The Pope Rips a Gaping Hole in the English Language

Earlier this week, the Pope sent shock waves through the spiritual world by declaring that hell doesn’t actually exist. Although the theological ramifications of such a declaration are profound enough, the impact on the English language will be equally severe. With one sentence in one interview in one Italian newspaper, the Pope has managed to render meaningless a thousand colorful phrases that make up the respectable corner of communication known as soft profanity. If hell, in fact, does not exist, then the following expressions are rendered meaningless, and we are poorer for it!

1. Hell bent for leather.

Granted, in the best of times I’ve never quite understood this one, but now that hell isnt a thing it makes even less sense.

2. Catching hell.

Since it’s impossible to catch something from nothing, this one has to go.

3. Going to hell in a handbasket.

Another strange formulation which will be put out of its misery by the Pontiff.

4. Until hell freezes over.

Not gonna happen. Ever. 

5. Come hell or high water.

I’d bet on the high water.

6. A snowball’s chance in hell.

Again...my money is on the snowball.

7. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

While it has always been difficult to describe the intensity of a wronged woman’s  vindictiveness, with this latest papal decree, one of the best descriptions ever cobbled together in the English language has lost its effectiveness. Back to the drawing board.

8. All hell breaks lose.

Not any more.

9. Raising hell.

Impossible.

10. There will be hell to pay.

No. There will not. Thanks to the Pope, we all have one less creditor to worry about.

Your Friday News Roundup

Friday, March 30, 2018

A roundup of the day’s news:

Laura Ingraham, in another inflammatory Tweet, has suggested that 17 year old anti-gun spokesman David Hogg forgot to do his math homework twice in one week during his troublesome junior year algebra II class.

In his Yankee debut, outfielder Giancarlo Stanton hit two titanic home runs, forever cementing his place among the most despised and reviled Yankees of all time, and casting a dark cloud over the future of the game of baseball in every city in America that’s not New York.

To the profound relief of hundreds of millions of sinners throughout the world, the Pope today proclaimed that there is no hell. Instead of eternal punishment after an unrepentant life of selfishness and debauchery, the formally damned masses can now look forward to the sweet bliss of simply disappearing. “It was all just a terrible misunderstanding,” the pontiff explained.

After hanging around since last freaking August, millions of shriveled, crunchy dead brown leaves have finally begun giving up their death grip on the area’s live oak trees. Warmer temperatures and yesterday’s gusty winds apparently convinced them of what everyone thought was painfully obvious long ago...that there really was no longer any point of pretending that they were actually living leaves. 

In the longest stretch of controversy-free days of the Trump Presidency, major news organizations marked “day four” with cautious optimism, as there have been no firings, no embarrassing Tweets, no new porn star allegations, and no creepy crypto-sexual references to daughter Ivanka since early Monday.

Joke Therapy

My friend is home now and improving day by day. Still, some days are better than others. Since yesterday wasn’t a great day, I decided that I would try to lift her spirits. But, how?

Really horrible Dad Jokes, that’s how!

One of the great things about the internet and search engines is the fact that nobody ever has to wonder about anything anymore. Last night for example, I was sitting at my desk in the library wondering if there existed anywhere a collection of Dad Jokes. A quick Google search yielded the answer with a resounding YES!! In a nanosecond, thousands of them were at my fingertips, organized and annotated for my convenience. I put together a quick best of collection and fired them off in a text message to my friend. In doing so I was taking a big risk. I mean, if you are fighting off nausea, it might not be a great idea to read something like this:

How does a penguin build it’s house?.......... Igloos it together.

or

Want to hear a joke about paper?........... Nevermind, it’s tearable.

But, on the other hand, sometimes really corny jokes are actually hilarious, so bad they’re good. Like this one:

Why do you never see elephants hiding in trees?...... Because they’re so good at it!

and

A furniture store keeps calling me. All I wanted was one night stand.

Well, I hope it helped. I might not be able offer any tangible help to my friend, but when it comes to mindless humor, I’ve got the market cornered!

On another note...this morning I finished reading the Bible in 90 Days. Actually, I got it done in 88 Days but who’s counting? Most significant spiritual exercise I have ever completed. A few observations:

Favorite Old Testament book....Ruth

Least favorite Old Testament book...Ezekiel 

Favorite New Testament book.....Acts

Least favorite New Testament book....Revelation

The most dominant, consistent theme I encountered in the Bible was the fact that God really, really can’t stand proud, arrogant people.

Another big theme that appears throughout is that God expects us to take care of poor people, the sick, widows, orphans and the stranger among us.

One more thing...after reading the entire Bible in such a short period of time, the one overwhelming feeling that came over me was the realization of how little I really know. 

An Accounting

One week from today, I will turn 60. It’s been quite a while since any birthday has so occupied my thoughts as this one has. For those of you who are older, you might consider this obsession quaint and perhaps even irritating. For those of you who are younger, the fact that I am turning 60 might be the cause of great anxiety...Wait, if Mister D is 60, that means that I too am getting,(gulp)...old!

It’s just a number, I’m told. 60 is the new 50, I’m told. Age is merely a human construct. You’re as young as you feel. These are the assurances I hear from friends. 

It’s just a number...Yes. A large number.

60 is the new 50... Advances in medical science and the resulting increases in human lifespan may in fact make this one true. But, if true, this means that ultimately 100 will be the new 90, and I take little comfort in that prospect.

Age is merely a human construct... This is psycho-babble...a phrase that is meant to sound wise and profound but actually means virtually nothing, or worse, anything you wish for it to mean.

You’re as young as you feel... Ah...here’s the rub. Feelings, a notoriously unreliable indicator of anything! You can feel fantastic, right up to the instant when you get run over by a truck. Physically, I feel pretty good. But I do not feel as good as I felt when I was 25, and anyone who claims to is a liar who is most likely trying to sell you bogus testosterone supplements. Mentally, I feel sharper than I’ve ever been, something I am very grateful for, but maturity hasn’t always brought enlightenment with it. Too often, the accumulation of experience brings greater cynicism, more skepticism, a stubborn rigidity...Get off my lawn!! I fight this off at every turn.

So, I turn 60 next week. To stave off any hint of self pity, an accounting of life’s blessings seems in order.

I’m in good health.

My wife is smart and beautiful.

I work with honorable men and women.

My children have never embarrassed me despite the fact that the reverse has never been true.

My daughter married a gem of a man.

My son is about to marry a gem of a woman.

My large extended family have lived lives largely free of scandal.

I have friends, old and new, who make me proud.

I am not now, nor will I ever be a member of AARP.

20 years after Lewinsky

What?...who hasn’t paid hush money to a porn star after having an affair while your third wife was nursing your newborn at home?

Trump vs Biden

I’m old enough to have seen the great Muhammad Ali fight. He was perhaps the greatest athlete I ever saw, and many of his fights were not only legendary but had legendary names as well. Who could forget The Thrilla In Manila, or The Rumble In The Jungle? Well, there’s a new champ in town, and there’s a new super fight brewing, begging for a legendary name of its own.

This past week, the American people were treated to perhaps the most dignified verbal exchange between two heavyweight politicians since the Lincoln Douglas debates. In one corner stood the former Vice President, in the other Donald Trump, current President of the United States. Joe Biden landed the first blow with the claim that if he had attended the same high school as Trump, he would have beaten him to a pulp, likening him to the “ugliest, fattest kid in the room,” proudly carrying the banner of bullying, fat-shaming, and declaring himself a cool kid. Clearly stunned by this sharp jab, the President landed a deft combination, accusing the balding Biden of being not only physically weak but promising that he would go down fast and hard, crying all the way.” And, this was just the first round! All this fight needs is a good name, one that would immortalize it for future generations. Let’s see now...

The Throwdown in Georgetown?

The Romp in the Swamp?

Going Ballistic in the District?

The Battle in the Capital?

Old Farts Throwing Darts?

Actually, with a little thought and some good old American showmanship, some aspiring entrepreneur could make a fortune here. Listen, worse things can happen than Trump and Biden beating each other up on live television for all the world to see, right? I mean, it’s not like we haven’t already beclowned ourselves as a nation anyway. Why not jump the shark and be done with it? We could have, like, tag team refs for the fight, alternating between Mitch McConnel and Chuck Schumer. Then, you know how they always have scantily clad women who come out between rounds carrying a sign with the round number on it? We could have Nancy Pelosi do that...fully and discreetly clad, announcing to the world that we Americans have evolved past the sexual objectification of women. Ring side seats could be sold via a lottery system, after setting aside the best seats for former Presidents, to insure full inclusion of all ethnic and cultural minorities for the crowd pan shots. This way, the world would see what a vast melting pot we truly are. When the rest of the world tuned in to this most highly rated television event in history, they would all say...”Wow!! Two seventy-something American politicians are actually fighting each other in a boxing ring...but look at how multi-ethnic that crowd is?! America...what a shining city on a hill!”

The ironic thing about this exchange between Biden and Trump this week has been the fact that I wasn’t even appalled by any of it. It no longer even had the power to embarrass me. My expectations for the professional deportment of politicians in Washington have been so obliterated, so inexorably lowered by the current occupant of the White House, that the spectacle of two grown men acting like a couple of pimple-faced middle schoolers on the playground during recess didn’t even phase me. This....is what we have become now.

American Politics and British Television

This week has conspired against blog writing with its combination of spring snow, early morning business appointments and whatnot. Consequently, several things have happened out there which have escaped comment, and since I know that many of you can’t possibly go a minute longer without my insightful analysis...

With last night’s eleventh hour passage of a 2,200 page, 1.3 Trillion dollar spending bill, both Republicans and Democrats owe every drunken sailor who has ever lived an apology. In Trumpworld, we are once again treated to the spectacle of an upside down universe in which despite having control of not only the White House, but both houses of Congress, the Republican Party manages to pass a budget which only Democrats are happy with. Winning.....

Apparently, we are entering the Porn Star period of the Trump Presidency, whereby with each passing day a new one pops up on CNN describing her dalliance with the Donald. Trump haters are appalled, Trump fanboys scream Fake News! The rest of us fall into the exhausted/overwhelmed camp. I take it all in and try to imagine what possible deviance a future Democrat President might be guilty of which would justify outrage from this batch of current Trump apologists. It occurs to me that, thanks to the Donald, the field has been permanently cleared for any and all future presidents who might have thought themselves disqualified for that office because of youthful indiscretions like, oh, I don’t know...rape, drug addiction, child molestation, serial infidelities, multiple bankruptcies, high treason. The Trump standard has ripped to shreds the old fear of skeletons in the closet being a candidacy killer. From now on, serial adulterers, multiple romps with porn stars, and multiple divorces will no longer prohibit someone from seeking and winning the Presidency. I will leave it to the reader to determine whether or not this constitutes progress.

Recently, Pam and I finished watching two more British dramas on Netflix...Shetland and Happy Valley. Every time we watch one of these shows I am overcome with with an inferiority complex. It’s been going on for years now. From Downton Abbey to Foyle’s War, from Broadchurch to Doc Martin, I watch British television and am forced to confront the awful truth that American television is mostly...trash. Sure, there are shining exceptions, but by and large, practically anything from the United Kingdom is superior to American programming. Pam made the observation that British actors universally give off the impression that they aren’t acting at all. In addition, British actors, both men and women look like ordinary people, that is...they are plain looking. The woman aren’t all size twos with fake boobs and slathered in make up. The men aren’t chiseled hunks with perfect skin. They look like people you would run in to at the grocery store. So, do yourselves a favor and turn off reality television and watch something...anything from the BBC. You’ll thank me later. HINT: you may have to turn on the English subtitles thing, since although English is in fact spoken in Shetland, the Scottish accents are so thick and so beguilingly delightful, many scenes must be watched a second time to figure out what the heck they were talking about!

Almost done with the Bible Reading project for 2018. Just six more days to go, and I haven’t missed a one. It might be the most spiritually significant thing I’ve done in my entire adult life. It has been at once challenging, exciting, confusing, thought provoking, comforting, disorienting, and life changing. When I’m done, I am going to miss what has become my 6:00 am ritual. 

The Future of Donald Trump

Inspired by the stunning prescience of my college basketball bracket, which accurately predicted a whopping six of the Sweet Sixteen, it is obviously time for me to strike while the iron is hot and offer all of you my hottest political predictions.

Ever since Donald Trump appeared on the scene of American politics, conventional wisdom has been vanquished to the dust bin of history. Suddenly, romps with porn stars are no longer fatal for Presidents. Amazingly, the most prolific, imaginative, and accomplished liar ever to occupy the Oval Office has become the darling of Evangelicals. In his service, several prominent Republicans have suddenly become fans of tariffs, and silent about the formerly twin evils of debts and deficits. Underestimating the appeal and resilience of Donald Trump has become the full time job of practically every nationally prominent Democrat, along with most everybody else. So, what I’m about to say needs to come with a bright red warning label, at least a dozen asterisks, and more caveats than Stormy Daniels’ non-disclosure agreement. But, here goes...

Donald Trump will not survive his term. He will either resign or be impeached.

The whole concept of objective truth has been taking a beating, especially in academia, for decades now, but nothing that has happened in the ivory towers of the Humanities has prepared us for the complete collapse of truth which has occurred since Donald Trump assumed office. In the past, even lying politicians at least claimed some slim devotion to truth-telling, or at least to the concept of truth as a desirable goal, a laudable moral imperative. With this guy, literally all bets are off. The truth is whatever he says it is on Twitter...right up to the second that it no longer serves his purposes. Is Trump the first President to have an uneasy relationship with the truth? Heavens no! But previous liars at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue were rank amateurs compared to the Trumpster.

One could safely argue that, so far, his Olympian level disingenuousness has served him very well in his 70 plus years on this Earth, indeed, it helped land him in his current job. But, is there a limit? Is there a Rubicon of deceit out there that even Donald Trump can’t cross? Is there a straw that eventually breaks the camel’s back? In other words, will this interminable Mueller investigation ever end and when it does will there be enough evidence to bring down a sitting President? Short of that, will Trump have the nerve to fire him and risk the impeachment vote that would surely follow? If the answer to any of these questions is to be yes, a catalyst will be required. I think I know what that catalyst will be...

The American Democratic Party is one of the biggest collections of like minded idiots known to exist anywhere in the free world. This, after all, is the party which couldn’t defeat a realty TV star. But, I believe that this party is about to become the beneficiary of an epic landslide of support in the upcoming midterms. They will win back control of the House and perhaps even the Senate. The coming repudiation of the Republican Party will be as unprecedented as it will be deserved, for never in my lifetime has a political party so recklessly abandoned its core principles on the alter of expediency as has the modern GOP. The first order of business of the newly elected Democratic majority and its Speaker—if Ms. Pelosi can string together enough coherent sentences to make it so— will be the formation of a committee to draw up articles of impreachment, ending the Presidency of Donald Trump and making Mike Pence the 46th President of the United States.

Of course, maybe none of this happens. Maybe Mueller’s got nothing, maybe his final report will prove that his endless fishing expedition was a colossal waste of time and money. Maybe the Democrats will somehow manage to squander the historic opportunity in front of them by nominating a parade of undocumented, transgendered alien socialists as their candidates. Maybe Trump will manage to broker peace on the Korean Peninsula on the eve of the election and then go on to not only complete his current term, but also win a second. But, I’m sticking to my guns. I am clinging to the quaint notion that eventually...your sins will find you out. So, once again...Donald Trump will not survive his term.

If I'm wrong, I'm sure many of you will take great delight in reminding me at every opportunity. But, if I'm right...can we all just forget about my 2018 bracket?

A Snowflake On My Weather App...

Would someone please explain to me why there is a snowflake on my weather app? The Wednesday in question here is March the 21st....as in the Wednesday after St. Patrick’s Day, as in less than two weeks before my birthday...that Wednesday.

Spare me the lectures about how complaining about the weather is stupid and how by the end of June I’ll be complaining about how hot it is. I don’t want to hear any sanctimonious blather about how we should be living in the moment and demonstrate gratitude for each day as a gift from God. Although these sentiments might be true, it doesn’t change the fact that there is a snowflake on my weather app for March the 21st. 

Listen, I don’t live in Maine. If I did and I woke up on March the 21st and it was snowing and seven degrees outside I would shrug it off and figure that’s what I get for living in Maine anytime other than summer. No, I live in Virginia, land of all things in moderation. We have winter, sure. Matter of fact we actually have all four distinct seasons here, unlike Southern California which is always lovely and pleasant, or Maine where there’s three months of summer two months of mud and seven months of winter. Here in the Commonwealth, we pride ourselves on a moderate winter, delightful fall foliage, a brief but pollen-caked spring, and a hot and humid summer. Sure, every now and then we get a freak snow storm in March, but it’s usually in the first week or so of the month, in the single digit days. But, the 21st ?? This is an unacceptable outrage. First, UVA gets humiliated by a 16 seed in the tournament, and now there’s a snowflake on my weather app. I smell the wrath of God...

Baby Shower #2

Baby shower number two is upon us here at the Dunnevant house. The place looks immaculate, pastel colors everywhere. By noon, eleven ladies will sit at this table for a sumptuous lunch....

...which, sadly, will not be serving beef jerky, nachos or hot dogs. By the time lunch is served, I will be long gone, banished from the premises by the hostess, for good reason. My presence would be risky since, while I might be helpful in a pinch, the chance that I might say or do something embarrassing far outweigh any help I might be able to offer. So, my dismissal is just one more example of my wife’s excellent strategic planning skills.

The guest of honor will be the former Jessica Stroup, now Jessica Rodriguez. This will be her first child. When she and her husband arrived here Thursday evening, the sight of her...pregnant... placed a surprising lump in my throat. This young woman has been a staple in the Dunnevant house for over 25 years. We met her and her parents serendipitously at a nursery school open house when she was probably 4 or 5 years old, discovered that they lived just down the street from us, and soon a lifelong friendship was born between her and my daughter, her and my son, and her family and ours. 25 years later, after a hundred sleepovers, a thousand meals together, a couple dozen concerts, road trips, vacations and assorted adventures great and small, this little blond girl walks into my house...adorably pregnant. Where did the years go?

When you become lifelong friends with an entire family, you literally help raise their kids just as they help raise yours. This is one of the great benefits of living your life in one community instead of adopting the life of the nomad, chasing new jobs and new opportunities every which way the wind blows. When you put down roots, it allows for the development of deep bonds between families. When there are other adults who you know and can trust with your kids, it makes it easier to be a better parent yourself. There are a small group of other kids who start to feel like your own. You become protective of them, start to love them...as if they were your own. Even after they grow up and move away and become fully functioning adults, get married, and start having their own kids, and even after months and even years go by when you don’t see them, all they have to do is show up at your house for a baby shower...and it all comes rushing back. It’s really a quite beautiful thing.

Pam’s World

If the month of March were a baseball game, it’s boxscore would be a hot mess, even though we’re only in the 5th inning. Since I now live in a country that with each passing day becomes more baseball-illiterate, this metaphor probably makes no sense to most of you. But, since this is my blog, I’ll use baseball metaphors whenever I want. If you’re confused...read a book. 

Anyway, yeah...March is like one of those crazy games where the pitchers are getting shelled, there are lots of errors and pitching changes, walks and homeruns, double switches, a rain delay and even a bench clearing brawl. And through it all, my wife is serving as umpire, manager of both teams, public address announcer and the foreman of the grounds crew. Watching her juggle it all has been like reading Donald Trump’s Twitter feed...it’s right there in front of you, but you just can’t freaking believe it!

Over the past thirteen days she has had her identity stolen, scrambled together one baby shower and is now working on a second. Her Mom has had carpal tunnel surgery, and this morning her sister goes in for abdominal surgery. In the meantime, she has been in the process of redecorating the house in preparation for shower #2...(out with the winter decor, in with spring which required a trip to Hobby Lobby)...while trying to figure out a way to make something Irish for our small group meeting tomorrow night, which happened to coincide with the arrival of a couple of out of town guests. Two batches of homemade designer cupcakes have been baked and decorated, new table linens ordered, the guest half of our upstairs, (fondly designated The Dunnevant Inn), cleaned and buffed. Since she has a day job teaching under performing elementary school children who struggle with math and reading, all of these activities have been done after work. 

Of course, since this is my wife I’m talking about, she has done all of these things while simultaneously struggling with the twin burdens of inadequacy and guilt...as a daughter, sister, teacher, friend, party planner, hostess and wife. Knowing her, she’s probably also beating herself up over her pet owner skills as well since she’s not had a spare second to pet Lucy! 

When it gets like this around here, I try my best to help out and sometimes I even succeed. My area of expertise is purely incidental, since I possess no actionable skills that can be brought to bear on the tasks at hand. I can’t cook, I know nothing about party planning. Some of the things I can actually do, she is hesitant to entrust to my care. My wife isn’t a very good designator. There’s the way I do things, and then there’s the right way to do things...and seldom are they the same. But, I bankroll it all, so that counts for something, right?

I watch her juggling all of these chainsaws and I marvel at her skill and tenacity. No matter how daunting the task, at the end of the day everything gets done, but not in a helter skelter, slip shod fashion, but with beauty and grace and a level of loveliness that is sometimes hard to believe. After this coming weekend, her calendar clears up. Nothing huge will be happening for a few weeks. She will be able to relax a little, return to a less tumultuous life. I say this...but just her luck the game will go into extra innings!!

The Fourth Floor at St. Mary’s

My friend was released from the hospital yesterday, three weeks after being admitted at death’s door. What an incredible story she has to tell. The fourth floor at St. Mary’s hospital is where many such stories start. When I arrived three weeks ago to sit with the family as they waited, it was my first trip back there in fifteen years. Back then, it was my anxious family waiting, wondering and filled with fear. 

I had just turned 45 and along with the arrival of my birthday, a nagging cough. For several weeks it got steadily worse, until finally I couldn’t sleep. Although, I wanted to wait until the following Monday to make another trip to the doctor, it was Pam who had insisted that I go to the emergency room on a Saturday. It had been that insistence that essentially saved my life. Once admitted, it was discovered that my nagging cough was being caused by a defective mitral valve which had been coming apart for several weeks. Blood was pooling around my heart whenever I laid down...congestive heart failure. 24 hours after being admitted, a surgeon with the bedside manner of an orangutan, was performing open heart surgery.

The details don’t matter, and I would rather not get into them anyway. Suffice it to say that it was a staggering event that had life changing consequences for me. But, as my friend returns home, I’m remembering things that I’d forgotten about when I came home after just a week at St. Mary’s. The primary emotion was a profound disorientation. What the heck had just happened to me? It’s like all of a sudden I had forgotten how normal was supposed to feel. I was grateful to be alive but not quite sure what this new life was going to be like. I felt damaged, the ugly 8 inch scar down my chest the physical manifestation of that damage. My emotions were all over the map. Poor Pam had never, ever seen me cry in our 20 years together, and now suddenly I was a water works. I remember wanting to see people...right up to the minute they arrived, then I counted the minutes until they left. It was such an odd feeling, having visitors. These were people who I loved and who loved me...but I remember feeling strangely embarrassed, wondering how people were seeing me. Did they think I was damaged? 

Then there were the kids from church. Back then I was a teacher of high school students in a very large and active youth group at Grove Avenue Baptist. Ordinarily, our house was full of such kids on the weekends. Now, Pam struggled to manage their visits. I’m told that many of them tried to visit me when I was still in the hospital but Pam had thought that unworkable and unwise. So instead, and I can’t remember if it was her suggestion or one of the kids, someone provided them with a piece of poster board which they all signed with their well wishes. Every time I looked at it, I would get choked up. Finally, I rolled it up and stuck it in my closet. Too many memories. 

But, watching my friend go though a far worse ordeal over these last three weeks, many of those memories have come roaring back. Although she possesses a far greater faith than me, I’m sure that she will experience some of the same disorientation, the same wide ranging emotional swings, the same mental exhaustion.

So, I couldn’t help myself. I found one of the two posters. It feels like a million years ago...

The other one had a big thing in the middle of it that said Braveheart. I remember feeling everything but brave. Terrified? Confused? Rattled? Yes. Brave?? Not a chance. My friend is brave. And everyone who prayed so fervently for her survival must continue praying for her complete recovery.

A Horrible Discovery

I glanced at my calendar today and discovered something truly horrible. Actually, I discovered two bad things, which combined equal one horrible thing. So far 2018 has been a year to forget, filled with one calamity after another, and now...this....April Fools Day falls on a Sunday....not just any old Sunday, but Easter Sunday!!

Words cannot possibly express the depths of my disappointment. The first day of April has provided me with a lifetime of unending thrills. I have pulled off so many epic gags on this glorious day, it is impossible to count them all. My performances throughout the years on this day have made me a first ballot practical joke Hall of Famer. But as bad as this news is for me, it will be a day of great rejoicing for everyone at my office, who no doubt will view this tragic quirk of the calendar as some sort of year of jubilee thing. But, I should have known this would happen in 2018. I mean, everything else has gone wrong...why not?

Some might ask, why does the fact that April Fools Day is on Easter Sunday mean that the day is ruined? See, that’s the sort of rookie question I would expect from people who just don’t understand the significance of April Fools. 

Listen, it would be hard to explain to a coworker how you managed to take apart the headset of their phone to jam a clove of garlic down in the mouthpiece...on the day that our Lord and Savior rose from the dead. Filling several strategically important cabinets with 500 orange ping pong balls, then making sure that it’s Lynwood Atkinson that opens the cabinet first is a great gag...but might seem considerably less funny when it’s discovered that I did all this booby trapping on the same day that our redeemer was crucified. Installing a scramble program that disables the keyboard of someone’s computer might produce a profane outburst which would seem especially egregious the very day after the resurrection. 

So, this year there will be no Vaselined doorknobs, no cling-wrapped toilet seats, no phones hidden above the ceiling tiles. No buckets of ping pong balls will be hanging precariously by a fishing line above anyone’s office door. No one’s family pictures will be hanging from the ceiling by duct tape. There will be no fake summons, no phony arrest warrants, no inflated telephone bills, open cans of sardine cat food will not be hidden beneath anyone’s car seat. All because the Stone was rolled away.

Two days later, I’ll turn 60. 

I’m telling you...2018 stinks.

A Baby Shower and a Miracle

All week my wife has been burning the midnight oil, preparing and planning a baby shower. I know nothing of such things, having never attended a baby shower. It is quite an involved process which includes but is by no means limited to...a nursery rhyme game, wisdom cards, assorted teas, something called cucumber canapés, and of course, Pam’s famous designer cupcakes. I’m sure it will be a glorious affair, since nothing that my wife has a hand in could possibly be anything but.

The beneficiary of this shower is Lacey Fort. It will be Lacey’s first child. Unfortunately, Lacey’s mother-in-law will not be able to make it in person, but she will be Skyped in to the proceedings. See, Lacey’s mother-in-law has been in the hospital for the past seventeen days fighting for her life, fighting and winning, I should say. Against a mountain of odds, she has astonished us all with a miraculous recovery from a series of dangerous operations. She has done so with all of her trademark humor, tenacity and faith firmly in tact. Her husband sent me a text a couple of days ago with a picture of her scooting around with the aid of a walker. Knowing everything she had endured in such a short period of time, the picture took my breath away. Yesterday Pam received a text from her. It was full of encouragement...for us, along with gratitude for our friendship. Again, a miracle.

So, tomorrow she will attend the shower via technology. Her presence there will be a testament to many praiseworthy things...

1. The incredible skill and tenacity of gifted surgeons.

2. The tender and practiced care of a team of dedicated, compassionate nurses.

3. The love and devotion of her husband.

4. The steadfast affection and loyalty of her children.

5. The selfless devotion of so many of her friends, but in particular, one Kim Davis.

But, it was not only these things. In this particular case, despite the skill and proficiency of the doctors and nurses, there was something else. There were several times early on when the doctors prepared for the worst, their abilities finding themselves up against long and seemingly insurmountable odds. Indeed, her prognosis seemed to shift between grave and hopeless. Her astonishing recovery has all of them baffled, and all of us amazed and humbled. I don’t know enough about the biology and science involved, but those who do can’t fully account for her recovery. Here’s what I do know.

This is a missionary family, a tribe of multigenerational preachers, teachers and doctors who have followed the call of God to serve in Africa and elsewhere. Consequently, the Fort family is known and loved by groups of people literally all over the world, in every time zone, on every continent. When news of her sudden illness began to spread across that world, suddenly, word began to trickle back to Richmond of groups large and small gathering to pray. A pastor in South Korea, a church in Africa, congregations all over America, friends in China. The relentless, fervent prayers of thousands of people went up on her behalf simultaneously in every corner of the world. 

Just as I don’t understand the biology and science, I must also confess that neither do I fully understand the ways of God. I have no explanation for why he chooses to heal some but not others. To say that he is sovereign and is free to do as he wishes will not satisfy the atheist, nor frankly does it satisfy me. Yes, there is science involved here. But the God who created the science, sometimes inexplicably overrules the science. In this case, I believe he did just that. 

So, tomorrow everyone will celebrate the pending arrival of a new and precious life, along with the miraculous preservation of another.

I stand amazed...

Minor Prophet Zingers

Day 67 of Reading Through the Bible in 90 Days lands me in the midst of the minor prophets, which is kind of like an off, off, off, way off Broadway play in the Catskills which a handful of people watch while trying to choke down really dry chicken cordon blue. It’s a lot of the same thing, repeated over and over again...Israel is an unfaithful brood of covenant breaking ingrates and their comeuppance is close at hand. But, as I have discovered at least a dozen times during this exercise, even in the dullest, driest parts of scripture, one skims at their own peril, because if you do, you’re likely to miss this:

Though the fig tree does not bud
    and there are no grapes on the vines,
though the olive crop fails
    and the fields produce no food,
though there are no sheep in the pen
    and no cattle in the stalls,
18 yet I will rejoice in the Lord,    I will be joyful in God my Savior.

Habakkuk 3:17-18

Would I really..rejoice and be joyful...if I lost everything? I very much doubt it. So, the conclusion is that maybe my faith in God is basically a transactional relationship...he blesses me with abundance, and I believe and have faith in him. I know it’s not that simple, but the whole Job thing has always given me pause. And now the same idea gets thrown at me by this Habakkuk guy. 

So, I ponder all of this and it occurs to me that when Pam and I were young parents and she had just made the decision to be a stay at home Mom, we were as broke and unstable financially as we have ever been...and yet, I’m not sure that we have ever been as close to God as we were during that time. During a season when every month was a struggle to pay the bills, every week a balancing act, our faith was real and sustaining. 

Maybe what makes this passage from Habakkuk sound so impossible is imagining what it would be like now to lose it all, after a couple decades of plenty? Maybe if you don’t have much to lose having consistent, passionate faith is easier. Maybe this is why you don’t see a lot of religious-themed bumper stickers on Maseratis.

The lesson here? Don’t throw shade on the minor prophets!

A Bird’s Song

I’m told that we are only two weeks away from the arrival of Spring. I’m also told that it is always darkest before the dawn. These two rumors seem connected. Glancing at my weather app this morning, I see two snowflakes beside this coming Sunday and Monday. My heart sinks.

It is fair to say that I hate Winter. It has not always been so. When I was a younger man, I loved it, the more snow the better. Now, it is something to be endured. February, always my least favorite month of the year, was terrible this year. It seemed like every day was either cloudy or raining. Now, the whole world is damp and chilly. Shriveled brown leaves cling to the oak trees in my yard. Sticks and pine cones are scattered everywhere from the recent winds. And now...snow’s coming.

Winter is a time devoted almost exclusively to my professional obligations. After 36 years I have developed a routine that front loads most of my client meetings into the first five months of the year. This intentional scheduling allows me the flexibility to travel during the summer months, before ramping up again during the Fall. So, March 7th finds me half way through the busiest, most hectic part of my year. It’s a good thing too since there is literally nothing else to do which involves venturing outside. Dismal low clouds, 40 degrees and misty rain conspire against outdoor pursuits.

But, this morning there is one bird in my backyard who hasn’t gotten the memo. Despite all the dreariness, this guy is perched on a limb singing his heart out, the brightest, happiest little warble you’ve ever heard. No other bird replies, his is a solo performance. Still, he persists with enthusiasm. It’s as if he knows something that nobody else knows. Pam says it’s a Carolina Wren. The more he sings, the more I think perhaps he is a she. Optimism, I have found, is most often a feminine quality.

Regardless, a bird has given me encouragement this day.

Would that we all had such a song in our hearts...

https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&cd=21&ved=0ahUKEwjn24v8mtrZAhXBwFMKHdp6C6QQt9IBCFowFA&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D7GLIFUtXj2M&usg=AOvVaw2S-iAh-z4T13Zzkw-0egah

Bob’s Apples

Once upon a time there was a man named Bob who owned an apple orchard. The apples grown in Bob’s orchard were delicious and plentiful. Each year when they were ripe he would take them into town and sell them at the farmer’s market, and each year the people bought all of them, since they were delicious. Year after year this happy tradition repeated itself, Bob grew his apples, harvested them, transported them into town and sold them to his eager customers.

Over the course of time, Bob realized that the people really loved his apples. Furthermore, he was the only apple seller in town. It occurred to him that he could raise the price of his apples and his customers would pay the higher price because A. Bob’s apples were delicious and B. His were the only apples in town. So every couple of years Bob would raise the price of his apples and every price increase was tolerated without complaint by his customers.

Then, one year when he was unloading his truck full of apples at the farmer’s market Bob noticed to his great surprise that there were two other apple stands at the market, filled to the brim with fresh, ripe apples. Moreover, the prices charged by these two new apple sellers were considerably lower than his. But, since he had so many faithful customers who loved his apples, he offered them at the same price as before. When the customers arrived at the farmer’s market, many of them refused to even consider buying apples from these two new apple vendors. But before long, a handful of them wandered over to the new stands and tried the free samples they were offering. They discovered that the new apples were also delicious, not only every bit as delicious as Bob’s apples but 25% less expensive. Suddenly, Bob experienced a 25% decline in sales and revenue. Bob drove back to his farm and considered this new reality.

He spent much time in thought over the winter. What was he to do? His first thought was that he would have to lower his prices. But, he quite enjoyed the lifestyle that his higher prices had afforded him through the years. Then, he considered repackaging his apples to make them more appealing. Maybe he could bake some of them into pies and pastries, or make sauce and cider out of some of them. But, that would require a lot of extra work. The more he thought about his new rivals, the angrier he became. He did some research and discovered that these two new apple merchants weren’t even from the area. In fact, nobody had ever heard of them. Turns out, they were from a neighboring county. It was upon this discovery that Bob hit upon a strategy for dealing with this new, unwelcome competition. 

Bob drove into the county seat and paid a visit to his local magistrate, who happened to be his brother-in-law. Bob explained the situation in detail and presented a plan of action...These guys don’t even live around here. They can’t even vote for you in your next election. And yet, here they are, undercutting me and reducing my profits, and I can and will be voting in your next election. The local magistrate quickly discerned the logic in Bob’s argument, but raised a potential objection...Bob, I see your point, and I am very grateful for all you do for my campaign, but if I punish your competitors, it will benefit you but it will also raise the cost of apples for all my other constituents. Bob looked at his brother-in-law and smiled...True, but last year I gave your reelection campaign a large donation without which your reelection probably wouldn’t have happened. The way I see it, the least you can do is return the favor. Pass a law that requires a 25% fee for all out of state apples sold at the farmer’s market...problem solved.

Within five years, Bob’s competitors had disappeared, his orchard had been decimated by a worm infestation, the farmer’s market had been shut down for code violations, and the price of apples had quadrupled because of acute shortages. But, Bob’s brother-in-law was now governor of the state and had passed a law which guaranteed Bob an Apple price subsidy which paid him not to grow anymore apples.

And this, boys and girls, is the story of tariffs.

The Hex Continues

Last September, Pam and I spent three idyllic weeks in a cottage on Quantabacook Lake in Maine. It was as if we had found the perfect lake house on the perfect lake in our favorite place in the world...midcoast Maine, USA. But then, we came home, and ever since we opened the door to our house in Short Pump, our lives have taken on the characteristics of something approaching demon possession. I’m not one who normally goes in for such things, but the word hex has made an appearance in my vocabulary. The last six months has visited upon us a series of Keystone Cop-style misfortune. Consider...

# An exploding dish washer

# A brand new coffee maker who’s maiden pot featured burning internal electronics

# A week long stay in a hotel which featured a door to nowhere through which poured freezing air 24/7

# A hole in my library wall, put there by piano movers, which took nearly a month to repair

# A failed washing machine which was replaced with a new washing machine which seems incapable of...washing clothes

So, I came up with an idea. My wife and I need to get away. I know what I’ll do. I’ll schedule a couple of annual reviews with my Myrtle Beach clients, and take Pam with me. We can make a long weekend of it. We’ll have a chance to disconnect from our suddenly dysfunctional Short Pump life and bask in the easy pace of the beach. It will be therapeutic, I reasoned. An opportunity to recharge our batteries, I thought. And, I was absolutely right. Right up until the instant yesterday afternoon...when it wasn’t.

Pam gets an email informing her that the lovely $1300 Apple computer she just purchased at the Lynnhaven Mall in Virginia Beach is ready for pick up! In addition to this surprising news, Pam is informed in a rapid-fire series of emails that she has now established accounts with over a hundred stores selling all sorts of cool stuff from Kalamazoo to Kuala Lumpur. These emails came in standard English, but also German, Arabic, Spanish, French, and because identity theft is nothing if not inclusive, Vulcan. 

The next three hours featured my harassed and harangued wife making frantic calls to banks, credit card companies, and internet providers, one such call placed her on hold for over an hour. A police report was filed. Tears were shed. There was no therapy, no basking, no beach. Our daily bible reading from Ezekiel has offered not one verse of help!

By 7:00 last night, she was exhausted and exasperated...and all of us were hungry. We decided that it was probably too late to get a reservation at a nice place, and since we didn’  feel very nice, this was probably a good thing. So, we decided to go low brow, and throw all pretensions of our diet out the window. Right up the street is a local establishment that practically screamed the word Dive!! The name alone was an advertisement...Duffy’s Seafood Shack. Just in case we needed a reminder of exactly what kind of establishment we had just entered, this sign on the ladies bathroom door helped clarify...

The menu was slightly oily and featured all of the artery clogging standards of low country cooking, but their description of shrimp and grits caught my attention by stating that this particular dish was, mentioned in the New York Times!! Granted, it didn’t say what exactly it was mentioned for...cholera? Projectile vomiting? Nevertheless, I took a chance. Despite my recent run of bad luck, despite the very real possibility that I might be under a hex of biblical proportions, I figured that my chances of becoming violently ill from an entree served up at a restaurant that brags of it’s world famous deep fried corn on the cob, were less than 30%.

Best shrimp and grits EVER.

This morning, my stomach feels calm. It’s sunny outside. The wind has died down, and my daughter is in route. What can possibly go wrong?

Stay tuned.

Time To Escape

For the next three days, this will be the view from my back yard. I have business which takes me to see clients in South Carolina, providing me with an excellent excuse for a getaway. This condo belongs to a close friend and he generously lets me use it every year when I go to meet with these particular clients. Pam will be with me. My daughter will drive over from Columbia after work on Friday to spend a couple of nights with us. The weather doesn’t look particularly promising...mid sixties with high winds, not exactly beach weather. But, at a place like this and at this season of life...who cares about the weather? It could be blowing a gale with sideways rain and I still would rather be anywhere but here at the moment.

There’s just something about being on the water that calms the spirit. Pam and I prefer the lakes in Maine, but the ocean is a very close second. It’s peaceful and hypnotic. When you take a walk on the beach, the broad horizon reminds you of how vast is the earth and how very small you are. But something else...it also reminds you how small your problems are, and there is great comfort in that reminder.

You sit long enough watching the waves roll up onto such a massive beach, your perspective will change. The ebb and flow of the oceans are ancient and eternal. Who knows where this water has been? What kind of amazing journey has the shell made that presents itself at your feet? If only it could speak. You stare at the thin line to the East which separates gray and blue and imagine what the children of Portugal are thinking as they gaze at the same line in the West. The sounds, the pounding of the surf, the roll of the waves, the seagulls and sand pipers. Before long you can’t even remember who’s President.

I will take my morning coffee on the balcony, even if it requires a winter coat. I will sit in a chair on the beach, even if I have to wear my Boston Red Sox stocking cap. It will require much self discipline to organize my tax documents while I’m there, although it will be a goal of the weekend. No matter how hypnotic the tides, Accountant Carl simple must have my documents by next week. But, if I must  organize and assemble tax documents, I would much rather do so after a meal of low country seafood. Making lists of deductions to the sound of lapping waves seems much less daunting. The salty air makes everything more inviting, doesn’t it?