Thrilled!!

In the eleven year history of this blog, I don’t believe I have ever been as thrilled about any news story as I am about the colossal ass-whipping that Ukraine is administering to their Russian invaders. Seriously, every morning when I read about the latest heroic stand and see pictures of mangled and smoking Russian tanks I am nearly overcome with what I can only describe as joy. This is nothing less than the most shocking David and Goliath story since…well, David and Goliath. And now comes word that the Ukrainian army has taken the fight into Russian territory by blowing up a huge ammo dump. I nearly cried at this news this morning at 4:30.

Look, I know I shouldn’t feel this way. My Christian faith informs me that I should never rejoice in death and destruction. It is not charitable to react with unrestrained glee at the deaths of young men, all of whom have mothers who love them as much as I love my own kids. But, if I’m honest, there is a part of my heart and soul which hungers for justice. Its the same feeling that overcomes me when I hear of a guilty verdict for someone who victimized the weak, someone who preyed on the elderly or the infirm. It’s righteous vindication.

I watched for months the accumulation of Russian arms and men on Ukraine’s border. The numbers were scary, the Ukrainians would be so overmatched, like the pitiful Polish Cavalry on horseback trying to fight back against Nazi tanks during Blitzkrieg in 1939. But, ladies and gentlemen, I am here to tell you that these Ukrainians aren’t the Poles of 1939. They aren’t the French of 1940. These people are the Brits during the Battle of Britain…overwhelmed, outnumbered and surrounded, and defiantly pushing back against the most egregious land grab of my lifetime. It’s the most inspiring thing I’ve witnessed since the birth of my children.

And yes…I’m thrilled.

100 Days

100 days, but who’s counting? 

Yes, in 100 days Pam and I will depart Short Pump’s hearth and home for six glorious weeks on Quantabacook Lake. Our days and nights will become oriented around a completely different life than the one we live here in Virginia. Instead of everything revolving around Dunnevant Financial and River’s Edge Elementary School, life will revolve around the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, and the delightful things it lights up on the surface of the water, the fog as it shimmers across it in the morning, the parade of colors unleashed upon it by the setting sun in the evening, the way the wind stirs it violently when a storm crosses in the afternoon. Pam will kayak on it for hours at a time. She will launch out on her paddle board, sometimes alone, sometimes with Lucy at her side. I will bring fish from it, admire their beauty, then release them to fight another day. We will take our meals as close to her as we can, sometimes in animated conversation, sometimes in silence. We will wonder at the sudden appearance of a loon. Pam will engage them in conversation. Then as magically as they appeared, they will slip under the water without so much as a ripple. We will throw Lucy her frisbee from the end of the dock and watch her gracefully cut through the water to retrieve it, over and over again. We will snuggle up around a fire at night as the stars come out, listening to the loons call out. We will sleep like babies.

We will take invigorating walks through the thick and noble Maine woods. I will bring along a bug-zapper shaped like a tennis racket in case the stinging flies are out. (This is no Garden of Eden) We will drive into Camden and Belfast and Rockport and Rockland many times. We will have breakfast at the Camden Deli, shop for fun things at the Smiling Cow, marvel at the the delights to be found at Once a Tree. We will have lunch at The Hoot, dinner at Waterfront and Peter Ott’s, Ports of Italy and Delfino’s. We will shop for oddities at the Farmer’s Co-op. We will get ice cream at Riverducks and the Wild Cow Creamery. We will eat lobster rolls and sausage Reuben’s at Hazel’s. We will buy our groceries at Hannaford’s.

The kids will visit and share all these things with us. We will recall the fun of past trips, the time that Kaitlin’s float burst open leaving her flailing in the freezing water, the first time Sarah made a charcuterie tray and brought it down to the dock with cocktails as we watched the sunset, starting a new tradition. Kaitlin and I will enjoy morning and afternoon coffee together on the dock as we talk about life. All six of us will climb aboard all available lake-worthy crafts and watch the sunset from the middle of the lake  at the end of yet another perfect day. Then we will head back to the house and work on a puzzle together.

We will have other visitors probably. We always do it seems. We love sharing this place with friends, especially those who have never been to Maine. We are eager tour guides. But, if its just Pam, Lucy and me thats fine too.

100 days.

The Oscar Slap

The Oscars. Every year Pam watches. Every year I don’t. Apparently, I am not alone, judging by the precipitous decline in the ratings over the past ten years. From an all time high audience of 50 million at one point to a mere 9 million souls last year, the fall from grace for this icon of American culture has been epic. The big shots that run the Academy have been tinkering with the format, trying to make it shorter etc..to no avail. Something had to be done. Enter Will Smith.

So, I open up the old iPad this morning and its wall to wall Will. I watch him stride up on the stage and slap comedian Chris Rock across the face in what looked like a pulled punch. I will take the word of everyone who says that it was an actual slap born of fury at hearing a joke being made at his wife’s expense, and not a staged attention-grabbing, headline-writing skit designed to have the world buzzing about what happened at the Oscars. If Hollywood’s version of events is true, then Will Smith, winner of the best actor Oscar physically assaulted a comedian on national television for the crime of telling a joke that offended him. Is this STAGE II of cancel culture, whereby offending voices are not merely silenced, but physically attacked? Time well tell, I suppose.

Remember back when parents were implored by Hollywood types to teach their children that violence was not the answer? The paying customers for Hollywood’s product have had to endure endless moralizing about everything from climate change to gay rights to evil republicans for decades now. It’s always great fun to be lectured to about our retrograde attitudes about this and that by people who have grown insanely rich making movies like Fast and Furious 16. These are the people who constantly complain about how the rest of us keep stereotyping people of color, assigning the worst behavior of a few to impugn an entire community. So while a dwindling slice of the world is watching, we are treated to a black man storming the stage to hit another black man in the face for telling a joke about his wife. Violence is never the answer, indeed. Of course, I guess it depends on what the question is.

Already, the excuse making brigades are out in full force. The joke was far too personal, they insist. Jada Smith has alopecia which has forced her to shave her head, making her even more gorgeous, if that were possible…so making a joke about how she might be making a sequel to G.I. Jane was just beyond the pale. 

I’m beginning to think that the most dangerous job in America is being a comedian.

Reflections From the Wee Hours

I am currently having difficulty sleeping. This week I have woken up at some bizarre times, 3:45, 4:00, 4:45 etc…It’s nothing that I haven’t experienced before but its been a while. I have no trouble at all falling to sleep, usually between 10:00 and 11:00, but I don’t stay asleep for long. I’ll open my eyes randomly and glance at the digital clock across the room which is blurry since I’m not wearing my contacts. I squint and see that its 1:45 or 2:30. Then I drift off again until the next time I wake up and can’t go back to sleep, this time around 2 hours later than the first.

While I am asleep I dream, big, lush, expansive dreams. These are big productions, the kind of dreams that back in the day would have gotten some magician in King Nebuchadnezzar’s court killed. I remember every detail when I wake up the first time and have to lay there for a minute to assure myself that it was, in fact, a dream and I am not playing a round of golf at Augusta National with Tiger Woods, Big Papi, and David Dwight—wearing overalls. 

Most of the dreams are of the nonsensical farce variety, but some have been dark and disturbing, placing me in several dangerous and compromising situations out of which I am desperately trying to escape. We’ve all had these sort of dreams and we wake up from them trying to figure out what they could possibly mean. It is a pointless exercise. It was probably just something we ate. Nevertheless, it is no fun going through a week of dreamscapes.

Speaking of something I ate, last night an aroma coming from the kitchen was so provocative that I left my reading chair upstairs to investigate. There in the kitchen I found my wife experimenting with a new recipe which featured—Italian Sausage. You will notice that I have capitalized the word Sausage out of respect, since it is the one thing I always look for in the description of any dish on any menu at any restaurant. It is also one of the few aromas that can get me out of my reading chair…

I know what some of you are thinking…”Well Doug, there’s your dreaming problem right there!”…to which my response is, “I don’t care.” If sleeping better means I have to give up Italian Sausage, that’s a hard pass. Eating well is one of the genuine joys of life. Sleeping is not.

Speaking of joys of life, ( yes…my writing after a week of this is stream of unconsciousness), this morning when I opened my iPad there was an email from my church sent from Meg Carroll. I have no idea who this woman is, although I have probably seen her around. She is the Outreach Coordinator, it says underneath her byline. Anyway the reflections found in her email were so beautifully written and wise, I once again marveled at the length and depth of the bench at Hope Church. The staff at the place is crawling with smart and thoughtful people, all of whom are luckily given the chance to share their thoughts with us through these weekly emails. They have been a consistent blessing to me. Well done, Meg Carroll.

The Third Column

The conflict in Ukraine which began a month ago when Russian troops invaded that sovereign nation has now entered a dangerous new phase…

News of the war has now been regulated to the dreaded third column on DRUDGE. The famous news aggregator, like all other news organizations, is in the eyeball business, and has made the decision that the American people are no longer interested in the story. It’s back to the travails of the former President. Once again the famously short American attention span strikes.

Soon, news of the war, the plight of innocent civilians, videos of the plucky Zelensky will drift down further to the lower regions of the third column until finally they vanish altogether. This is a fact of life in the 24/7 news saturated digital age. The minute we are no longer shocked, horrified, or titillated by a story  we move on.

Meanwhile in Ukraine, the Russian army is still bogged down, having been held at bay by heroic resistance and exposed as a paper tiger. In response they have lashed out with the wholesale slaughter of civilian infrastructure while one after another of Vladimir Putin’s top advisors disappear into the ether. The world waits to see what will happen to Mad Vlad as he is nudged further and further into a geopolitical corner. As the brave Ukraine people suffer from hunger, depravations and death, we Americans are cheered by the prospect that our government is contemplating sending us a brand new round of stimulus checks to help us cope with the temporarily higher price of gas…

A Parable

In a village there lived a man who enjoyed favor among the brethren round about him. And it came to pass that when, after the passage of time he turned 3 score in years and behold, he stepped on the scales and became vexed at the number that did display itself thereon, 200 talents. The man tore his garments, put on sackcloth and sat in ashes for a fortnight. After much time spent in weeping and gnashing of teeth the man besought many healers and diviners throughout the Kingdom but found no remedy for his affliction. 

And it came to pass that the man set forth on a regimen of eating only food which had not been defiled by sugar and other impurities common in the land of the Fatstines and the Cholesterolites. And lo, it came to pass that the man began to drink much water and exert great effort in the lifting and moving of stones. Soon the neighbors in the village began to see the man laboring vainly day after day pacing about in great haste upon every road and path throughout the town and great was the laboring therewith. There arose then a murmuring among the people saying, “Wherefore doth our brother so vainly toil in our streets? For behold it appeareth that he cometh near to death during his daily vexations.” Many of them began to beseech the authorities both in heaven and on earth because of his peculiar habits. Still, the man persisteth in his habits until lo, three months had passed. Once again he visiteth the scales upon which he had stepped before, hoping that a new number would appear. Great was his confidence in the righteousness of the course he had taken, when behold, indeed a new number did appear…201 talents. The man’s countenance fell and great was the fall of it.

The man then straightaway sat out to find an answer through great learning. He read both ancient parchments and the newest scrolls from learned men and women throughout the kingdom when Lo, out of the east there shown a great light. A vision appeared to him and he was sore afraid. But a voice was heard coming from the great light saying, “Why fighteth thou so against the number which appeareth on thy scale? Knoweth not that once thou turneth 3 score years, in vain wilt thou lift stones and hasten through the streets, and deny thyself savory food to eat and fine wine to drink? Be still and cease with thy useless toil, and turn your eyes upon the fatted calf.”

Then behold the man discerneth that the vision was of the devil and straightway rose to his feet and with a loud cry spake into the midst of the light, “get thee behind me, Satan!”

Verily, the man vowed to redouble his efforts thinking that perhaps if he cutteth out the noontime raisin cakes, the thrice again visitations to the bread and honey bowl at the evening meal he would yet triumph.

Hope springeth eternal.

Forget March Madness…Here’s My Basketball Experience

Ok, this is the sort of thing that happens to you when you reach the point where your emotional age lags too far behind your physical age. Yesterday I had finished up a relaxing afternoon of yard work when I heard the sound of basketballs on the pavement next door. Sure enough, all three Garland pups were out there shooting hoops. So, I think to myself, I know what I’ll do…I’ll go over there and play with them for a while. When I arrived, there they were, each kid with their own specially sized ball, having a good old time. I made eye contact with Cash—the oldest—and he immediately hit me with a perfect bounce pass and I promptly shot an air ball from the top of the key. In my defense, I hadn’t shot a basketball since the first year of the Trump administration, so I was rusty.

But soon I started hitting my stride and made a few shots. It was great fun, especially when I managed to sink a nice fade away jumper from 15 feet despite being hammered mercilessly with a pool noodle by Sully—the youngest. It was about this time when one of my mother’s most famous lines flashed through my mind—It’s all fun and games until somebody puts an eye out! I had just been fed a beautiful pass in the corner by Kennedy—the adorable middle child— when I had the ridiculous notion that I would step back to make the shot I was about to make a “three pointer” The next thing I know I am ass-over-tea-kettles head first in the mulch after careening over a very large tree trunk log. The kids stopped and looked at me with very concerned expressions—“You ok Mister Doug?”

As is often the case after such asshattery, I sprang up like I had actually meant to nearly kill myself, and assured them all that I was fine. I was, I convinced myself, fine that is, or at least I hoped so. I could feel something happening with my left leg and my right knee, but I continued on in our lively shoot around. Then their Dad, Stu walked up and started telling me about how much progress Cash had been making with his game. He didn’t need to tell me. I could see that the kid could shoot. He sunk a couple of long baseline jumpers. I was very impressed. But in all that time, I never checked on any of the spots on my nearly 64 year old body that were now starting to hurt. The reasons for this trace back to a coach I had way back in my childhood who advised all of his little charges to never touch the place where you get hit by a pitch. Just run down to first base like nothing ever happened. I came through youth sports in the rub a little dirt on it phase of trainers and it has stuck with me ever since. 

Anyway, I get home and took a quick inventory. Left leg abrasion bleeding with two long folds of scraped off skin flapping in the breeze. Two contusions on right knee. Three large dirt stains on my freshly laundered shorts. But all things considered, not too bad. But then a couple hours later after dinner I lowered myself onto the living room floor to play with Lucy when I noticed a sharp pain coming from my ribs as soon as I landed on my stomach. Getting off the floor proved far more difficult than getting on it had been. When I made it into the bathroom I raised my shirt and noticed a six inch thin red line across my lungs where apparently my chest had impacted the aforementioned tree trunk log. Just a couple of bruised ribs, I’m thinking.

This is the sort of thing that happens to me more often than it should. I can’t explain it other than assigning some sort of  poor decision-making gene I inherited from one of the more challenged wings of my vast and storied family tree. Nevertheless, I can’t promise it won’t happen again. With age has not come the much ballyhooed wisdom. In my case I’m just as reckless as I’ve always been. Pray for Pam…

The Courageous vs. the Pathetic

You have no doubt noticed that I seem obsessed with the war in Ukraine. Since Russia launched its special military operation half of my posts have been about the war. Well, I am obsessed with it. I find it difficult to turn away from the suffering of innocents. What’s happening in Ukraine is having repercussions on financial markets all over the world including ours which means that its also having an impact on my client’s accounts—and my own. So, I suppose its hard to concentrate on anything else at the moment.

My sister sent me an article this morning about this girl…

This is Eva Ivanova. She is 18 years old and was recently arrested in St. Petersburg for protesting against the war. In custody, she was presented with a document admitting her guilt and asked to sign it…

“I’m not signing it, because I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong. They got crazy. They tried to scare me with ‘Yeah, 20 years in jail!’ But, that wasn’t the worst part. You know, they can change your mind. They say something, and you start to doubt: Maybe they are right. I saw people get broken….I don’t think a protest can stop a ‘special military operation’ But I believe that that’s how we can show our protest and our respect to Ukrainian people. Furthermore, I want people from other countries to see that our government is not us. Russian people is not Russian government.”

The reporter then asked her, “Are you at all worried about showing your face on television?”

She answered, “A little bit. But I want people to see that I’m a good person, and that I have faith, I have voice, and I want that voice to be heard.”

18 years old.

Meanwhile, the armies from her country are losing the war. I’m no military expert but I have eyes and I can see that the Russian army has been within fifteen miles of Kyiv for almost two weeks and have made virtually no progress. I can also see that the entire operation has devolved into indiscriminate bombing of civilian infrastructure that has no strategic value. These are the actions of a desperate army that simply has no other viable options. The Ukrainian army and people are making a historically heroic stand, and all of us are seeing it for ourselves.

Then, there’s this…

While courage and bravery are on display everywhere you look in Eastern Europe, western Europe’s most famous country is reminding us all why we so despise the political class. What a pathetic display. Dude, you can wear all the hoodies and jeans you want. You can let your hair go unbrushed, let your beard go to stubble all day long…but nothing will ever change the fact that you are French, a cheese-eating surrender monkey. Put your $4000 Italian suit back on, tough guy.

A Note For My Future Self

The average life span of humans is made up of 80 years, give or take. That means that each of us are presented with roughly 29,000 days to live. That’s a lot of days….but, is it? First of all, you should probably throw out the first four or five years since you were too young to have developed any memory of them. Second, the average human being who lives 80 years spends over 200,000 hours asleep. If you’re doing the math, that’s roughly the equivalent of 8,500 days. So, what we really have is 19,000 days worth of being awake and aware. Everyone experiences a handful of truly memorable days throughout their lives, like Christmas, important birthdays and anniversaries, the birth of a child or grandchild, etc. But most of those 19,000 days can hardly be distinguished one from another. Or at least at first glance. Yesterday was an example of one such day. It was completely ordinary, as far removed from special as it possibly could be. But something tells me that when I’m 80 and barely able to get dressed in the morning I might look back on it and wish I could live it over again. But, since it was so ordinary, if I don’t write a record of what happened it will just fade into the mist of memory and never be recalled again, as if it never even happened. Consequently, I have decided to make this permanent record for my future octogenarian self to read about and hopefully recall with fondness.

6:30 I woke up to that wonderful feeling you get when you realize that the upset stomach you went to bed with the previous night has disappeared. Then I realized that Lucy was sound asleep squeezed snuggly between Pam’s head and mine. This could only mean that there must have been a thunderstorm during the night. Whenever that happens she jams her head under our pillows until her nose reaches the headboard, then begins trembling, turning our bed into a vibrating massage table. The odd thing was that usually once the storm passes, she hops down. Not this time. 

7:30 Pam is planning a birthday outing for her Mom and sisters today which involves lunch at Tarrant’s West, then some sort of craft show, then presents and cupcakes with tea back here at the house. That means that last night she made a batch of strawberry cupcakes that were waiting for me in the kitchen. I had one with my coffee while I read of the latest horror out of Ukraine.

12:00 For lunch I decided on Mezah, a little Mediterranean version of Chipotle here in Short Pump. I go there every time I want to feel like eating something fresh and healthy. For the first time ever, I didn’t finish. Apparently my stomach issues are still with me. Maybe, given all the tumult in the world lately I am developing a nervous stomach. Wonderful.

Time unknown: I notice that my right eye has started tearing up and will not stop. All day, it is running. So I carry a tissue around in my pocket. I remove my right contact early in the day and use some allergy drops, to no avail. It will be a constant irritant that lasts all day.

1:30- 2:30 I enjoy a nap.

2:30 I wake up from my nap and notice that it has started snowing hard outside. I worry about Pam and all her crew out in the east end driving in the mess. I leave to drive over to Hope Thrift for my 3:00 to 5:30 Saturday shift. On my way over, I take a picture of the March snow:

2:45 Since it’s snowing, windy and cold, I decide to stop by Dunkin and get the volunteer crew at Thrift something yummy. Eight medium Dunkincinnos should do quite nicely.

3:30 The higher ups at Hope Thrift have made the executive decision to close the store early at 4:00. But that still gave me time to make lots of trips out back to the dumpsters. These trips featured high winds, freezing cold windchills and horizontal snow pelting the face. But one particular trip redeemed the otherwise unpleasant experience. There was a collection of plates, saucers and cups that hadn’t sold and needed to be thrown out. I spent five minutes or so slinging each delicate piece violently against the back wall of the metal dumpster wall smashing each into a million pieces and enjoying that sensationally satisfying sound of breaking glass ringing in my ears.

6:00 Pam made it home safe and sound and had a fun time with the girls. I had cleaned up the kitchen from how they had left it but in so doing had thrown out a container of milk that shouldn’t have been thrown out. Good intentions, bad execution.

7:00 By this time I was getting hungry, since I hadn’t finished my lunch. We decided to order pizza from Leonardos. I ate six pieces of a smallish pizza and sprinkled each with crushed red pepper. Pam looks at me with that look she gets when I do something that puzzles her. “If your stomach has been bothering you, why on earth would you eat six pieces of greasy pizza and cover it with red pepper flakes??” I had no rational answer for her. But, I didn’t get sick either, so I was right.

7:15- 8:30 Pam and I enjoyed two episodes of the most well-written, best acted television show available these days..The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. It was delightful.

9:00 Watched a little basketball. Worked a little bit on novel number four, then settled in with my 90 day reading through the Bible thing. (I’m five days ahead!)

As I’m sure you have noticed, there is nothing at all special or memorable about this day, Saturday March 12, 2022. But on the other hand, it was a good day. It was a day that reminds you that the majority of life is lived in the ordinary. Sometimes, the ordinary brings a sense of gratitude. So, you write it down for your future self to recall.

You’re Welcome

https://www.reddit.com/r/MadeMeSmile/comments/tavs0v/these_dogs_running_to_the_play_yard_wait_for_the/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=ios_app&utm_name=iossmf

Yesterday morning, my daughter-in-law sent me the above link. I had just spent twenty minutes combing over the depressing news from Ukraine and had settled in to a predictable funk over man’s inhumanity to man, when I noticed it on my phone. It is not an exaggeration to say that it totally saved my day. I attach it here in the hopes that some of you will watch at and have your day redeemed as well.

I am convinced now more than ever that dogs are God’s intentional gift to all humankind. He knew how hard life would be. He understood full well how overwhelming it can be some days. So, he made dogs and offered them to us free of charge so we could watch them and learn how to live well. 

When I arrived at the office, the mood was anxious, as it has been ever since the Russian invasion of Ukraine. I immediately went to work playing this video for everyone. It transformed the place in an instant. Everyone was laughing and smiling. One viewing wasn’t enough. Everyone wanted to see it again. I think you will too. The spaniel who takes the tumble towards the end is so positively perfect, words fail me. 

You’re welcome and have a wonderful day.

Stress Running

Yesterday around 3 o’clock I hit a stress wall. My eyes felt like they were melting from all the computer screens. Each new story seemed worse than the last, and there was still an hour to go before the markets closed. I had no afternoon appointments scheduled and I had been fighting off a headache since mid morning, and my lunch of leftover orange chicken had done nothing to help. The thought crossed my mind, “…and its only Tuesday…” 

Then, I made an executive decision, the impulsive kind for which I am semi-famous. I shut it down and went for a run.

It was sunny and 58 and the wind had finally died down. I threw on some shorts and a long sleeve pullover, picked out an appropriate cap—the one I bought in Chattanooga in 2008 commemorating the University of Richmond’s victory over Montana to win the National Championship of Division I football…

Like me, this hat used to be in much better shape, in fact, it used to be black. Now, after 14 years of running, yard work, and fishing in Maine, it has faded into a color that has no name and cannot even be found on a color chart. Nevertheless it is one of two go-to hats in my collection—the other being the one I bought to commemorate the 25th anniversary of Cappy’s Bar and Grill in Camden, Maine, which sadly is no longer in business, having been replaced by a local chain Pup. But, I digress…

I still run occasionally. According to my fitness journal, I had logged 45 miles since January 1st, so yesterday’s run was not particularly unusual. But just a few minutes in it took on a life of its own. Stress Running is what happens when you’re not really paying attention to what you’re doing, even to where you are running. You’re just moving along, driven by an unseen hand, thinking about absolutely nothing. After thirty minutes or so you look up and find that you’re at the corner of Lauderdale and Church wondering how you got there. By the time you make it back to the house, you’ve been gone an hour and five minutes and travelled 5.5 miles, if your Apple Watch can be believed. You are out of breath, fatigued and sweating like a politician in church. Once you catch your breath you discover that you ran 3 miles and walked two and a half, but you are forced to take the app’s word for it because you honestly don’t remember many of the details. Where was your brain during the last hour? Nowhere, apparently. When I walked in the house and sat back down at the computer, literally nothing had changed. But, I felt so much better.

This morning I’m paying for it all. Both hips and one knee are stiff and aching. In less than a month I will turn 64 years old. I text a friend to ask if I’m getting too old for these sort of frantic runs. He assures me that I’m not. I step on the scale this morning and discover that I have lost not one ounce of weight. One of the cruelties of aging is the staggering indifference your body has towards exercise. Ten years ago, this sort of run would have made a considerable dent in the bathroom scale. Now, it just laughs back at you.

Witness

This is what was waiting for me this morning in my inbox. I publish them here as a reminder of what life is like for the Ukrainian people today. Yes, I know that if I search long enough I can find equally inhumane treatment of people all over the world from Africa to Asia and everywhere in between. Yes, I know that there are homeless people everywhere, even here. Yes, yes…

But there is something especially disturbing about seeing innocent people fleeing their own homes because of a hostile invasion by the kind of nation that doesn’t hesitate to open fire on fleeing refugees. Enough with the moral equivalence arguments. It doesn’t diminish the suffering of one group of people to acknowledge the suffering of others. There’s trouble all over…and it’s all terrible.

But, we are all witnesses to this.

Compassion That Never Fails

It has been a disjointed week. My thoughts have resisted any attempts at organization, they have become ungovernable. This tends to happen to me in moments of upheaval and confusion, and nothing is as confusing, nothing produces more upheaval than war. Images of charred and smoldering buildings are jarring. Pictures of exhausted refugees, their faces etched with fear and anger do the mighty work of transforming your own troubles into trivialities, nothing more than unserious annoyances. Suddenly, being asked to wear a mask for five minutes seems like something you can’t believe we were petty enough to fight about just a few weeks ago. You see a picture of some old man kneeling in front of a column of Russian tanks outside of Kharkiv and you feel like a pampered coward for bitching about having to pay 4 bucks for a gallon of gas. Perhaps the dividing line between real problems and fake ones comes at the end of the barrel of an AK-47.

In the midst of all this upheaval, my 90 day read through the Bible brings me here this morning, to the obscure book of Lamentations where I read this:

“It is because of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, Because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: Great is thy faithfulness”

Ironic, I think, to read such a beautiful verse at a time of such ugliness. In the midst of my confusion I wonder where God’s famous mercies are for the people of Ukraine? Then I think of the unprecedented outpouring of support for the Ukrainian people that has spread over the globe in the last ten days. I see the video of the airport terminal in Berlin where German citizens descended, carrying signs offering one, two, even three bedrooms of their homes for Ukrainian refugees who they had never met. I see this transforming of the human heart, this extension of mercy for the stranger, the foreigner received with kindness and these verses come alive. They give me renewed hope that the best, the most tender mercies, can be drawn out of our cold hearts at the worst possible time. Sometimes we need to stare evil straight in the face in order to be stirred out of our complacent self-obsession. Thanks largely to the internet and the instantaneous, unfiltered images that come with it, the war in Ukraine is reminding us that modern man with all of our juvenile assumptions and modern sensitivities has not revoked human nature. We are still children of wrath. We are still consumed by jealousy, envy, selfishness and pride. What hasn’t changed in the brave old world of the 21st century is the Lord’s mercies. They are still new every morning. They still never fail. He is still faithful.

If only we were. If only our compassions never failed.

Is THIS The One?

Having been in the market for a lake house in Maine as long as we have means that you become well acquainted with a number of real estate selling apps like Zillow and Redfin. Every day of your life for going on three years now Pam and I receive dozens of new listings that allegedly meet our search criteria. Only, this last part isn’t entirely true. Actually, it isn’t anywhere near true. Our search criteria clearly states that we are looking for a Lake front cabin within a 45 minute radius around the town of Camden, Maine. So, imagine our surprise and agitation when we are constantly bombarded with anything but what we are looking for. Take this beauty that landed in Pam’s email inbox today…

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, for a mere $327,500 we could be the proud new owners of this…church.

This magnificently inappropriate property has the advantage of having been continuously held by the same owner since 1883! The description of the place assures me that it has been “meticulously cared for and updated as the years have gone by and is ready for its new owners to use it in any way they see fit. The Winthrop Center Friends Church has been lovingly maintained for nearly 150 years!!” Although this particular property is nowhere near a lake and sits an hour and eleven minutes away from Camden, it does already come with what may end up being a crucial feature as we enter our golden years…it’s handicap accessible. But, that’s not all, below I have listed some of the many unique features of the soon to be former Winthrop Center Friends Church…

Right inside the front door in the spacious foyer there’s the one thing that I have always secretly wanted in my house… a bell rope.

Just in case you didn’t notice, this church comes complete with a working bell on the roof. Imagine how quickly we would ingratiate ourselves to our neighbors by yanking on that rope every time we walked past!

Talk about your spacious kitchen, this baby comes with a double stove and two refrigerators. Its almost as if the previous owners had to feed an army.

And from the looks of this dining room table, I’m sure of it!

And what could possibly be better for after dinner entertainment than a pipe organ concert?

While this enormously spacious family room would require a couple moving vans full of furniture, on the positive side you would never ever feel cramped again, plus the room comes with its own echo, at no extra charge.

This upstairs apartment features two stunning windows, lots of natural light and thoughtfully a second access point to the bell rope just in case you get a hankering to give the old guy a ring but don’t feel like walking back downstairs.

When you count the upstairs, the attic and the full basement, this baby offers you just under 10,000 square feet to let your imagination run wild. Thinking about hosting the family for the holidays? No worries since this place comes with a paved parking lot big enough for a regulation hockey rink…

Shopping for a Maine lake house requires two qualities in equal measure…patience and a sense of humor.