Heather is 13!

Today, our house is officially be occupied by two (count 'em) teenage girls. Heather turns 13 today; and Kelly turned 16 on Sunday. Amazing.

Sunday night was Heather's party, a limo showed up at our door; Heather's idea for her party, just to pick up her friends at their houses, and drive them all around town for a while. Then it was back to our house for pasta (her favorite of all time) dinner, cake, and general merry making.

Next week will be the epic Kelly Norris Birthday party. You think the Grammy's are a big deal? Just wait.

Without much warning, our two girls have landed firmly in their teenage years. Am I ready for this double whammy? Heck no!

Heather is 13!

Some office buildings don't have 13th floors. If you have Triskaidekaphobia, you are irrationally afraid of the number 13. As it turns out, the association of bad luck with the number 13 has been attributed to the fact there were 13 people at the Last Supper of Jesus, although this association seems to have originated only in medieval times. For Heather, I predict 13 will, in a word, rock!

Softball, volleyball, soccer, leadership at school, after school tutoring, hanging with friends, laughing, living, loving. Watching Reba reruns, listening to Oddessy on her Ipod, and showers that last for hours (almost). If we could harness the energy of this amazing young lady, we could light the City of South Pasadena for a week.

Heather, your care and love for others is remarkable. The way in which you can find humor in almost anything is a gift and a joy to us all. Thank you for gracing our lives with your presence. From the very first moment I held you and laughed loudly and cried tears of joy, every day has been an adventure. May the adventure continue!

Thirteen? Feeling a bit squeamish? No us, not our family. Bring it on!

All These People, This Cross of Oil

This was not an ordinary ordinary Sunday.

For a number of years, it has been a tradition in our church on the first Sunday of the new year, to offer, as a part of the worship service, a time of anointing with oil.

Please do not be scared. This is not hocus pocus, or Benny Hinn strangeness. No people falling down. Just the chance to have the cross marked on your forehead in oil, and for a fellow sinner to pray with and for you - for guidance, or help, or wisdom, or need, as we face the new year. Together. And then, to head forth, into the city, into the world.

Today, I had the privilege of being one who makes that cross with oil and to stand beside, and to pray. I am so ill equipped for this, my feet are of such clay. This is an sacred honor and a privilege. As the oil is administered, we say, "In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen."

And oh, the people who came.

The prestigious seminary graduate, who lost a dream of a lifetime vocation in a specific ministry - and who is now seeing light at the end of a dark tunnel of wondering about the future.

The introverted young office worker, who really wants to become more of an extrovert in this new year. To really love all the people around him, each day, in a new and real way, with God's help.

The ex-convict, who is just now piecing his life together, after years of bad choices and terrible circumstances. He would like to start over, to make a new life, and he wants to figure out how he can serve God in the midst of all this.

The teenager who has been through two brain cancer surgeries, and stood today before me as a reminder of many things; healing, the fragile nature of our time on this planet, of tenacity, of hope, and of God's creation and care for each of us.

The couple who are sensing a complete change in their young married life, from the safety of stable professional jobs, toward the fear of change associated with new careers in film writing - together. They want to understand what this means, and how God is calling them.

And for my daughter, who asked for prayer for understanding for choosing a new school when she reaches high school age.

What a remarkable collection of our little corner of the Kingdom.

In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Amazing Daughter

I underestimate people. And, I do it most often to those in my own family. I was reminded of this again this weekend.

Girls high school water polo season is upon us, and this weekend was the annual JV water polo tournament in our area.

Most days after work this time of year I pick Kelly, our oldest daughter up from water polo practice on the way home from work. I don't think much about what she is doing at practice; our conversation on the short ride home is more about the news of the day at school or home. We live in two worlds, it seems sometimes. I often grieve quietly over this; the loss of my little girl.

I learned again this weekend what a great kid lives in our house. She is no longer a little girl, but is becoming an amazing young lady.

Kelly plays "set" position for her team, which is basically the same thing as being a center in basketball. One difference though; in basketball you cannot spend more than three seconds in the key, and in water polo you can stay there as long as you like. However, your opponents do to attempt to DROWN you, while you are there!

I underestimate my girls every day, and this weekend proved this to me again. Kelly played four games over two days, had at least five assists and two goals. All this without drowning, even once. I am amazed at the character, determination, and toughness of my "little girl".

A little girl is gone. But what a wonderful journey we are on.

Thanksgiving Prayer a Bit Early

This afternoon, our family had the privilege of serving at The Lord's Lighthouse, a home-grown community service of our church.

About 300 people; some homeless, some down on their luck, some chronically mentally ill, all from the streets of Hollywood, were served today. This happens every Sunday, all year long.

The memory I take away from this afternoon, and everytime I serve, is of the hands. Countless hands, reaching up. Dirty hands, dirty fingernails, weathered skin, holding up Styrofoam cups into which I pour cup after cup after cup of fruit punch and coffee. Hands worn rough by life, by loss, by frustration, by mental demons, by being lost or forgotten, or downtrodden. All those hands.

As we gathered to pray before lunch, a Thanksgiving Prayer by Ralph Waldo Emerson was read:

For each new morning with its light,
For rest and shelter of the night,
For health and food,
For love and friends,
For everything Thy goodness sends.

I looked at my hands when I got home to my comfortable suburban home. They seemed clean. But, you know what? My hands are dirty too.

Thankfulness is relative. May I be truly thankful, and may I live a life of thanks that is overflowing and spills over to others.

Veteran's Day

Today is Veteran's Day. More than 60 years ago, my father, Roland Norris, served in the US Army Air Force. The photos to the left (click on them, they are pretty cool) are of my Dad; he was the real deal, a Captain, a training pilot, and a B17 Air Sea rescue pilot.

Today, it is not quite popular to celebrate heroes of conflict. I have no hesitation. I am thankful for, and proud of my Dad. Because he, and countless others served, our world has taken a safer path.

Sitting Down and Remembering

Yesterday, I went to a place that most of us do not want to go. I paid a visit that was overdue, an obligation of sorts, and a way to honor my Dad. As both of my parents have both requested no memorial service, this was the first semi-formal way that Dad and I have had to remember Mom together.

Yesterday my Dad and I went for a visit to the Mausoleum niche where my Mom's ashes have been placed. Mom passed away just more than three months ago. I wrote about it earlier here and here.

It was about a 20 minute drive to Forest Lawn, and Dad spent much of the time reminiscing of the old days, talking about friends from his work and social life of 30 and 40 years ago. This is what those familiar with gerontology refer to as "life review". My Dad does a lot of life review these days.

As we drove through the gates of Forest Lawn, my Dad began to remember the resting places of old friends, relatives and family members who had also been buried there, years ago. Being with Dad is often like having your own personal family historian. Nothing about the current state of affairs of the world, or about what is going on in the life of our family now, but much about the events of the period from 1930 to 1980. He usually starts in on the old days about 2 minutes after you stop in to see him. Every time.

We arrived at the "Colubarium of Blessedness" (I love these names) where Mom's ashes are contained. Her resting place is right next to the door and was easy to find. She is in the same section as my Dad's brother Neil (who is a story in himself, but that is for another time). Mom's niche is right at ground level, and one must either bend down to read the plaque, or simply sit on the floor. At this point, something interesting happened. Dad chose to get down on one knee, and then sit on the floor right in front of Mom's niche.

For me, this was a most interesting and touching moment. My Dad is the person whom I have spent the better part of the past 20 years trying to understand and compensate for in my own life. I guess we all do this, figuring out how we are different from and the same as our parents. There we were, father and son, 48 and 86 years old, one standing, one sitting on the floor at the resting place of our wife and Mother. Two generations. Dad needed to be close to Mom in a way, I guess.

Dad needed time to sit, and think, and even talk to himself a bit about the loss of his wife of almost 50 years. More in the long process of grieving. Sitting on the floor and remembering at 86.

I helped Dad slowly to his feet, we got in the car, and headed home.

This life, this journey, this mystery we share. Father and son.

Still in the Healing Business

One week ago, our church had its annual retreat weekend. I wrote about attending this event a year ago here.

Our church has had a tough go of it over the past 18 months, suffering a most painful split, resulting in the resignation/dismissal of two pastors. It felt like living through the most embarrassing moments of Christendom; a modern version of the Crusades, with all the drama but no dead bodies. Certainly some very wounded souls, though.

After last weekend though, I have been reminded of something elemental to my faith. God can, and does, heal even the grossest of scars. I am very thankful. He is beginning the process of healing in our hurt souls, if we will let Him.

Over the course of two days, we heard from a young couple with two little children who have, in the past year, found in our church a place of welcome, belonging, and home.

We heard from a Korean seminary student who as struggled with depression, who has found our congregation of place of grace and support and love.

And then, we listen to the gentle voice of a woman who has been a part of our church for more than 50 years. Her husband has passed now, but she continues, in her "third trimester" of life to love, and care, and serve and laugh, and life.

Our speaker was this guy, who is a good and faithful man.

Amazingly, God still heals, still involves himself in our pathetic, self absorbed lives.

Still. I am thankful.