Above Greenland

I was last in this spot 26 years ago, in 1982.

That was the last time I flew west, home to America, after spending a number of weeks in Western and Eastern Europe. I was flying alone, single, and wondering where my life would lead me. Where I might be lead. More than 5,500 miles, from London to Los Angeles.

I remember the overriding feeling I had flying home, somewhere over southern Greenland, was of thankfulness. Thankful for an amazing journey. Thankful to be returning to a free country, after visiting with many people who, simply, were not free. Thankful for friends who supported me to go, both in prayer and financially.

Today, in almost the same place, moving in the same direction at close to the speed of sound, at the edge of the atmosphere, I am returning home with three amazing women; my wife of almost 20 years, and our two daughters, now 14 and 17. And those people I met who were not free, are free now. I would never have imagined. I am still overwhelmed with thanksgiving.

I would meet my wife four years after that last trip; my best friend forever. We would marry one year later. Less than three years later our lives would be forever changed by the slightly early arrival of Kelly. After the sadness of a miscarried child, three more years later, our home would be filled with even more noise, joy, tears, and laughter by the arrival of Heather.

All those years ago, flying so far above the planet, I could never have imagined the course my life would take; the challenges of marriage, and the constant responsibilities of parenting. Or the feeling of holding your feverish baby daughter in your arms in the hospital admitting room, wondering what would become of a 104 degree temperature and a serious infection. I had not a clue of what it mean to stand, and sit, and wonder, and wait at the bedside of dying parents. Or the feeling of near impossibility at the thought of raising teenagers. Of how to guide these young ladies into becoming not just responsible members of society, but women who might possess deep character, conviction, and a faith that is real and honest. More than two decades ago, I had no idea what this ride would be like.

Back then, I had no idea that the real meaningful work of life occurs not in momentous, magical moments of great moral victory or triumph. Hollywood often romantically teaches us that, but they have it completely wrong. What I learned is that often, great things occur at the speed of continental drift. No one would make a movie of that. Barely measurable. Almost imperceptible. Persistence is, in the end, something that matters a great deal.

And so, this next Monday, I will get up again. I will try my best to love my wife well, to care, and to let her know daily that she is, simply put, wonderful. I will listen to, and laugh with, and maybe even offer a small bit of helpful advice to the two girls we are attempting to launch into the world. They will not be with us much longer. I will breath normally, while trying to be a good Dad.

I will head to work, and do the best I know how, each day. I will try to bring excellence to my work, and try to care for those who work with me, offering them something more than just a place to go to go work.

I will persist.

Sara Groves has written a song, which came up a while ago on my IPod, here at 34,000 feet. Entitled “When It Was Over”, it is meditation on personal real stories of acceptance, forgiveness, and redemption.

My life is like that, every day.

“Love wash over a multitude of things…
Jesus save us from a multitude of things
Make us whole
There is a love that never fails
There is a healing that always prevails
There is a hope, that whispers about, the promise to wait while we’re working it out
There is a love….
A promise to wait, a promise to stay
So come with your love, and wash over us”

May Christ’s love wash over each one of you who reads this. Each day, henceforth and forever.

Amen.

Last Day Overseas

Its our last day in the UK. Today we visited Windsor Castle, and for us all, this one of our favorite stops.

The sense of history and majesty we got here is perhaps more emphasized because, well, we speak the language, and a way back in our families, as I mentioned in our Westminster Abbey visit, we may have some relatives. Then again, maybe not.

There is a sense of nobility in the Royals, even for all their family dysfunction, they represent a fascinating (and often bloody, I admit) legacy. Perhaps the most interesting bit (note, British term) of our tour was St. George's Room, pictured below at left, during a state dinner. Reminds me so much of dinner at our house, perhaps that was the connection I felt.

And then, to cap off the day, below is posted what happens when you leave your camera with two teenage girls.

Home tomorrow, thankful, a bit more cultured, and deeply grateful for the journey.

Twinkle Time Again

Tonight was our last night in Paris. As a mini-celebration and farewell, we headed to the Champ De Mars, where Napoleon once marched his troops, and much other history occurred, to have a small family picnic.

The first photo at left was taken at about 9:15 PM; it stays light out quite late here. The second photo was taken at 10:05PM, as "Twinkle Time", began for the first time of the evening. I will advise you that secondary smoke is a major issue for this evening picnic, the French love their "tabac". Phew!

Lovely, romantic, wonderful. A great way for us all to remember a great city. Back to London tomorrow for two more nights.

Hopefully a trip to Windsor Castle on Thursday.

The Last Two Days in Paris

It has been a busy two days here in Paris. Wonderful weather, and warm! Yesterday morning, in a bow to teenage lethargy and weariness, Nancy & I (together) headed off to the church of La Sainte-Chapelle, a stunning place, full of light and nearly the entry story of the Scriptures, all in stained glass. This church was built for the King, and to hold various Christian relics, now housed in Notre Dame.

We then strolled through the Left Bank and Latin Quarter, enjoying the narrow streets, and sights, smells (all wonderful) and sounds. It was a bit warmish (read, I was soaking wet!), so we stopped for lunch at a completely dinky little flaffel place, where I sat happily by the only air conditioner in that part of France for my lunch. How American of me. Shame on my carbon footprint.

After this, we returned to our hotel, rousted one of our weary travel-mates (name withheld), while the other continued to read (for fall school assignments) and headed off to visit the top (I did not know you could do this!) of the Arc 'de Triumph!

Important travelers note here. Do NOT make cell phone calls from the interior of the top of the Arc. The French people frown on this. I was busted for receiving the first call from my office in 10 days there. I have learned my lesson. Enough said.

Actually, my favorite part of this was watching the moving traffic below, in the traffic circle surrounding the Arc, attempt to actually negotiate the circle, completely without the aid of any traffic lights. There were several police officers watching the most dangerous section from curbside, and somehow pulling people over!

One other item of French custom. Do not jaywalk across this traffic intersection. If you do, (and as I witnessed from above) you will, after traversing the entire intersection / traffic circle at risk of your life, be directed by the astute police BACK across the same death trap, so that you may safely use the underground pedestrian tunnel. This same logic has brought us, well, um, French Toast, I guess. I love it here.

Today, the Paris Opera house was our stop, and pictured at left. How about this for a lobby. Disney Hall in Los Angeles pales in comparison.

Remembering Randy Pausch

It is with sadness that I need to interupt our European vacation to report the death of Dr. Randy Pausch. Dr. Pausch's book, The Last Lecture, was co-written by a journalist with the Wall Street Journal.

Randy spent his final months being lauded in arenas far beyond his specialty. ABC News declared him one of its three "Persons of the Year" for 2007. TIME magazine named him to its list of the 100 most influential people in the world. On thousands of Web sites, people wrote essays about what they had learned from him. As a book, "The Last Lecture" became a #1 bestseller internationally, translated into 30 languages.

Below is a fitting tribute to an amazing man. I hope I can grow up to be only part of the good man he was. My prayers are with the close family and friends of Dr. Pausch. May Grace abound where pain feels overwhelming.

Versailles, Impressionists, and The Laundromat

Today was a day full of variety. We took the early morning train to the Palace of Versailles, where we thought we might beat the crowds. Not. I am guessing we were there with a small crowd of, oh, say, 20,000.

How calming, how serene, how pastoral, how like the leisurely life of Louis XIV. Not. There is nothing like wrestling your way through a crowd of non-air conditioned people from all over the world. These people have a tendency to take photos of everything, including floorboards, doornobs, direction signs, and themselves. Once we got outside though, it was much more pleasant. It helps when there are several thousand acres of gardens.

It was worth the trip and the waiting though, to see the setting for the life of a completely extraordinary man. Louis rained over France for 72 years. I would be happy if I could just eat solid foods for that long.

Later in the day, Nancy and I dropped the girls off at our hotel, and went for our own little trip to the Musee d"Orsay, the art museum best known for its large collection of Impressionist Painters. Amazing! We were a bit sad to see that one of our (Nancy & I) favorite paintings, one that hangs in our family room, was out on loan, but the rest of the collection was wonderful. Never have I seen so much Impressionist work in one place.

After dinner, I decided it was time to partake in the life of common Parisians, and do some laundry. As I am an accomplished world traveller (note the subtle, yet detectable irony here), I felt a trip to the local laundromat would be simple. Oh naive me.

After reading the wonderful english instructions on the wall, I filled my washer with clothes and added the liquid detergent (shrewdly packed and provided by my brilliant wife) to the special little French soap-holder-thingie, I went to the French electronic electronic command post to start my washer. I punched in the number of the washer I was using and received a message in French, which included the daunting words "impossible" (pronounced with a French accent) on the read-out screen. "This is not good, I thought - I know what THAT word means!" I then decided something must be wrong with the washer I was using, so I deftly changed machines.

But what to do about the now-lost liquid soap!? I know! Grab a sock from the dirty clothes, swab out the the special little soap-holder-thingie, and now take the "super soapy sock" and chuck it into the new washer! Stunning logic! How could I go wrong now? I had overcome the evil gremlins of French laundry. I was even pondering the marketing potential of the Super Soapy Sock, picturing myself retiring early, living on some South Pacific island, all from the proceeds of my sock idea.

I then returned to the command post, punched in the new washer number, and found the same message "im-pos-ee-bley"! After giving in and asking a fellow laudromat patron what was going on, turns out there is some national law here in France that prohibits laundry-doing any later than 9 PM. Well, excuse me, country of France, I have dirty underthings!

I trudged home, defeated by a French laundromat, with a super soapy sock nestled in the middle of my dirty clothes bag. Will Franco - American relations suffer? Will Steve ever have clean shorts?

More tomorrow.

The Center of a Town, and of a Country

Today was our first full day in Paris, and we started off with a wonderful whirlwind tour of the Louvre with our new friend Christi Bart, who runs Norman Conquests, a fascinating custom tour company. Turns out, Christi is a former actress (General Hospital!), who decided to chuck it all, and move to Paris 20 or so years ago. She has never looked back!

After visiting the amazing underground level of the Louvre, and (of course....yawn) seeing the Mona Lisa, we headed off to the Left Bank, and walked some of the very first streets of Paris, trod more than 200 years ago by the likes (really) of Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin. These men came to France to learn of the French Revolution, and apply some of its principals to a new document they were preparing for the colonies. We walked past a restaurant (please do not quiz me with the name) that Franklin frequented for dinner!

After this we strode across the Seine again and on to the grounds of the imposing cathedral of Notre Dame. Fascinatingly, we learned that the geographic center point of all of France, not just Paris alone, is a spot in front of Notre Dame. Directly in front of the cathedral, mounted in the pavement and pictured at left, is a small disk that marks “point zéro,” the reference point from which all distances in France are measured.

Imagine that, the center point is a church. As we entered, the noon Mass was under way, and I had the chance to take the photo at left, not perfectly composed, but quite meaningful to me.

I kept thinking about that idea the rest of the day. I still am musing upon the words “point zéro”. The center point, the place of starting. The Beginning. And then thinking of the words of institution in the Mass, "This is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. Happy are those who are called to his supper." And then.... "The Body of Christ", and "The Blood of Christ".

I will remember where the center of France is for a long time. Although many may argue about where France is today, perhaps for me it is better to think more about where my "center" is.

Paris

Enough said.

History, Nobility, and Fraulein Maria

Yesterday was a full day.

We started at the National Art Gallery, visited St. Martin in the Fields, had a low-budget picnic lunch in The Green Park, stopped by Buckingham Palace (Queen home, but no sighting) and visited Westminster Abbey, later in the day. It turns out I might (fat chance) have family members in ancient British nobility.

To end our day, we rushed through the London Tube, changing trains with great skill (I was the navigator, thank you), to see The Sound of Music at the Palladium. What a blast, and half price tickets too!

Pictured above, Nancy and Kelly at a house we clearly cannot afford. Even the gardening bill would choke a horse.

Today, Steve got to visit, by himself (sigh!) the Imperial War Museum, whilst Nancy and Heather visited the Cabinet War Rooms. Later in the day, we stopped by Herod's, bought almost nothing (wise move), and then headed back to our hotel to collapse.

Tomorrow, on to Paris!

Sitting on the Steps of St. Paul's

Today was a brilliantly sunny London day. It was lunch time, and for Londoners, apparently sunshine is a rare commodity. Everyone in the central business district, who could get out, got outside for the lunch hour.

And where do these hundreds flock on a sunny day like today? Given that the London Stock Exchange is one block north, and there are not many large parks in this part of town, one of the few large open spaces in London turns out to be the steps of St. Paul's. A church.

These Londoners were having their lunch, enjoying small talk with friends, reading a book or magazine in solitude, or just watching the people go by, all on the steps of a church. On the steps, outside.

And likely, I thought, probably oblivious to the church behind them, the history of what lay inside, and maybe even of the God for whom this great church was, at least originally, built. Oh, that those hundreds might come inside, and behold the beauty! That the church might love them so, that they felt drawn inside.

But after all now, really, its just a church.

Perhaps this struck me, as I know that much of the time, I am oblivious too. I have no clue, no idea of what might be going on, even right behind me. But on this day, frankly, there was not much going on inside that church; just a bunch of us tourists taking in the historic sights. I must admit I feel a bit sad to know that a part of the church universal is best known as a form of history museum, as is St. Paul's. I longed to know more of what the people and pastors of this church were doing to love their great city in a real way for a very real Christ.

As I was inside St. Paul's, walking through the crypt's, viewing the graves of British history, I came upon a tour group viewing the statue of a gaunt man, posed in a shroud of sorts. This was John Donne, who lead a remarkable life, and was actually the Dean of St. Paul's from 1621 to 1631, the year of his death.

As I stood and listened, the tour guide repeated, from memory, these words of John Donne, now immortal in history:

" No man is an island. entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

As I stood and listened to these words, I thought of the hundreds sitting outside in the sun. I thought about myself, and my weak attempts to live out a gospel that is real. I am a piece of the continent, a part of the main.

I want to do better with my little piece of land. To till the earth and make it bloom, and to show that garden to others, that they might behold the Beauty of the Creator.

That we all, together, might not be so oblivious.

British Culture Update and Our Travels

British Culture and Sports Update
We were awakened at 7 AM today by our two girls, who came to our door in near hysterics, after watching 30 minutes of Teletubbies. This programme (as it is spelled here) is know to induce hysteria in teenage American girls, I guess. The British certainly know how to do children's programming. Pictured at left, the girls with a Figaro. This car reminded me of the last time I visited Rome, in 1987.

Before I regale you with tales of our travels, I must first offer first a quick update on the England - South Africa Cricket Match, something I know you all care greatly about. I agree completely with Simon Hughes, who says, quite succinctly, in today's Telegraph:

" The South Africans excelled in their crease occupation and in their careful accumulation on a Headingley pitch which rewards patience and punishes extravagance. Despite their colossal score at Lord’s, the England batsmen have still not acquired the art of consistently selling their wickets dear."

Well. Yes, of course! I could not agree more. Never sell your wickets dear, I always say. If there is anything I will not do, it is to sell my wickets dear.


The Day's Travels
Our day started at the Tower of London. The most haunting portion of our visit was reading the actual graffiti left by Tower prisoners during their imprisonment or in the days prior to their execution. At left is the door through which a good number walked before execution. Quite sobering.

Next off to St. Paul's Cathedral, the historic spiritual center of London. More on that soon, perhaps.



And, to end the day, while Nancy and Heather headed off to do the "tourist thing" at the London Eye, Kelly and I spent a good hour or more at The Cabinet War Room. This was actually good timing with my 17 year old, as she just finished this material in her honors history class this past year. She absorbed much of the information; to see this history for real was quite meaningful for her.

I visited this same place 26 years ago, during my last stop in London, and was no less impressed upon my second visit. The whole nature of a World War being run from a basement by a nation, and more particularly a leader under siege is stunning. The courage and determination of the British people is really quite something to remember.

From Churchill's address to the House of Commons, June 4, 1940, following the Battle of Dunkirk:

We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.

At the end of the War, on V-J day at 5 PM, it is said that the officers and clerks in the War Rooms, simply put down their pencils, pushed back from their typewriters and maps, turned out the lights, and left the building, never to return. Through the review of a large collection of photographs taken during the war, the rooms have been painstakingly returned to their exact condition during the War.

That we could all push back from our own "little battles" of life, of conflicts with those that annoy and trouble us. Push back, turn out the lights, close the door and never return. I would not even want photos to remind me.

London Day 1

One 10 hour plane ride, and the Family Norris is in London!

Its hard to believe, but a couple of years of dreaming, months of discussions of places to visit with friends, checking of reservations, cashing-in of flier miles, and planning have brought us here, safe and sound.

Well, maybe not so sound. Heather kept commenting at lunch, "I just can't wrap my mind around this whole time change thing". This was after not sleeping a wink on the plane, and witnessing her first "two hour night", as we chased the sun across the Atlantic. The first photo at right illustrates our two girls on the London double-decker tour bus a bit after lunch time today. The second photo is just about 45 minutes later, after the full effects of no sleep and an 8 hour time change have begun to work their magic on Heather.

But after a two hour nap, and a good dinner, we are heading to bed looking forward to a fun day at the Tower of London, Parliament, and Westminster Abbey tomorrow. Well, at least three of us are. Heather slept through dinner, God bless her.

An amazing city. Amazing girls to travel with. What more could a guy want?


P.S.: I know there are several people reading this in order to follow our travels, and you people are often lurkers, who do not leave comments. Lets make this interactive people; leave some comments - the girls would love to hear your thoughts!

Purple State of Mind

What if two guys, who were college chums long ago, got together and made an honest film about their differences? And what if the biggest difference they had was about what each believed about God?

Well, its happened, and it appears this film is going to be something fascinating. Oh, and all you Christian folk out there might not feel completely satisfied when its over. I think that is good.

The premise of this film, to explore the differences and relationships of two distinctly different people; a believer and a non-believer is something that is rarely done, and even more rarely done well. We Christian folk are often terrible at this sort of thing, and I am interested to see primarily, if Craig Detweiler (the God-believer in the film) can play his role with grace, dignity, and real care for his friend. Disclaimer: my wife Nancy has audited a class at Fuller Seminary from one of the filmmakers, Craig Detweiler. She loved the class. I have not seen the film, I ordered it today.

From the Purple State of Mind web site:

Conversations are the ideal form of communication in some respects, since they allow people with different views of a topic to learn from each other. A speech, on the other hand, is an oral presentation by one person directed at a group.

That nails it. We've become a nation of speech-makers. Everyone has their bullet points. Everyone takes aim. Left versus right. Gay versus straight. Atheist versus believer. The shrapnel has caught all of us in the crossfire, and we struggle to respond like soldiers; we fire back, but our own guns fail us.

As a person of faith, Craig is troubled by the perception of Christians as judgmental and hypocritical. How could Jesus, the great defender of the poor, the hungry and the hurting have been turned into a hater? As a reporter in the Balkans, John witnessed the process by which religious and ethnic identity drives division. He's unnerved by the potential for a war of words to become something far worse. Purple State of Mind is an 80-minute effort to bridge the cultural gap, to push past politics, and wade into the middle ground where most people live.

For more, and to order the film, visit Purple State of Mind.

The Leningrad Cowboys

I love the Internet. Everyday I learn things I would never otherwise know.

I am also quite fond of my half-brother John, a former fighter pilot and Air Force officer, who now lives in Norway. John sends me the most interesting emails you can imagine, and today was one I just had to share with my 6 readers.

Back in the days of the Soviet Union, the Soviet Red Army had an official choir composed of male soldiers and musicians. It still exists. The Red Army Choir performs throughout Russia to this day.

Now consider the Finnish rock band called The Leningrad Cowboys (pictured above - I love particularly the hair and shoes). A little while ago, they held a concert in Russia, in which - to the screaming applause of Russkie teen-agers - they got the Red Army Choir to join them on stage for a performance of "Sweet Home Alabama." In English. You couldn't make this up.

We have Ronald Reagan to thank for this video:

Turning 50 - More Photos

At the request of distinguished members of our Canadian family, I present a few more photos of "Steve & Friends Fly at 50" event. First, Steve flys, then Nancy does too. Wooo Hooo!

High Gas Prices

When I was a kid, my Dad used to sit at the kitchen table during dinner and complain about "those damn environmentalists".

We have not built a refinery in the US in 30 years. I can easily guess why that is the case.

Sometimes, only sometimes mind you, I think my Dad was right.

A Day at the Beach

Today we will blithely jump in the pool. We might barbecue something. Many of us will avoid the heat, stay indoors and watch the 4th of Joly festivities from the national mall on PBS. Some of us will actually go out and watch the local community fireworks; we will be doing that tonight. A few songs of patriotic note, a lot of explosions, and smoke. Lots of smoke.

Then we will all pile back in the car, drive home, and go to bed, content that tomorrow will hold little risk of our lives, minimal danger, and we will wake up in a free country. Tomorrow, we might even go to the beach. What the heck, its a long weekend!

The beach. For me the beach has always been a special place, a place of rest, of rejuvenation. There is something about the sea, the sand, the salt air, and the company of friends. To me, the beach means peace, sunsets, laughter, good conversation, and fun. A boundary between land and sea. For us in California, the beach is the edge of a continent, a stepping off point to distant lands.

In June of 1944, 64 years ago, a day at the beach meant something entirely different for those men who participated in the landing at Normandy. Peggy Noonan has rightly chosen this 4th of July to remind us of a completely different Day at the Beach.

Thank you, Ms. Noonan for remembering these remarkably brave men.

Tonight, when the fireworks fly at the football field in town, my eyes, as always, will fill with tears. I will be remembering the men of Omaha Beach, my Dad who flew in the South Pacific, and those of our country who serve now in dangerous places, all over the world.

I owe my freedom to them all.

Schools Kill Creativity

Over the past several years, as our girls have left elementary school, my wife and I have become increasingly frustrated with the public education system, even in our happy upper-middle class suburban locale. In short, our public education system in the US is a mess.

Sir Ken Robinson has some fascinating ideas about education. Its 20 minutes, but every minute is worth it. Check this out:

Wooden & Scully, A Match Made in Heaven

A couple of weeks ago, something wonderful happened in downtown Los Angeles. Two of my favorite people, and living legends, John Wooden and Vin Scully, sat down together to talk about sports, life, love, and their remarkable experiences in life.

I had no idea this was happening, or I would have done my best to be there. I did read about it, at several places on the Internet, and wanted to share it here, so I could remember it.

Scully and Wooden first met by chance while living in the same Brentwood apartment building, when Scully held the gate open for Wooden, who was carrying groceries inside. Wooden introduced himself by saying, "Hello, I'm John Wooden, the new basketball coach at UCLA". Can you imagine?!

Scully and Wooden kicked off Father's Day weekend with a 1½-hour chat. A sold-out crowd of 7,100 paid rapt attention at Nokia Theatre, while a live television audience listened in. (As I understand, it was a one-time broadcast - if anyone reading this ever hears that it will air again, PLEASE let me know)

Scully and Wooden received prolonged standing ovations when they arrived and left the stage. Despite looming large over the Los Angeles sports scene for decades, the 80-year-old Scully and 97-year-old Wooden have never sat down together publicly to share their memories.

In agreeing to participate, the men requested that all money raised benefit children's charities. This is so like these two selfless men.

Ticket prices ranged from $25 to $200, with proceeds split between UCLA Mattel Children's Hospital and ThinkCure, the Los Angeles Dodgers' charity that focuses on cancer research. Scully and Wooden appeared beforehand at a dinner, where tables went for $25,000 each.

Wooden came onstage in a wheelchair pushed by UCLA athletic trainer Tony Spino, who helped the former coach settle into a leather chair. Wooden made a passing reference to having broken his left wrist and collarbone in a fall at home in February.

His body may be frail, but Wooden proved his mind is as sharp as ever as he recalled snippets of his life from decades ago in between making the audience laugh with his retorts to Simers.

Wooden tenderly admitted he still writes his late wife Nell – the only girl he ever dated – a letter on the 21st of each month. “She's still there to me,” he said. “I talk to her every day.”

Scully's famously soothing voice has defined summer in the city to generations of Angelenos. But he is fiercely private away from the announcer's booth, rarely giving interviews or discussing his life.

He explained that he grew up in New York being taught not to show his emotions.

“I'm less of a man because of it,” he said.

Scully said he's not a fan of the Dodgers because “if I did that every flyball would be a home run.”

Scully remembered a game that Jackie Robinson, who broke baseball's color barrier, and the Dodgers played in Philadelphia on a hot day. A man outside offered slices of watermelon to each of the players as they got on the bus.

“When Jackie came out he was not aware of anything, and all of a sudden, the man hands him a piece of watermelon,” Scully said. “He was ready to go pyrotechnic until we were able to say, 'No, no, Jack. Everybody is having watermelon, me, a redhead Irishman.' So it was fine, but there was always that underlying feeling.”

Scully said the worst thing anyone could do was make Robinson angry.

“Most of us, if not all of us, lose something when we get angry,” he said. “When Jackie got angry, somehow he took his game to a higher level. One game, he knew they were trying to hit him. So he got to first base on ball four and proceeded to steal second, third and home. The word around the league was, I remember hearing Leo Durocher say this to the Giants: 'Don't wake him up.'”

At one point, Scully, a former barbershop quartet singer, launched into his favorite song, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” with the audience joining in.

Asked the secret to his long life, Wooden replied, “Not being afraid of death and having peace within yourself. All of life is peaks and valleys. Don't let the peaks get too high and the valleys too low.”

Scully was asked when he plans to retire.

“I still get the goose bumps every day when the crowd roars for whatever reason,” he said. “I'm looking forward to at least next year. But I remember the old thing about talk about next year and make the devil laugh, so I'd rather just go day to day like we all are anyway.”

In a takeoff of “Inside the Actor's Studio,” Simers asked Scully and Wooden a series of questions requiring mostly one-word answers.

Their favorite words? Both men replied love. Their least favorite? Both said hate.

The noise they hate? “Booing,” Wooden said. “Chalk on a blackboard,” Scully said.

Their favorite curse word? “Goodness gracious snakes alive,” the clean-living Wooden said, drawing laughter. “Darn it,” Scully replied.

The profession they would like to try? Civil engineer for Wooden, and song-and-dance man for Scully.

If heaven exists, what would they like God to say when they arrive at the pearly gates?

“Well done,” Wooden said as the audience applauded in agreement.

“Can't really top that,” Scully said. “Welcome my son, well done.”

At that, the two legends reached toward each other, grasped hands and smiled.

There is a brief video of these two great men last week at this event, here at MLB.

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Now, may I recap for a moment?

1. Vin Scully tell us that when you hide your emotions, you are less of a man for it. To me, this is wisdom in its purest form.

2. Coach Wooden still writes his long deceased wife a letter once a month. This, my friends, is love.

3. Coach also tells us that the secret to is not being afraid of death and having peace within yourself. I am working on both of those. Maybe someday I will have it together.

4. Both of their favorites words are love.

And all I can say to both of these men is "well done". I know of few other men who more deserve these words.

Fighting Gravity, Reaching 50, Flying, Joy

"John, Michael, wake up.
There is a boy here who is to
teach us to fly and take us to
the Never, Never Land.
He says there are
pirates and mermaids and redskins." 

- Peter Pan, by Sir James Matthew Barrie

Have you ever dreamt that you could fly? I have lots of times, mostly when I was younger. My dreams in middle life seem to be more earth bound, for some reason. I wonder why? But the other night, it really happened; we flew, all of us. And reality was way more fun than a dream!

Friday night was my 50th birthday, and 11 of us piled into two cars and headed over to IFlyHollywood for what turned out to be an unforgettable 90 minutes of thrills, fun, and laughter. Now I think I want to turn 50 about once a month!

IFlyHollywood is a vertical wind tunnel, where you can make like you are skydiving without the hassle (and risk) of jumping out of a perfectly good airplane. Oh, that and you can avoid the wetting your pants part, too.

How to describe the feeling of floating in a 120 mph wind tunnel? Well first of all, completely non-frightening. It seems like just the most natural thing one could do; you stand in the doorway, fall forward, and, well, just float. Instructors fly with you, so you feel totally in control. You go from 5 feet above ground to as much as 25 feet. Awesomeness! All 11 of us, young and old had a complete blast, and our youngest daughter wants to come back for her 16th birthday party. What a kid!

To float, for just a few moments, beating gravity. All these years, we are held fast to the ground by a force we cannot see, but is surely there. Unavoidable. Pressing us down. Life itself does that too. Maybe I am pressed closer to the ground by the seriousness and gravity of life. Closer to the earth than when I was born. Sir Mathew Barrie understood this, I think.

But I wonder, did Sir Barrie know, there is more to this life than meets the eye? Sometimes, we can fly, if only for a few moments. And then, there is Joy.

“To die will be an awfully big adventure.”

- Peter Pan, by Sir James Matthew Barrie

Matt is at it Again!

Two years ago, Matt produced a video that has spread around the world.

Matt is at it again, and this time, there is no possible way you can watch this without smiling, and then laughing and wondering again about this amazing, beautiful, troubling, fantastic world we live in.

Observation: Last time, Matt did a lot of dancing on his own. No longer. Isn't that the way our lives should all be lived? We don't have a long time to live on this planet. Come on, people...lets dance.

I give you Matt:

Turning 50 - Part 1

The other day I turned 50 years old. For what happened on the momentous day I was born, go here.

Friday morning I awoke to find that the clock (at least at our house) had been turned back about 35 years. My yard had been "TP'ed", or in the south also known as "rolled". This used to happen regularly to me when I was a teenager, but more on that another time.

The culprits? Teenage friends of my daughters? Local hooligans? My eccentric Cal Tech chemist neighbor? Paroled white-collar criminals? Nope. None of these.

As it turns out I was the birthday-boy target of this mischief - by our good friends the Wiericks - a couple of in-denial fellow 50-year olds in the neighborhood. This was a very cleaver decoration job that also involved free beverages, for which I am very thankful. Along with the decorative toilet papering of my lawn, porch, and rose bushes, I received 50 (count 'em) bottles of fine German beer, each festooned with humorous and thoughtful quotes on age and aging.

This was wonderful stuff. Below, I give some of the pithy beer bottle quotations (click to enlarge):

Lining Up, Promotion, The Future

They all lined up.

About 300 8th graders stood in line to receive their promotion handshakes, certificates, and photographs. Suits and ties, new shoes, new dresses. A Big and Special Day. I was reminded of the James Taylor song, "Line 'em Up". All those amazing lives, all clumped together in one place. If we had time to listen, what stories they could tell us.

I am never ready for these sorts of things. They thonk me over the head like I never saw them coming in the first place.

Its the end of the school year, and it always seem to hit me before I can prepare. Its a time of change; the end of spring, the beginning of summer. Bittersweet endings, yet new beginnings. This year my feelings and emotions are different than other years. I have blogged about kids growing up, and the changes at the end of the school year here, some time back. But today, it feels different.

We have one high schooler ending her junior year; senior year coming up. Big Decisions ahead. This will be an interesting year for her, and for all of us. In less than 18 months, we will hopefully have a child off to college, and all the emotions and excitement that go with that. Our family population will be reduced by 25%, not to mention the noise level, that should be in the range of a 50% reduction!

And now, our younger girl is finishing her time at Middle School, and oh, what a ride. Academics that were challenging, great teachers, great friends, the school play for three years in a row, volleyball, softball, and soccer. What a life!

Today, I dropped 14-year old Heather off in front of the Middle School for the very last time. I watched her walk up the steps, never to return this particular way again. It was then that I remembered those last days of both of our girls, first at Marengo Elementary, and then here, at the Middle School. Fleeting moments in time. I pulled away from the curb, smiling to myself; thankful for the years past, and looking hopefully to those ahead. The past is beginning to softly fade, as are our memories of the Junior High years.

What an amazing ride this is, this life. Today, my heart is very full.

Time, Cleaning the Panels, and My Future Self

Its Father's Day.

Albert Einstein once said:

"The distinction between the past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion."

I have thought often of this idea, this "illusion", over the past two years, as I have faced the death of both of my parents, and a bit more again in the past couple of weeks, as I muse upon turning 50.

Today, I went on the roof of our house with a garden hose, some dish soap and a brush. No, I am not loosing it completely, I have solar panels that require periodic cleaning. My sweet wife does not warm to the concept of me, The Provider, on the roof playing with water and dish soap. She logically fears an accident by somewhat awkward me, resulting in much trauma for our family. I am sobered by this, as a neighbor on our street, who was roughly my age, fell off a ladder to his death while cleaning his gutters several years ago, leaving behind a wife and daughter of elementary age. I am not kidding.

This life we lead, as Einstein knew, exists on one side of a thin veil from death, another dimension.

As I was scrubbing panels on the roof, doing my part to reduce my Big Foot-sized carbon footprint, I started to chuckle thinking how silly this solar-panel-scrubbing effort will very likely someday seem. Surely, within the next 20 years some new technology will either scrub my panels for me, or the whole idea of solar power will be transformed in some way I cannot even now imagine. Such is the future.

While alone up on the roof in the sun, I thought of all those pictures from my parents photo albums from when I (like my girls now) was a teenager. How old-fashioned and tacky they all look. Time marches on, unimpeded by our memories of better or more simple times.

And then, I came downstairs to watch the final round of the US Open. I could write another post about that, but suffice it to say, Tiger and Rocco are amazing. During the midst of the tournament, another commercial came on from Lincoln Financial. To me, Lincoln has the most amazing advertising agency ever. Almost every add they do grabs me right in the heart.

Einstein would like this ad's idea. What if the laws of time were, for a brief moment, abolished, and we could chat with our future selves? It might be amazing.

And so, I give you this commercial, from the people at Lincoln Financial. Think less about the financial aspect, and more about the timelessness of this. It is wonderful. The question that punched me in the gut, from the new father (note: its a baby girl, just like our two) to his future self, was, "How'd I do?". Oh my!

Now That is Some Banjo Playin'!

Now, y'all listen up. I don't know much, but I do know me some good banjo pickin' when I hears it. I want to go to a show where everybody gets a seat suspended on a giant elastic band. Oh my!



Can we not all just dance when we hear the music?

Tricky Dick, MTV, and Being a Parent

When I was a kid, the three of us, me, Mom, and Dad used to sit at the little dinner table in our kitchen each night for dinner. Tater tots, pork chops, and reconstituted frozen lima beans. Dad would hold forth on events of business, politics, and culture, in his own modified suburban white Archie Bunker sort of way. My Dad loved Richard Nixon. He considered himself one of the Silent Majority. He thought Vietnam was a worthwhile endeavor to thwart the commie threat. He never understood the civil rights movement.

And so now, 35 years later, I feel I have been, in some ways, transported back in time, and the roles are reversed. I am playing the uptight, ultra-conservative parent, confused at the responses of my kids to culture. But after watching The Merchants of Cool earlier this week, I am wiser about the poop that is being foisted on our youth, all in the name of hipness, but really with the intent of making money. Lots of it. And MTV is a big part of the force.

Those of you who are parents, or are even thinking about becoming parents will want to watch this. Want to know what is going on? First, go take a look at one of the most recognized market research firms in youth culture, LookLook. These are the people that study youth culture, and then tell the giant marketing machines what is the latest, the coolest, and the most. Another good source of cultural overview can be found in the books of the Merchants of Cool producer, Douglas Rushkoff.

So, is this a battle? Are we in a fight for the character of our kids? Well, I do not do well with the language of war in the attempt to win the hearts and minds of young people. I prefer groups like Young Life, they do a much better job. However, the machinery of marketing to youth is large, formidable, and determined. Its about making money, and clearly, the moral ramifications of how money is made just do not matter.

Read the comment on the post below from my friend Scott, who has spent a number of years in the entertainment business. Often, I feel like I am watching our culture unravel. Save for the grace of God, I feel helpless sometimes.

The Merchants of Cool

Parenting is not for cowards. Chalk one up for MTV.

We have been recently dealing with a teenager in our house who is telling us our values are bogus, and those of the MTV generation are more fitting. We have been told, essentially, that we can go pound sand.

The specific issue we, as parents, are dealing with is not so important as is the fact that the culture, at this point, seems to be winning. Young, and hip, cool and relevant are winning out over tradition, character, and values.

I love my kids, but I really hate this situation.

Last week, I spent some time with a 26 year old seminary student who has spent the better part of the last 8 years working with young people. He mentioned that I should really watch "The Merchants of Cool" to get a better bead on youth culture and how it is being shaped by large companies, and sold to kids.

I am going to watch it tonight.

Final Salute

I spotted this image today on the front page of the New York Times. I was transfixed, and humbled. This is the caption that goes with the photo:

"When 2nd Lt. James Cathey's body arrived at the Reno Airport, Marines climbed into the cargo hold of the plane and draped the flag over his casket as passengers watched the family gather on the tarmac. During the arrival of another Marine's casket at Denver International Airport, Major Steve Beck described the scene as one of the most powerful in the process: "See the people in the windows? They'll sit right there in the plane, watching those Marines. You gotta wonder what's going through their minds, knowing that they're on the plane that brought him home," he said. "They're going to remember being on that plane for the rest of their lives. They're going to remember bringing that Marine home. And they should."

We should. All of us.

To see the slide show, go here. To purchase the book, go here.

Its Coming!

In four more days:

Orange Grove Park, The End of a Softball Era

Yesterday marked the bittersweet end of an era in the life of our family. Our last girls softball game at Orange Grove park.

We have been watching, cheering on, encouraging, and participating in coaching our girls at this simple little ball field for the past 10 years or so. Yesterday, our team won the league championship for 14-year old junior girls, and will advance this month to the area "Tournament of Champions"; that has a rather Olympian ring to it, does it not?

But back to the bittersweet. As Heather is our younger daugther, we have now exhausted the years that our girls can play ball at this park. It has been a wonderful ride, and I have written about it several times, both here, and here. We are so blessed.

Every once in a long time, we get the chance to stand still, if just for a moment, and reflect on what is going on in our lives. I had that chance last night. It was the 5th inning or so, and our girls were in the field. We had the game under control, coming from behind in the earlier innings; pretty darn exciting! I wandered to the far end of the dugout where the trees that ring the stands open up to the western sky. It was nearly twilight. Twilight has always been my favorite time of day, a place in time to reflect, if only briefly, on the day gone by.

As you move to the end of the dugout, its like removing yourself slightly from the action of the game, the crowd noises get a bit less, the intensity of the game seems less, somewhat softer, if you will.

There I stood, reflecting on a decade of softball games at Orange Grove Park. Thousands of people glide by each day in their cars, oblivious to the games full of little and (now, for us) bigger girls. Ten years full. Of strikeouts, walks, fly balls to left field, dropped ground balls, laughter, tears, screams, and silly girl-team cheers from the dugouts. A lot has gone on here on this green patch in the midst of the city; many memories. Little girls turned big. Toothless smiles turned bright and straight (with help from the orthodontist). Characters of young ladies were formed, by winning, and loosing, and being a good sport on the way to the car afterward. Families reconnecting each week in the stands.

Its a just a city park, a little patch of green, surrounded by homes, tennis courts, a brick office building and the Arco station. But to those of us who played there, coached there, and raised our girls on this field, its a whole lot more.

This Weekend, Dickens, and Nicholas Nickleby

I come from a small family of three; I am an only child. Growing up, I remember our family life together often felt, well, rather small. And sheltered. And sort of isolated. Not a lot of connection with the wider outside world. Safe and insulated, that was our family. My parents liked it that way. Perhaps they were compensating for some pain in their own past.

By way of contrast, this Memorial Day weekend has been a busy one, full of get-togethers, parties, celebrations and friendship.

Thursday night there was a party for the girls JV Water Polo Team from South Pasadena High School; tons of girls and noise and laughter. Saturday night was a birthday party for our new friend, Megan, who is getting here Masters of Divinity from Fuller Seminary. New friends, new beginnings, and a celebration of a life redeemed.

Sunday afternoon was a lunch with two families we have known for years; our kids are growing up around us, heading off to college and becoming amazing people.

Yesterday was an old tradition, Memorial Day lunch and swim with old friends of more than 20 years. Being surrounded by those you love is a blessing beyond measure.

Charles Dickens knew this, and celebrated struggle, friendship, and family in his writing. One of my favorite Dickens stories is Nicholas Nickleby. This is a story of suffering, of loss, of loyalty, character, and above all, love and friendship. And this story has been made into one of my all time favorite films. At the end of the movie there is a speech made, that for me is wonderful and full of meaning. It does not quote Dickens directly, but it is good enough for me:

"In every life, no matter how full or empty one's purse, there is tragedy. It is the one promise life always fulfills. Thus, happiness is a gift, and the trick is not to expect it, but to delight in it when it comes, and to add to other people's store of it. What happens if, too early, we loose a parent? That party on whom rely for only....everything. What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears. But then they did the vital thing, they built a new family, person by person. They came to see that family need not be defined merely as those with whom they share blood, but as those for whom they would give their blood. It is in that spirit that we offer this heartfelt toast, to the brides and grooms!"

This has been a weekend rich with sharing, laughter, and friendships, both new and old. I am deeply thankful.