily: Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it — every, every minute?

Stage Manager: No. (pause) The saints and poets, maybe they do some.

— From “Our Town,” by Thornton Wilder

Fulfilling my earlier promise, I returned to the Ficke Cemetery last week to help clean up the patch of land about the size of my front yard that had become overgrown with trees and sumac from years of neglect as it drifted from the memories of the dwindling generations who still recall it. My family and I had first visited the site last July, and had barely been able to walk through the dense brush or see the headstones covered in brambles, especially the pitiably small stones marking the graves of the children.

We figured the site could endure the passing of another season, and after the autumn frost we’d be better able to get into cemetery that contains the marker for my mother’s great-grandfather, George Marion West and his first and second wives. The former, Henrietta had died when she was 21, just after giving birth to my great-grandfather, William. Our plan was to cut the brush and dress the grounds as best we could, and my father had received permission to get onto the property from the farmer that now owns the land that once was the Ficke farm. He’d also contacted another man who had ancestors on those grounds and who had promised to help.

Tiger Lilly and I left for Missouri last Monday for this purpose, and our mission caused me to pay greater attention to the many cemeteries we pass on our familiar route through Iowa and into the Show-Me state. Rural cemeteries can be a mixed bag in appearance; some that we drove by were out in the open, unornamented, looking as stark and as hard as a trailer-park, or as if they were just another crop sunk into the ground with hopes for the best. In Westphalia, Missouri the cemetery is right in the heart of the town, and begins on the very edge of two-lane Highway 63 and climbs the side of a low hill, under the watchful eye of the crucified Jesus. Just north of Bloomfield, Iowa the town’s cemetery covers another slope that creates a natural, sweeping amphitheater overlooking downtown, giving the impression that the dead rest where they can easily watch the goings on in the community like the scene in “Our Town.” By early evening Highway 63 has turned back into a four-lane and we drive past Ashland, Missouri and another hill that bumps up against the side of the road. Looking straight up we see the silhoutte of a church and steeple, and its graveyard filled with monuments featuring tall, narrow columns and spires. Against the pink, red and yellow sunset the monuments look like so many rockets, pointed at Heaven.

Update:

To see the Google Maps aerial view of the Ficke Cemetery before we cleaned it out, go here. The cemetery is the green square in the center of the image, jutting out to the east from the other woods and located south and west of the McCallister Road.

Riding with the homeys (home delivery, that is)

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In the city we take overnight delivery for granted. We’re near airports and encoiled by dense networks of highways and paved roads and our purple, brown or yellow-liveried servants shuttle almost unnoticed amongst us, leaving our packages of must-have goods. The further you get from the big cities, however, the more those highway arteries turn into veins, moving the lifeblood of commerce through their communities. If you get far enough out, those veins even become capillaries – narrow county roads, some paved, others often covered (mostly) with gravel, some hemmed in by brush and branches. The one thing they all have in common is that there’s someone waiting at the end of each one for that missing auto part, box of seeds, or froo-froo underwear.

My brother Jeff is an independent contractor for one of the big delivery services, and he services several rural communities in Missouri. He started with one truck a few years ago, and has expanded by buying two other trucks and hiring sub-contractors to drive additional routes. The newer trucks are diesel-powered Mercedes Sprinters, comparatively easy to operate and much more economical to run. My brother still drives his original one-ton Chevy truck with the big box. His route averages about 260 miles per day, the truck has more than 260,000 miles on it, making it a truck of 1,000 days. The miles aren’t the only things on it; a not-so-fine layer of dust from the gravel roads coats every surface inside the cab, and long scratches groove the sides and top of the truck so densely it looks like a weaving pattern. The branches grow thick and close to the “roads” in most of the places he goes. The outside edge of the driver’s seat of the truck, brushed by Jeff’s cheeks 80 or 90 times a day as he slides out, is ripped and the foam padding is practically gone. As the boss, Jeff could certainly keep one of the Mercedes for himself, but this Chevy has to operate at peak efficiency if he’s going to make any money, and no one is going to watch over this old truck as attentively as he will.

I meet my brother Tuesday morning at his terminal to ride along for the day. He already has his day’s deliveries stacked behind the truck, organized by community and order of delivery; there’s no point making a long day even longer by not being organized. Before loading up, however, we first have to replace the passenger-side mirror, which was lost to a tree on the previous run. Experienced in this task, Jeff has the new mirror in place in less than five minutes. Then we start loading; I’m hoping my extra set of hands will make the process go faster, but I feel more like I’m in Jeff’s way as he hands boxes up and directs me to where they should be placed. I should have played more Tetris when I was younger. I look at the large lettering on the side of one box: “Fra – geel – ay,” I say outloud. “Must be from Italy!”

Roots, the road and ruminations

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Tiger Lilly and I are setting off tomorrow morning for Missouri to get an early start on the holiday week with my folks. The Mall Diva and Reverend Mother have to work the early part of the week, but will catch up with us later. Bonita is staying with her best friend since she hasn’t seen much of her lately, and there are certain complications associated with transporting a minor across state lines without the express approval of her parents.

One of the things I’m going to do while down there is help clear out the old family cemetary nearly reclaimed by nature that I wrote about back in July. I’ve already thrown certain tools into the trunk so that I don’t drive off without them.

I’ve also thrown my work gloves in the car since my hands have gotten soft since the days I swung a brush-hook for, I think, $3.25 an hour. My current tools don’t raise near as much sweat as the old ones; nevertheless the laptop is also making the trip. The long hours of the drive are typically good thinking time for me and I expect some things will work their way into this blog, sort of like the sumac and other shoots and saplings that have pushed through the ground out at the old Ficke farm.

Other implements of destruction in the trunk include my golf clubs. Highs for the week are forecast in the upper 50s and lower 60s, so we’ll probably work in another family tradition as well. Blogging is likely to be persistent but sporadic. If I don’t see you, have a happy Thanksgiving!

Readin’, Writin’ and Writhing

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A couple of years ago my wife served as a chaperone for a local high school prom (go here for the whole story). It was an experience that affirmed our commitment to home-education and heightened our concerns for the well-being of the coming generation:

My wife also made it home from her chaperone assignment without falling asleep, largely due to the startling effect of watching what passes for dancing these days. You see, there’s this thing called “freak” dancing – because it “freaks” parents out, I think – that involves a young lady(?) placing her fundament against her escort’s crotch and both of them vigorously gyrating (music optional). It appears that girls have finally found a way to get the boys out on the dance floor. My wife felt as if she should get out on the floor as well, but with a bucket of water or a garden hose. She settled for prayer instead. It kind of makes the old notion of a guy hoping for a goodnight kiss seem a bit quaint, doesn’t it? I mean, after three hours of something like that with teenaged nerve endings a peck on the cheek would be – oh, shall we say – anti-climactic?

When I was in high school you could be suspended for PDAs (Public Displays of Affection) on school grounds (and yes, we thought it was silly and unfair and an example of adult narrow-mindedness). Our old high school principal would say “You know what holding hands and playing licky-face leads to — No Good!” Thirty years later perhaps we’re seeing what else it leads to. I do question, however, how much “affection” this type of dancing, er, entails.

Just as I was pacing out the dimensions of an ark in my backyard, though, I saw this story in the St. Paul paper this week that suggests that rather than indifference or benign sanction, school officials are trying to clean things up.

For students at Central High School in St. Paul, this fall’s homecoming was nothing like the dances of years past.

It was held in the vast space of the school’s gym rather than the cafeteria, the lights were kept on, and administrators walked around shining flashlights to separate couples who got too close.

“It’s really awful,” said junior Laura Mohn of the new rules. “It’s not right. It’s not fun.”

“This is not how it’s supposed to be,” complained junior Daniel Chahla.

Central is one of several schools in the metro area cracking down on dance behavior that some administrators say has become borderline obscene.

Inspired by popular music and videos, “grinding” or “club dancing” or “twerking” — in which girls swivel their buttocks into boys’ crotches — has been around for several years. But it’s become so blatant and widespread at school dances, officials say, that they’re having trouble lining up adults willing to chaperone any more.

“The dancing’s got so overtly sexual that we have to address it,” said Tim Wald, principal at White Bear Lake High School’s south campus. He described the movement as “a rhythmic grinding that … really appears to be sexual behavior.”

“Now it applies to a lot of our students,” Wald said. “We can’t just pick out those who are misbehaving.”

Glory be, the schools are actually trying to keep something out of their buildings besides the ROTC and army recruiters! Of course these moves have students gnashing their teeth, but I think that’s better than having them grinding their underwear into oatmeal. Not surprisingly, students are voting with their feet (or something).

Roseville Area High principal Connie Nicholson said the homecoming dance this fall drew about a third the crowd it usually does after the school said it would “not be allowing dancing that simulates sexual activity.”

Apple Valley High School has gone from nine dances a year to three — homecoming, Sadie Hawkins and prom — after students objected to new rules last year forbidding grinding. Students essentially boycotted the “smaller, sort of come-as-you-are dances,” said principal Steve Degenaar. “Kids are OK with the rules as long as it’s a major theme dance,” he said.

On the one hand, it’s less of a headache for administrators if students who aren’t prepared to follow the rules stay away from dances.

On the other, dances can be a way to bond students to their school and create camaraderie. And some worry that pushing students to find their own fun on a Friday night will encourage risky behavior.

As Amy Knutson, secretary of the student council at Central, put it after watching classmates bail out on her school’s homecoming dance: “I don’t think it’s a healthier alternative to go to clubs.”

While I’m truly concerned what the longterm ramifications for our youth might be as result of school dances being cut from 9 to just 3 per year(how will we compete with other countries?), I somehow get the impression that bonding with the school isn’t what the kids are interested in. Furthermore, I don’t think allowing group sex in the school as a way to keep kids off the streets and out of the backseats is an effective or logical strategy. And pardon me, Ms. Knutson, but don’t you have to be 21 to get into clubs in Minnesota? Get off the dance floor and get back to debate class!

Update:

Dementee over at the Koolaid Report is also on the story like a freak-dancer on a thong.

O.J. has found the killer at last!

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Gee, hiding in the mirror all this time.

Already a pariah and pop-culture punch line, O.J. Simpson plans a book and TV interview to discuss how, hypothetically, he could have killed his ex-wife and her friend

… Denise Brown, sister of Simpson’s slain ex-wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, lashed out at publisher Judith Regan of ReganBooks for “promoting the wrongdoing of criminals” and commercializing abuse…

(Snip)

… Regan refused to say what Simpson is being paid for the book but said he came to her with the idea.

“This is an historic case, and I consider this his confession,” Regan told The Associated Press…

I’ve made note of the date of the interview and of the book’s release, but only so I can schedule a root-canal for that evening and so that I can have a reference point in my memoirs for the time when our culture finally fell into the abyss.