by the Night Writer
In case anyone was wondering, I’ve not given up the blogging thing. In fact, I’ve got a few longer posts in mind right now. The problem is a lack of time, not inspiration. I’ll be back soon. I think.
Meanwhile, Tiger Lilly has been doing a great job. If you haven’t read her Shadow of the Reapers novel it’s now complete and you should check it out. If you have read it, how about throwing some comments and constructive criticism at the kid?
[at home]
TL: Did I NEED to steal an attack walrus in order to win my freedom from that government research facility?
No.
But at some point we all must choose between what is right… and what is awesome. (This quote belongs to Rock Paper Cynic, rockpapercynic.com)
RM: Hm.
MD: Why didn’t you just steal one of the attack gorillas, if you were in a gorilla facility?
TL: …what? I said government research facility!
MD: Well, it sounded like gorilla!
TL: You know, that saying, “Renewed youth like the eagles” doesn’t make any sense. Eagles don’t magically turn back into chicks when it’s time for them to die.
RM: They go through a molting process that, when it finishes, makes them like new birds.
TL: I think phoenixes are better.
RM: Yeah. Except they’re mythical.
TL: They might not have been at one point! Sort of like dragons!
RM: Slug dragons?
MD: What?
TL: What?! I said ‘sort of like dragons’!
RM: Well, it sounded like you said slug dragons! You talk so fast, it’s hard to understand what you say sometimes.
TL: >:|
MD: I think we need a speech therapist.
TL: I dosh not need a shpeech therapisht!
RM: Well, it’s not that she talks incorrectly, it’s that she talks to fast for the rest of us to understand!
MD: She talks like a drunk person.
TL: D:
[in the car, with NW joining us for breakfast]
TL: Awwww, look at NightLight! He’s so cute!
MD: Don’t look at him! He’s mine!
You know, I think morning time is when he’s the most smiley and talkative.
NW: Like me.
RM: [laughs]
MD: Right.
TL: I’m not going to say anything right now… I want to live.
TL: Hey look, Mom, Portland Avenue! It’s a sign.
RM: [laughs]
MD: That wasn’t funny! Where did you get that?!
TL: Why did I have to get it from somewhere other than my head? It’s a double entendre. Go away.
RM: Isn’t it only a double entendre if it has sexual implications?
TL and MD: No!
MD: You’re thinking innuendo.
RM: I’m down with that… hip with that?
MD: Yo, diggy-dog!
TL: So, Faith, do you want to send Mom to Oregon for her birthday?
MD: … Do I look like I’m making money right now?
TL: Yes.
NW: In the basement.
MD: Are you still taking stuff down? We’re still being funny now.
[in the restaurant]
MD: We want a sleeping baby.
RM: [to NightLight] Your mother wants a sleeping baby.
NightLight: Ehhh!!!
TL: He adds an element to the conversation that we could not have possibly achieved ourselves.
MD: Yes, that fine edge of sophistication…
[now talking about the state fair]
NW: Let’s discuss flip flops in the swine barns.
MD: And constipated cows.
RM: I touched a cow.
And a sheep.
NW: And she terrorized the bunnies.
RM: Yes, I also touched a bunny.
We also saw the 1450 pound pig.
After this, the food came, and conversation resorted to, “OM NOM NOM NOM nom nom nom nom nom.”
by the Night Writer
I read in the news today that Michael Been, lead singer and songwriter for the 80s band The Call, died last Thursday of a heart attack while at a concert in Belgium. The Call was a “Christian Contemporary” band and I was a fan back in the late 80s and early 90s when I was starting out on my current path. Up until that time I thought “Christian” music was hymns or country songs full of sin and remorse – or perhaps a hard-rock hair band like Stryper. I can’t say I ever listened to any Stryper, but the vibe to me seemed to be, “Yo, you can love Jesus and still have long hair, wear leather and rock out because He is the Rock! Wooo!”
That might not be a fair description of Stryper or other bands like that (like I said, I never listened to their music), but I’ve always been put off by acts that merely seemed to be Christian copies of what was being offered in the more commercial world (I feel the same way about authors, movies and television shows). I don’t want to feel as if I have to like something just because it’s “Christian” — forgiving sloppy execution and musicianship simply because the boys “mean well.” Intellectually, I had not come easily to my faith and while I didn’t quite trust “traditional” Christian arts or artists, I also wanted more than platitudes or suggestions that one’s life hadn’t been — or needed to be — changed all that much. I certainly didn’t want facile posturing or sappy smiles. Bands like The Call and artists such as Bruce Cockburn were an exciting revelation to me; here were men willing to write and sing about their struggles, their doubts and their attempts to simultaneously wage war and live peace in an insane world, and to do it with creativity, passion (especially Michael Been) and craft. As dark as that might sound, I could identify with their words and feel myself rise with them as grace and revelation flowed, literally, through their God-given talents.
Been could be especially brooding and challenging, often questioning “traditional” values ascribed to Christians in order to wrestle with the meaning and application of scripture — and did it in such a way that the casual listener wouldn’t necessarily realize that a message was being planted. I didn’t always agree with what he had to say, but I was always inspired. The Call first started to get some radio play with their song The Walls Came Down. As with many of their songs it featured Been’s driving bass and a strong guitar hook. There was also a dash of biblical allegory and pointed political statement at the end that didn’t endear them to the Right but no doubt appealed to a certain audience. The first I became aware of them was with their song I Still Believe, which received regular airplay on my local radio station, The Cities 97. Like Peter Gabriel (an artist The Call would later collaborate with) and his song Solsbury Hill, I liked Believe from the first time I heard it even though I didn’t grasp it’s meaning for some time.
The band’s breakthrough — or should I say “cross-over”? — was 1989’s uplifting pop prayer, Let the Day Begin, but it was usually the tracks deeper on their albums that most reached me, such as the song With or Without Reason which especially resonated:
How you gonna tell your story
Are you gonna tell it true
Either with or without reason
Love has paid the price for you
How you gonna cure this feeling
How you gonna right this wrong
Either with or without reason
The weaker do protect the strong…The wisest of the fools can tell you
Anything you want to hear
Either with or without reason
These are truths you hold so dear
Oh, there’s somebody waiting
Oh, there’s somebody near
Oh, there’s somebody waiting
Oh, there’s somebody here
Aside from that, Been’s beard, hair-style and physique were very similar to mine at the time; watching one of his videos was nearly an out-of-body experience.
As with many bands and most visions, The Call eventually broke up and Been had a few solo efforts, while also moving behind the scenes as a sound engineer. He also tried his hand at acting, appearing as the Apostle John in the controversial Last Temptation of Christ which may have alienated a part of his audience. (I wasn’t impressed with his decision, but I partially understood where he was coming from). Most recently he was sound engineer for his son’s band, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. He and The Call, however, will always hold a special place in my heart and mind for showing that you could live and lead with your faith without short-changing your intellect. As I read the news today, I couldn’t help but think of Been’s words from the song Surrender:
Well I know it’s going to end in laughter
Son, it’s going to end in joy
the surrender in the garden
don’t you run dead poet no more
Here are some videos from The Call, starting with their biggest hit, Let the Day Begin:
I Still Believe:
The Walls Came Down:
Finally, Surrender (pardon the 5-second commercial at the beginning):
by the Night Writer
When I was younger my athletic endeavors gravitated toward the whacking and smacking games like football and hockey. Even when I played the more “finesse” games like soccer and basketball, my style tended to be more physical; in all games I was never going to be the one to make the pinpoint pass or long-range shot but I took a savage satisfaction from re-arranging someone’s internal organs or surviving a similar attempt on my own. That was fun for a few seasons but it took a toll on my body — though most of the payments were deferred well into the future. Consequently I have been seeing a chiropractor for the past couple of weeks.
I have also been continuing the Bible studies with the men in the Red Wing correctional facility, some of whom have spent significant time in heavy security prisons such as Oak Park and Stillwater before coming to Red Wing. In our last meeting we were talking about becoming new creations in Christ, and what that looks like in our lives. There was talk about putting off the “old man” and putting on the “new man”. I try to be as down to earth as possible in these discussions and my recent health experiences gave me a useful example.
I told the guys about the three surgeries I’ve had on my left knee since I was in college, and how lately I’ve been experiencing chronic pain above my right hip and periodic numbness and weakness in my legs. When I accompanied my daughter on her visit to a chiropractor to have her baby “spun” before delivery I ended up having an exam of my own. After I described my symptoms the doctor had me stand up straight while she took some notes and measurements, then she had me lie on a massage table for more of the same as she determined that I didn’t have a disc problem. Long story short, however, the combination of pain and numbness I’ve been experiencing wasn’t being caused by the hip, per se, but by all the years that I’ve been favoring my left leg and making the right side do most of the work. Standing “straight” my posture was three inches forward of it’s proper axis and also twisted a bit to one side. The doctor also described how pressure had stressed several of my joints and ligaments to where they were virtually locked at level 5 on a 5-point scale, or, in more descriptive terms, at “red alert” on the fight or flight scale. I was a little dubious about the diagnosis, but after she put me back on the table and pressed steadily on various parts of my body for thirty minutes I got up and couldn’t believe the sudden increase in range of motion, the absence of pain and how I suddenly felt two inches taller and ten years younger. I went home that afternoon like a new man, able to bend and stoop to pick up things without first thinking out a strategy.
That feeling, I told the men, was like first receiving salvation or the revelation of Christ and the Holy Spirit living within me. In getting up from that massage table I suddenly felt free of the things I’d done to myself and the mistakes of my youth, and even from the things I hadn’t realized were hurting me and distorting my life. The rest of that day and the next I felt great, but inevitably my “flesh” overcame me as my body started to revert back to what it had been accustomed to. Old habits – and old muscle memory – are hard to break. Now I go back to the chiropractor to receive further adjustments, and each time there’s less work for her to do and more response from my “new” man. For the guys, I compared these ongoing adjustments to going to church or Bible study regularly. I make progress each time, but the “old” body still wants to come back during the in-between. Conceivably, there could come a time when I’ve been totally “renewed” and don’t need the chiropractor to lay hands on me other than for maintenance. What I especially wanted the men to understand, however, is that if I truly want to make progress I need to do the exercises and stretches the doctor gave me to do in between times; it has to become something that I take on for myself. Otherwise I’ll simply be looking to the doctor to make things better without changing anything myself — just as we can sometimes do with our pastors or with going to church or Bible study. Sure, I might get temporary relief or encouragement, but without a personal change and commitment the results will be both fleeting and diminishing. To do that, I may have to change my stance or mentally catch myself when I start to fall into an old, familiar posture and deliberately shift my weight and re-align myself.
A final thought: I spent all those years consciously and unconsciously favoring my left leg, thinking I was doing something “good” by trying to make its life easier. The end result, however, was that that leg became weaker (approximately 85% the size of my right leg) AND the distortion ended up weakening my “good” side, causing pain and restricting the things I can do. Favoring the left leg did it and me no favors in the long run; we need to accept and understand that doing the things we need to do may be uncomfortable and even painful in the short term but will ultimately pay off. Similarly, we may need to look at others in the body of Christ the same way. Not that we should be deliberately callous or unsympathetic — it is “our” body after all — but expecting others who come to us in crisis to stretch and exercise is ultimately good for them. Certainly there are times when an arm or a leg needs to be in a sling or cast and supported, but those parts also need physical and spiritual therapy lest they become too dependent. When that happens our good intentions and their dependence can end up distorting the joining and knitting of our joints and keeping us from reaching out (in even greater strength because of our rehabilitated members) to others who need help.
by the Night Writer
I used to tell the Mall Diva that she couldn’t go to Keegan’s with me unless she blogged something that week. Apparently the lesson became so ingrained — or Keegan’s appeal so great — that the baby has taken the message to heart. With the MOB summer party coming up on August 14th, little Moose took advantage of all the free time he has to launch his own blog.
I’m not surprised, given the pedigree, but I thought he’d hang around here with the rest of the family. Oh well, if you want short, first-person accounts of his take on this brave new world he’s encountered be sure to bookmark and visit MooSnooze.
by the Night Writer
On Friday night, two weeks past his due date and as his mother was enjoying a kitchen-sink burger at the Groveland Tap, my grandson started to indicate that he was finally serious about moving out. As the pre-labor contractions firmed up we all headed for home to wait. According to Tom Petty, the waiting is the hardest part, but then he never gave birth. Make no mistake, the waiting is pretty hard but while one’s butt might get tired and sore from sitting around, it doesn’t compare to one’s body preparing itself to expel another living human.
We went to bed Friday night with some restless anticipation, but nothing significant transpired. Saturday morning Faith (aka, “Mall Diva” and “Mom”) had an appointment with Dr. Sharon, who the Reverend Mother dubbed “the Spin Doctor”. She’s a chiropractor with a specialty in “spinning” babies into position. I went with Faith and Ben to the appointment as Faith had “silent” contractions. That is, she’d stop talking in mid-sentence and close her eyes as the wave passed. Dr. Sharon did her thing and put Faith on a special table for about an hour and a half where she was able to really relax; it was an important break because Faith hadn’t slept much Friday night and it was going to be awhile before she could again. By Saturday afternoon the contractions were “louder” in that Faith managed the pain by using lower-pitched groans. It was upsetting for me at first because it triggered the “Dad the Defender” synapses but once I realized it was a useful technique I settled down. A little. Faith’s voice and breath training as a singer paid off; she stayed in key and projected, though her normal contralto was now more alto. The mid-wives, Maureen and Allie, arrived about 10:30 Saturday night to take over. Great – let’s have a baby, right? Not so fast (believe me, not so fast).
Anyway, things went along pretty much according to nature and God’s timing, and it appeared (to me, anyway) that we were on-track for a delivery sometime after daybreak on Sunday. I mostly kept myself out of the way but would come upstairs every couple of hours Saturday night/Sunday morning to check on the situation. The Reverend Mother, Tiger Lilly and another friend, Anna, took turns laying next to Faith and rubbing her back while Papa Ben stayed face-to-Faith. I’d pop my head in and say things like, “I love you” and “You’re doing great!” or “What’s taking so long?” (Everybody’s got to have a job, after all). About 6:30 in the morning I went out to get doughnuts for the team, thinking we’d be ready for a celebration or otherwise need a sugar-rush to power through at the end. This ever-so-reluctant-baby, though, was still not finding things to his liking. Allie called Dr. Sharon and asked if she could make a house-call, which she was happy to do. Turns out that the mother’s pelvis was not at the right angle and it was keeping the baby’s head from dropping down into the delivery channel. With a little show and tell, Dr. Sharon fixed the situation and — Voila — the baby was ready to hit the beach. Well, again, not quite. It was late morning by now and Faith was exhausted. Her and the baby’s vital signs were all good (except for the brief moment when the baby’s heart-rate plunged while everyone else’s tripled but all went back to normal after a shift in position) but Maureen said that Faith needed a couple of hours of rest, now that the baby was in position, so she could have the strength for the delivery itself. (We’re pretty certain, btw, that if Faith had been in a hospital and the baby wasn’t getting into position that the doctor would have been calling for a C-section). We discussed the situation and contingency plans with Maureen for “if-then” scenarios. Since mother and baby weren’t in any distress, however, and Faith was adamant about having the baby at home, Faith would take some Benadryl and rest for a couple of hours. After that, the hospital was a distinct option, but only if there was a problem.
After the nap it was back into production mode. It wasn’t entirely smooth but Faith was so courageous and composed throughout. She never got angry or said anything nasty and even when she was totally exhausted she had the inner resources and determination to push through, with her mother and sister close at hand. Finally, at 5:58 my youngest daughter, Tiger Lilly, hollered downstairs, “Daddy, come see your new grandson!” As I thundered up the stairs I heard a brand new voice — crying at the top of his new but strong lungs — and that’s when my head nearly spun off of my body at the enormity of what had actually happened, right here in my own home, to my own daughter. Just moments ago the only thing we could hear of him was the heatbeat on the monitor, and now — a voice! I’d already well-imagined a face, hair, little fists and feet — but never thought about hearing him for the first time! The stairway seemed to contract on me for a moment as if I were making my own way out into a new world and then I joined the crowd in the bedroom, shouldering my place into line to wait, with arms wide-open, for my turn to hold him.
Benjamin West Worley, 8 pounds, 13 ounces, and 21 3/4″ long, born at 5:58 p.m. on July 25, year of our Lord 2010.
For Faith and Ben:
by the Night Writer
One of my favorite albums when I was in college was Jackson Browne’s “The Pretender”. While I preferred my music fast and loud back then, I usually listened to this album on my headphones while laying on the couch with my eyes closed. One of the best cuts, for me, was the song “Your Bright Baby Blues”.
‘Cause I’ve been up and down this highway
Far as my eyes can see
No matter how fast I run
I can never seem to get away from me
No matter where I am
I can’t help feeling I’m just a day away
From where I want to be
Now I’m running home, baby
Like a river to the sea
Some 20 years later — and some 15 years ago — I came across the album on CD and bought it and brought it home. After dinner I dropped it in the stereo and stretched out on the couch and closed my eyes. That time, however, I could also hear from down the hall my wife’s gentle tones and the high-pitched talking and giggles of my daughters as my wife bathed them. It was a dizzying, almost out-of-body experience as I listened to the old tune and old words while the best part of my new life ebbed and flowed around me like the fresh bath water.
It’s so hard to come by
That feeling of peace
This friend of mine said
“Close your eyes, and try a few of these”
I thought I was flying like a bird
So far above my sorrow
But when I looked down
I was standing on my knees
Now I need someone to help me
Someone to help me please
Ah, the things we will desperately pursue when real peace is already close at hand and really not so hard to come by after all. And how hard it is to let go of the nominal comforts of the present to grasp the change and greater joy we know not of.
I thought of that long-ago magic bubble of a moment again this morning — and of those little girl voices — when “Your Bright Baby Blues” shuffled up on my Touch as I took the train to work. The last few days have been full of anticipation as the oldest of those once little girls is now due to deliver her first child at any time. We are all waiting in eager anticipation as the little one dawdles and takes his sweet time, apparently in no rush to leave his comfy quarters with all the amenities to which he’s become accustomed.
Baby if you can hear me
Turn down your radio
There’s just one thing
I want you to know
When you’ve been near me
I’ve felt the love stirring in my soul
Come, child, it’s time and there are songs to sing out here and yours is just beginning.
by the Night Writer
Son@Night and I attended our first Twins game at the new Target Field on Monday. I’d been looking forward to it since we bought the tickets a couple of months ago, and felt some excitement as we approached the stadium, so I was a surprised to find myself feeling a little crabby as we walked in and found our seats. Not that finding our seats was difficult; you get in (and out) of Target Field very easily compared to the Metrodome, though we were caught in a clog on the first concouse by the crowd in front of a concession stand taking advantage of $1 Hot Dog day. My mood was as inexplicable as the Twins’ own run of indifferent play of late. I can’t explain them, but I think my mood was perhaps affected by expectations.
Expectations can be a funny thing. Last week, for example, we took in a town ball game at Jack Ruhr field in Miesville and while my expectations then were pleasant, they weren’t exceedingly high for an amateur game in a small town ballpark. As such, when we got inside the small park I was greatly impressed by the immaculate field and the pride of place demonstrated by the community as well as the general competence demonstrated by the amateur players. The staff inside Target Field were obviously and justifiably proud of their field and the fans moving through the concourse with us also seemed quite happy to be there. Plus, it was another gorgeous night for baseball and the new stadium isn’t just “outdoor baseball” on the field, but open and bright through the concourses as well. Still I found myself casting a critical eye here and there, perhaps because of scale: a ticket and a snack in Miesville ran a little over $5; after buying my ticket and some food at Target Field I was already over $50 for the evening. “Alright, impress me,” I thought as I got myself situated in my seat in the second deck of left field while simultaneously bemoaning that I’d forgotten to bring my hat and the early evening sun was coming over the wall directly into the side of my right eye. Never had that problem at the Dome.
by the Night Writer
One evening last summer I was heading back to the Cities from Red Wing when I decided to take the Hwy. 61 route to Hwy. 50 and bypass downtown Hastings. In doing so I passed through the little town of Miesville and there, in the gloaming, was a little jewel of a ball park right next to the highway in “downtown”. The park lights were on and the players on the field in their white uniforms seemed to glow in contrast to the green, groomed grass. I would have stopped but I needed to get back to the Cities so I promised myself that I’d get back down there for a game.
Last Wednesday night was the night I fulfilled that promise, bringing along baseball and burger fan Marty Andrade to celebrate the completion of his MBA. The rest of the family, including Ben and the fully-baked cupcake decided to come along since we were going to eat at King’s Place before the game. King’s Place is something else I discovered in my trips, a historic building now serving as a family-run bar and restaurant. It’s popular with the snowmobilers in the winter and baseball fans in the summer, and hamburger fans year-round because the menu offers more than 50 variations of burgers (including a new one that features peanut-butter, bacon, mayo and lettuce – it’s fabulous, really!).
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by the Night Writer
Pastor Earl showed this video last weekend at Inside Outfitters. You coud say it was a powerful message for the group since many who attend are dealing with substance abuse of one kind or another. But Inside Outfitters isn’t about overcoming substance abuse, or just for men bedeviled by drugs or alcohol. As Earl likes to say, “When purpose is not known, abuse (abnormal use) is inevitable.” Our biggest, toughest fight is usually with ourselves as we come to recognize and understand our purpose and contend with our “abusive” ignorance in every area of our lives.
Oh yeah, it’s a fight. And people are watching.