Filings: Rich kids

You must each make up your own mind as to how much you should give. Don’t give reluctantly or in response to pressure. For God loves the person who gives cheerfully. And God will generously provide all you need. Then you will always have everything you need and plenty left over to share with others. As the Scriptures say,

“Godly people give generously to the poor.
Their good deeds will never be forgotten.”

— 2 Corinthians 9: 7-9 (New Living Translation)

When Tiger Lilly was six years old she saw the advertisement in the newspaper for the Union Gospel Mission’s annual Thanksgiving banquet for the homeless. She studied the photo of the elderly man with the long beard and old clothes. She read the headline that said just $1.79 would provide a full Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings to a hungry person. She looked at me.

I have $1.79,” she said, with some amazement. “I can buy someone’s dinner!” I sent her upstairs to get her bank to be sure. There were a few bills in there and a lot of coins, and she methodically counted out the full amount. I kept my face non-commital as I asked her if she was sure she wanted to give that money, since it represented a lot of what she had in her bank. She was positive. I had her get an envelope to put the money into and that afternoon we drove over to the Mission. I could have simply written a check covering her contribution along with a larger one from my wife and I and mailed it in, but the Mission isn’t far from our house and I wanted her to see where the money was going and have the personal connection of seeing the real people she was helping. We went inside and the chaplain there was an acquaintance of mine. He wasn’t used to receiving direct contributions, but he took us into his small office, collected Tiger Lilly’s envelope, earnestly wrote her a receipt and thanked her for her for giving, saying how much it would mean to someone.

I remembered that episode last week when I read the article in the Wall Street Journal (subscription required) by Arthur C. Brooks analyzing the results of the Social Capital Community Benchmark Survey. According to these results, 85 million U.S. households give money each year to non-profit organizations, while 30 million households do not. The differences between these two groups is not based on income, but on political and religious outlook, with conservatives and people of faith being the ones most likely to give and to volunteer. Besides giving to non-profits, this charity extends to giving to friends and neighbors and even to propensity to donate blood.

The article observed that some might be surprised by the discrepancy in the giving habits between conservatives and liberals given the stereotype of the heartlessness of the right. And of course it is common knowledge that religious people are all hypocrites. I wasn’t surprised, however. Many of the people I know are always open and willing to help meet a need; they draw the line at institutionalizing one, however.

To some extent this may be due to believing there’s something beyond yourself that you need to be accountable to. It can be highly motivational if you truly believe that one day you’re going to stand before God and give an account for yourself. (And, as I’ve written here before, if God asks me if I gave to the poor I don’t think he’ll be impressed if I say, “Well, I paid my taxes.”) But as 2 Corinthians says up above, it us up to each of us to choose what to give and that if we give cheerfully He will provide everything we need. It is the evidence of the latter in my life that leads me to give cheerfully, not out of a desire to receive more but out of the confidence that God will give me the means to give (providing seed to the sower as it says in verse 10). In contrast, what is the state of your heart and the measure of your actions if you believe there’s never enough of anything to go around unless it’s taken from another?

Giving is important because it’s what God wants us to do, but taxes are the government deciding who can afford to give, and the repercussions of that affect more than just the wealthy; even to the point of hurting the working poor by stifling the economy. “Free will” (or “free market”) giving, where the individual is responsible to decide how much he or she will give (or not give) is different. It also doesn’t set up stultifying and self-perpetuating bureaucracies that don’t have the incentive to ferret out fraud.

One of the greatest satisfactions of my life has been seeing my daughters grasp this important principle naturally from an early age. They’ve been tithers from the time they first received money and givers for as long as they can remember, and not just from obedience but out of joy. I remember how much they loved to put the money in the Salvation Army’s red buckets everytime we saw one when they were little, and the five-year-old Tiger Lilly spontaneously giving a dollar of her own money toward the 10-year-old Mall Diva’s first missions trip. I’ve observed the thoughtfulness and joy they’ve put into filling shoeboxes for Operation Christmas Child each year, and watched them get involved with organizations such as Samaritan’s Purse and Soldier’s Angels, and Operation Starfish where the Mall Diva is helping a young mother develop the life skills she needs to provide for her family. The neatest thing, however, is that they don’t have to have a program or some official ministry to get involved in in order to give; whether it’s time, money, encouragement or, occasionally, blunt advice, they give easily out of their abundance of spirit to their friends and others.

So why do I feel like the one who’s rich?

Filings is an ongoing section of this blog where the posts focus specifically on issues of Christian life. The name comes about because “filings” are the natural by-product of Proverbs 27:17: “as iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.”

Oh, boy

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

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.

A day in our life, the life in our day

What a great day we had yesterday. We didn’t start with the usual smush of mother and daughters on the Big Comfy Chair for breakfast and the comics since the Mall Diva had to leave for church early to rehearse with the band, but I did get the joy of opening my eyes to the smells of fresh bread and hot coffee. That, plus being fortified with an extra hour of sleep after “falling back” to Standard Time was a good head start on a lovely autumn day.

We got ourselves organized and off to church (sans Bonita, who was spending the day with her friends and youth group) to hear the Reverend Mother preach for the first time since being ordained late last year (ministry is so much more than preaching and teaching). With her at the lectern, the Mall Diva singing during Praise & Worship, Tiger Lilly working the slides with the song lyrics and me ushering it might seem as if the church couldn’t survive without us, when in actuality just the opposite is true. Afterwards we went over to our friends’ house for brunch where we were gloriously overserved with pumpkin pancakes hot off the griddle with spiced butter and real maple syrup, sausage and egg casserole, croissants, lox and bagels and more coffee in cups as big as our heads. “Uncle” Ben accompanied us, learning that membership does have its privileges (sorry, inside joke), and it was tremendous fun to sit around the table afterwards as the conversation seamlessly wove between the Bible and Monty Python (yes, it can be done).

When we at last took our leave it was then time to head over to St. Paul to hear Ben’s sister play in a wind ensemble. It was a delightful and stirring musical performance that caused me to remember my own school days of playing tenor saxophone in school bands and the satisfaction, and even the thrill, of being part of a large group of people all playing in perfect rhythm and synchronization (well, maybe less than perfect in my case). The best part, however, was meeting Ben’s parents for the first time — and *blush* then hearing how much they had been looking forward to meeting us (and how much they already knew about us). After Marjorie and I were introduced to Ben’s dad, Chris, I started to introduce my daughters but there was no need. Chris turned immediately to the red head and enthusiastically said, “You must be Tiger Lilly!” Then, turning to my other daughter, “And the Mall Diva, of course — and are those wrist sweaters you’re wearing?” I’m used to being addressed in blogging circles by my blog-handle, but it is kind of a strange sensation to hear your children recognized by their aliases, especially by non-bloggers. Maybe it’s just one of those little things that sneak up on parents from time to time to tell you that your children are on about the business of making their way.

Events up to this point would have made for a full and memorable day, but there was still more to come. After the concert and a brief visit with Ben’s folks it was time to head over to Minneapolis for a costume party with Surly and Sweeter Half. Since the Reverend Mother is on-call as a police chaplain this week, that became her “costume” (if she received a call it might be less than effective to arrive on the scene in her official capacity but wearing a fright wig or bunny ears.) The Mall Diva easily reprised her birthday gown and tiara into “Ice Princess” regalia, and Tiger Lilly enthusiastically donned pirate garb with a plastic sword being a satisfactory, temporary trade-off for her new nunchaku which otherwise seldom leave her hands of late (believe me, it pays to keep your eyes open when walking around my house). I went as the unoriginal guy-too-busy-to-create-a-costume, but this was remedied upon my entrance to the party when I was presented with a rakish musketeer hat that I was later loathe to part with.

We met some more new, fun people and had more great food and the Rev. Mother even found the desire of her heart — a baby to hold. This one in particular was special because, even though he was a male infant, his long, dark hair and round cheeks bore a strong resemblance to the very young Diva. I double-clutched when I came into the room and saw the baby cradled in her lap; it was like looking through a rip in the time-space continuum. As discombobulating as it was for me, I think it’s more of a challenge for the Diva, who, beneath the pointed, longing, “When are you going to give me grandchildren” looks of her mother, usually responds with something along the lines of, “What are you looking at me for? You don’t even let me date!”

It was a very pleasant evening and then we had to leave early because it occurred to us that no one had told Bonita the security code for getting back into the house. Later, when Bonita arrived she curled up with the Rev. Mum to download the events of her weekend as well. When it was my turn to bid Marjorie good night we talked about what a fun and full day it had been, but how, strangely, it hadn’t felt stressed or hurried. We decided that it was because other people had done all the work and all we had to do every step of the way was just show up!

I could almost get used to that!

An inside look at a sophisticated marketing program

Some of you may be aware of a raging controversy over at the Hammerswing 75 blog regarding what to call those knitted things the Mall Diva wears over her wrists and palms (but not her fingers). MD calls them wrist sweaters, which some find outrageous, and others, insidious. (Read the comments at the link for details, and vote here to register your choice).

Some, however, think they are a great fashion accessory, as well as being practical, no matter what they are called. The ever-entrepreneurial Kingdavid , however, wanted to know how I, as a marketing guru, would package this great new product. Since he’s thrown down the gauntlet, so to speak, I’ll share a few details here.

What you need to do today in these times of diffused media is build product awareness through so-called “viral” methods. You can’t use one-way broadcast bombardments any more in the hopes of beating down people’s defenses or ambivalence. You need to use the so-called viral network marketing. For example, find a young, charismatic trend-setter that people naturally want to emulate, and position that person in a niche market that is still well connected. Then, with a few strategic moves you generate a mini-controversy to generate additional buzz; with any luck you’ll get a poll going, leading to more strong feelings.

I love it when a plan comes together.

An expensive weekend

I took the awnings down off of the house this weekend and stowed them in the garage attic without incident or injury but that doesn’t necessarily mean I escaped a beating. My car is due for some new tires and with the first flakes flying this past week I knew I shouldn’t put it off very much longer.

I’ll usually go just about anywhere that has a coupon to get commodity-type car service such as oil changes, but for any serious auto work we go to Weinhagen’s, a family-run business in St. Paul across the the street from the Wabasha caves. They may charge more than the chain places, but we’ve used them for nearly ten years and trust their work and advice. We don’t usually need a lot of work done, but the Weinhagens always remember us by name when we come in or call and they don’t have to look us up in a computer to do so. We only buy used cars and always take any vehicle we’re considering buying to them for a thorough check out first.

I think it’s worth paying a little more for service when it’s with people you trust, especially when safety is involved. When the Mall Diva started driving I took her in there to introduce her to the guys and told her if she ever had a “check engine” light come on or any other problem while she was driving she was to come directly to this garage (heavens knows, it’s no use calling me — I can’t do anything to fix a car unless it somehow involves swinging a rubber mallet); I told the guys if they ever saw her they were to see she got what she needed and I’d settle up at the end of the day. Everyone was cool with that.

Tires fall into that “commodity” category, however, so once I found out the size I needed I went on-line to check prices and available brands at Tires Plus, Firestone and Discount Tire. Ouch! Everyone was running about $200 higher than I was expecting. Just to be thorough, I called Weinhagen’s to see what they had to offer. Not only did they greet me warmly by name when I called, but they offered me a set of 50,000 mile warranty tires in my original price range and vouched that they were the same brand and make of tire that they put on all their company vehicles.

With that taken care of, and the awnings stowed, it was time for some more important maintenance: the Reverend Mother and I went out to Muffuletta for dinner Saturday night to celebrate our anniversary. We’ve only been here a couple of times, but we really like it. The menu changes every day but it’s always imaginative and first rate. It’s a great place for a “special” event or to indulge yourself when you’re looking for something beyond the usual meat and potatoes. When Marjorie and I go out to eat she maintains her lithe figure by only ordering a cup of soup or salad and saving room for dessert, while eating the vegetables I won’t touch from my entree. Saturday night, however we shared the basket of homemade bread and crackers (yes, they make their own crackers, too) which came with a sweet pepper dip, an appetizer of sweet potato croquettes (delicious!) and a salad, and then she had an order of gnocchi with squash and pine nuts while I had the pan-seared Dijon chicken breast on a bed of bacon, apples, leeks and some kind of purple potato that I can’t remember where it comes from. Then she had an espresso custard with whipped cream for dessert (ok, I helped a little). Everything was fantastic! Fortunately I had won a $25 American Express gift certificate at work the week before, so our evening was merely indulgent but not excessive.

Sunday there was no Vikings game on tv, so we joined a large group and went out to lunch after church. That’s not a typical weekend expenditure for us, but it was fun outing, and it’s okay to stretch the budget a little every now and then, right? Then it was time to go meet up with some other friends to have our annual family Christmas card photo taken. Our friends are a husband and wife team of talented photographers who have been able to draw out some cool “album cover” photos of us over the years (credit goes, too, to the Rev. Mum, Diva and Tiger Lilly for being so photogenic). New this year to our group is The One Who Came to Stay, or, as I’ll refer to her on this blog, “Bonita”. You can see she’s a good fit.

Afterwards the kids all went home to bake cookies … awww, how sweet! That is, until the stove died during the first batch. We think it’s really dead, too, but it’s been a good stove for a long time; it was in the house when we moved in nine years ago and has an older look and style to it. We’ll be searching out replacements this week, which isn’t exactly something we look forward to spending time and money on. Still, we’re not discouraged. We are, and have been, very blessed. Though there have been times in our marriage when suddenly having to replace a stove (and buy new tires) would have dampened our weekend considerably, and when going out to Dairy Queen was a treat we allowed ourselves only after carefully counting out the nickels and dimes we had between us, we appreciate the favor we’ve had with God and with man even then. God has blessed us so we can bless others; even if I end up rubbing my neck and writing a check this week, I am grateful that I have the means to do so, and certain that the new tires will get me to the places where God needs me to be, and the new stove will feed those who need a hot meal, or even something more.

19 years ago today…

The Twins were on their way to winning their first World Series … and the Bride (not yet the Reverend Mother) and I were on our way to 19 consecutive winning seasons, with good prospects for many more and a great farm system producing future champions. I’m even happier today than I look in this picture. Looking back I can honestly say I’d do it all again the same way … except for the photo, and those glasses.

Where does the weekend go, and what does it do when it gets there?

I was supposed to take the canvas awnings off the house over the weekend so they can be stored for the winter. It was sunny and warm on Saturday, which would have made for ideal conditions — except for the 20-25 mph wind gusts. My family says I worry too much about things, but if I do it’s because I have a good imagination that makes it easy to envision worst-case scenarios taking place before my eyes. So, take stiff winds, a 40-foot extension ladder, large canvas surface areas and my own natural grace that has put me on the losing side of disputes with gravity many times and I had no trouble picturing myself doing a Flying Nun impersonation somewhere over my back yard. The clincher in my decision for staying earth-bound, however, was that the University of Minnesota Golden Gophers were playing football Saturday afternoon.

No, I had no desire to shirk my chores and actually watch them play against Penn State; it’s just that when the Gophers play football against ranked opponents, spectacularly bad and nearly unexplainable things happen. When such eery forces are afoot in the land it is wise not to take any unnecessary chances. In recent years the Gophs have found ways to blow a three-touchdown lead in the last 8 minutes of a game, snatch defeat from the jaws of certain victory with a botched punt and many other comical indignities I’ve tried to repress. This time they scored a touchdown in overtime and missed the extra point. Then, just when they had turned Penn State away with a fourth-down, game-winning play they get flagged for a phantom pass interference call, you knew it was going to happen again (and it did).

I did manage to get the leaves in the front yard mulched, but about half of them are still on the trees despite the winds. It’s a good feeling to get things accomplished, but I spent most of the time I was doing that thinking about another “Dad” responsibility that was coming up. We’ve just added another teenage daughter to the family for the forseeable future, to go along with the Mall Diva and the near-teen Tiger Lilly (anybody got a spare bathroom you’re not using? Can I borrow it?) It’s been an unexpected, but not unwelcome, event though it is a bit different to assume responsibility for someone just a few days short of 17 years old, especially when she comes equipped with a would-be boyfriend. The young swain was to present himself to the Reverend Mother and I for the first time Saturday afternoon for our “little talk” and I spent my leaf-collecting time pondering the proper accessories.

In the end, I decided to go without the gun or the knife, but I think I still got it across to the young man that I take this seriously, and clearly laid out my expectations and his responsibilities if he wants to have the privilege of spending time with one of mine. He listened very respectfully, and had her home only one minute late. Do you think I should also have him fill out the application? (There’ll be more about our new daughter as time goes on, but first I have to decide on a proper blog nickname for her; these things have a way of suggesting themselves, so be patient).

Saturday night the rest of us watched the movie, “My House in Umbria”, starring Maggie Smith, who was excellent. It’s a mystery movie, which we like, but it had the added appeal of being set on location in the Italian countryside. Umbria looked very much like Tuscany where we were back in May, and we were all wistful at the views of the scenery and the house and the garden. I liked the movie a lot, but the girls weren’t as impressed. I thought it was an interesting movie with a twist on the mystery genre in the way it went about unveiling its clues at a leisurely, sun-washed pace.

Sunday morning we made our usual preparations for church and we even got home in time for the kick-off of the Vikings game. I’m getting pretty frustrated with the Vikings offense. It’s supposed to be some version of the West Coast Offense, but it looks more like a “Let’s Coast” offense. When you hear “West Coast” you think sunshine, sporty convertibles, tanned blondes who wink at you and a diverse, high-powered style of offensive football that combines the power and grace of surfing. The Viking’s version is more like ice-fishing. In Cleveland. In February. While you’re sitting on a plastic bucket. The problem as I see it is that the defense knows the quarterback can’t get the ball deep without it hanging up there like a pinata, so they cheat up and crowd the passing lanes, making it even harder to complete the short passes. It’s boring, turgid and as predictable as Brad Johnson throwing the ball five yards on third and nine. Thankfully the defense is awesome this year, and it actually outscored their offensive counterparts this week as the Vikings defeated a Minnesota coach’s best hope for job security: the Detroit Lions.

When our golfing partners cancelled on us later in the afternoon I got a chance to flash back to the good old days of Denny Green clock management by watching the Cardinals-Chiefs game on one channel while also monitoring the over-hyped return of Terrell Owens to Philadelphia as the Eagles hosted the Cowboys. If there’s anything I enjoy in sports — even more than watching Phil Mickelson kack up a big lead or having the Yankees bounced from the play-offs early — it’s seeing Terrell Owens get his feelings hurt. Ahhh, it was a good day. Time to kick back and reflect and enjoy the evening — oh, hey, don’t I have a blog?

All is well

More posting soon. I’m working on a piece that started with a Nick Coleman column over a week ago and keeps expanding; I hope to get it organized very soon. Simultaneously, the entire family has been involved in a situation that has been very intense and absorbing. Everyone has played a part and I have to admit to a little surprise, and not a little pride, at the spirit and composure of the Diva and Tiger Lilly in all of this. We are so blessed. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t be surprised at all.

We’re all fine, healthy and happy but it is a situation that certainly makes me appreciate the things we so easily take for granted. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to blog about it directly, but it is certainly giving me some deeper insights that will no doubt be reflected in future writings.

And those will resume shortly, I promise.