On Losing, Winning, and Why This Feels So Good

This past Saturday, rain was threatening the skies over the Rose Bowl, in a land where the sun constantly shines.  This day the sky was deep grey and ominous, as if some massive dark and foreboding thing were coming.

And then, as the crowd of 90,000 stood and paused for the National Anthem - it felt as if the darkened heavens were nearly torn apart by two Navy FA 18 Super Hornets, as they streaked low overhead.  A deep roar, a rush of streaking jet engines, and a massive wave of cheers from the stands, the sound of power both machine and human.  Everyone was ready.  Bring it.

As I stood there, in the crowd, beside my bride of 24 years, I should have known this splitting of the sky was a sign.  A sign that good things do happen to undeserving souls.  A sign that the little guy does not always finish last; that those little guys in 1776 got their freedom.    And from that little band of people with principles, great and amazing things would happen.  This is America, after all.  Another college football Saturday, and a game of great rivals, unparalleled in the nation.

Two great universities, so much tradition, so much pride on the line.  Perhaps for the Bruins, more pride than arrogant expectation.  That arrogance sort of thing is typical in Troy, a place derived largely from mythology.

Sometimes, after loosing for 12 of the last 13 years, things can improve.  And maybe, just maybe, the monopoly in LA college football is over.

It was a Battle Royal.  In the end, the Guys Who Don't Usually Win .... won big time.  It was decisive.  One team left looking at the ground, having lost their alleged hero in a crushing sack, a metaphor for his teams' season.  The winners who were expected to always win, lost.  And they have been doing that a lot this year.  The other team jumped, and hooted, and hollered and celebrated like little kids let loose early from school.  This was an innocent joy, born out of 13 years of mostly loosing.  Every single player on this team had never beat SC.

We won!  We did it! 

Why do I feel so emotional about this rivalry?  It's personal.  I am a Bruin, Class of 1980.  Much of the good I have experienced in life I can trace in one way to my University years in Westwood.  In this spirit, below is my twist on a classic column by the great sportswriter Jim Murray. The article was written in 1978 when I was in school.  I clipped it out of the paper, and hung it on the door of my dorm room. For months it was there, like an identity badge.  I have updated it for the modern day:

"You all know the kind of school SC is. The girls are built like chorus girls. The boys look like Abercrombe ads. Their fathers are all rich. The all live in San Marino or Newport Beach, and Daddy is a third generation real estate developer.  Their biggest worry is the hedge fund market or where to park the Mercedes at the California Club. Their families have always run things in this town and they all belong to fraternities where you have to prove you never drove a used car and you think Hoover was our greatest President. Even though their "Old SC" now has more people of color, different income brackets, and academic scholarship than ever before, they try to ignore this is happening.  They pine for the Old Days.  They have their little Cardinal and Gold tail gates at the Coliseum with Biff (Class of 78) and Muffy (class of 80).  Muffy was a Kappa Dinga Sigma Hey, Biff a Smega Chi.  They miss John McKay."

"And they'll never have to lay pipe or pour cement or sweep floors or serve drinks or wear a hard hat and they'll go through life getting guys to open doors for them and take their hats.  It's the world of Thurston Howell III.  Although a stereotype, that's the public image of SC.  The First World. A very private university, a very private club. That's the image SC projects. Tuxedos and patrons of art, a Chagall in the guest bathroom.  And all those "new" SC people, well, they always use the guest bathroom.  Please."

"UCLA on the other hand, suggests a whole bunch of people who are going to become, not judges, or CEOs, but storefront lawyers, or child psychologists or oboists in the Philharmonic, or delegates to the Democratic convention. If they go abroad, its with the Peace Corps, not the plutocrats and its Biafra, not Biarritz.  If they ever get into the Cabinet, it would be in the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare. Assistant Director to the Undersecretary.  When they are in school, they are working at the children's clinic or the parking garage of the California Club.  Their student loans last for decades."

These Bruins tolerate the football team because it brings in money for the Occupy Westwood rallies.  They prefer Quiditch on the Quad.  They like badminton with the folks from the ACLU, and wish cancer researchers and cardiologists got million-dollar contracts instead of guys who barely passed remedial English on their own football team."

Merriweather Lewis' Moment of Reflection

They were only thirty three souls and a dog, facing thousands of miles of unknown territory.  Their adventure captures my imagination like no other. 

Two years, four months and ten days travel from St. Louis to the Oregon Coast, and then back again to St. Louis; 3,700 miles one way and 7,000 miles round trip.  We moderns can make this trip in a period of hours.

They started out going upstream in a dugout boat, endured tortuously hot days, swarms of insects beyond imagination, saw plants and animals they had never imagined, and spent the freezing winter with Indians in North Dakota.  No group has ever done anything like this before, or since.  This was the incredible moon shot of 1804; in many ways, there was more mystery, adventure and courage in this journey than in the all of the Apollo program.

One of the two leaders of this group was a 30 year old from Virginia named Meriweather Lewis. Biographers note this was a man of who was introverted, melancholic, and moody.  William Clark, Lewis' co-leader of the expedition, was in contrast extroverted, even-tempered and gregarious. The better educated and more refined Lewis, who possessed a philosophical, romantic and speculative mind, was at home with abstract ideas; Clark, of a pragmatic mold, was more of a practical man of action. Each supplied vital qualities which balanced their partnership.

About six weeks ago, on our travels home, we stopped at Fort Clatsop, near Astoria, Oregon, at the mouth of the mighty Columbia River.  This was the last stop of Lewis & Clark's historic adventure to the West.  We spent a soft, cool Oregon morning at the Fort, walking through the reproduction of the original encampment and learning more about this remarkable journey.

While viewing the exhibits, I happened upon a quotation from the journal of Meriweather Lewis that I had read before, but now which  somehow resonated deep within me.  More than 206 years ago, on his birthday on a rainy night in coastal Oregon, surrounded by only frontier and darkness, in a completely new land, Meriweather Lewis sat in this (at left)  darkened room, lit only by fire and candlelight, recording in his journal his reflections on becoming just 31 years old:

This day I completed my thirty first year, and conceived that I had in all human probability now existed about half the period which I am to remain in this Sublunary world. I reflected that I had as yet done but little, very little indeed, to further the hapiness of the human race, or to advance the information of the succeeding generation. I viewed with regret the many hours I have spent in indolence, and now soarly feel the want of that information which those hours would have given me had they been judiciously expended. but since they are past and cannot be recalled, I dash from me the gloomy thought and resolved in future, to redouble my exertions and at least indeavour to promote those two primary objects of human existence, by giving them the aid of that portion of talents which nature and fortune have bestoed on me; or in future, to live for mankind, as I have heretofore lived for myself.

Lewis, Meriwether; Clark, William (2012-05-12). The Journals of Lewis and Clark, 1804-1806 (Kindle Locations 9685-9691) Kindle Edition.

The thoughts of this brave young adventurer leave me wondering about existential questions at beyond the midpoint of my own life.  I am standing, in a way, at a marker of my own; a time to reflect as a very recent empty nester, wondering what things of significance my future life will hold.    First, I wonder much these days about the worth of my own contributions to the world thus far.  What can I do that will offer a life lived for mankind, and not for myself?

Second, I wonder about the sense of distorted perspective that we might all have of our own lives.  What seemingly small things have we done that we cannot recognize as possibly of great importance?  Perhaps in the Divine economy, there is a different way of looking at what matters in life, and at the little things that can become big.

Here was a young man who had just accomplished things very few in recorded history could ever claim.  He and a small band had explored half of a continent.  And yet, as he looked back on his life, he found himself far lacking in things achieved or internal character.  Why was this, and why do I often feel very much the same way?

After the Expedition, Meriweather Lewis was appointed Governor of the Louisiana Territory.  William Clark was promoted to Brigadier General and appointed to the Superintendency of Indian Affairs. However, Lewis at age 35, died tragically on October 11, 1809, just three years after the Expedition.

His grave lies within Natchez Trace National Parkway, near Hohenwald, Tennessee. Thomas Jefferson, who held life-long affection for his protege, is credited with the Latin inscription on Lewis' tombstone: Immaturus obi: sed tu felicior annos Vive meos, Bona Republica! Viva tuos. (I died young: but thou, O Good Republic, live out my years for me with better fortune.)

For the most outstanding book on Lewis and Clark's Voyage of Discovery, see Stephen Ambrose's Undaunted Courage.

Paul Simon: Father & Daughter

This song just came on Pandora here at my work.  It reminded me of two lovely young ladies who I love more than I can express.  This is for you, girls.  (Check out my notes in the lyrics below)





If you leap awake in the mirror of a bad dream
And for a fraction of a second you can't remember where you are
Just open your window and follow your memory upstream
To the meadow in the mountain where we counted every falling star

I believe a light that shines on you will shine on you forever
And though I can't guarantee there's nothing scary hiding under your bed
I'm gonna stand guard like a postcard of a Golden (in our case a Chocolate) Retriever
And never leave 'til I leave you with a sweet dream in your head

[Chorus:]
I'm gonna watch you shine
Gonna watch you grow    ---- (this part is perfect for where you both are in life right now)
Gonna paint a sign
So you'll always know
As long as one and one is two
There could never be a father
Who loved his daughter more than I love you

Trust your intuition
It's just like goin' fishin'
You cast your line and hope you get a bite
But you don't need to waste your time
Worryin' about the market place
Try to help the human race
Struggling to survive its harshest night

Very Close to Home; Jess Time

It Started with an Embrace

Note the wrapped right hand for IVs

It started with an embrace in the delivery room.  And then, another embrace, 9 months later, as we were unexpectedly back in the pediatrics ward of Huntington Hospital with a very feverish lump of 9 month old baby girl resting on my shoulder.  She would be in that hospital for nearly a week, overcoming a serious infection. It was a frightening time.

In that pediatrics ward her mother and I were quite worried.  Our little girl had a very high fever and was listless and lethargic.  Among the marks of real Providence in our lives was the alert response of our pediatrician, who admitted our baby girl immediately.  As it turned out, she was exactly correct.  Several days of serious intravenous medication ensued, followed by a surgical procedure, and finally, gratefully, discharge from the hospital.

I will never forget those moments in pediatrics admitting, holding that baby girl, wondering where this suddenly very scary journey might take us.  I had no idea, and I was petrified.  She was so little.

But in those moments of fear, I also experienced a feeling that was entirely unique, solitary, and mysterious.  It's something I have only spoken of a couple of times since; it is too difficult to articulate.  There, in the bustle of a hospital, holding that child, I felt an almost tangible sense of God's presence.  Strangely, as if something far more infinite was there with us all, in that room.  Something Sacred. 

And at the same moment, a single vivid and entirely unexpected thought seemed to overwhelm me and become more clear than just about anything I have thought or felt in all my years.

"I will be with you, wherever this leads."  

More than anything else that scary day, I knew we were not alone.  I can't explain where this came from, or even what it meant at its deepest level.  This baby's sickness was not a random event.  This was Peace, washing over me.  And I needed it.

I have been reflecting on those days, and the arc of that girl's life these past days, as her mother and I have returned from Seattle, going the slow way home through Washington, Oregon, and the coast of California.  On the road you have a lot of time to reflect on the mystery and wonders of the past seasons of your life.  And you have time to ponder where God showed up in your life as a family.  The road gives you the gift to forget your schedule for a while, and helps you put all those years of raising a family in perspective.  The long road home helps you enjoy the slowness of the journey, and reminds you of where you have been.  I think we spend too much time flying over life; the road connects us with what really happens down here on earth.

It started in a hospital admitting room, and, in part, it ended on an open quad at college, in a slightly tearful goodbye for the start of freshman year.  This is the point when we all, parents and child, admit that its time to begin to part - to all find our own way in the world.

On that day last week, strangely I had a reminder of that same sense of Peace from almost 19 years before.  It came in that sacred moment when I watched daughter and Mom embrace for a moment of parting.  A hug.  Tears.  Peace.  Right there, in front of me.  How could that be?  She was leaving us - how would she do?  What would her future be like?  Millions of questions.  And yet, Peace.

I know this because 10 days ago, that same little girl, now grown and entirely ready to go, rested her head, for just a moment in a hug, on that same shoulder of mine.  Then, she turned, smiling and making fun of her emotional parents, and walked confidently forward toward her new life in college.

So many years have passed, each one filled with a unique mixture of tears and laughter, frustration and joy, challenge and opportunity.  I have this other name besides Steve.  This girl calls me Dad.  It will be the most sacred and joy-filled name I will ever be called.

Friends ask us how we are doing.  Thankful.  The word hardly begins to describe how we feel.

The Heavens declare the glory of God

This certainly illustrates the point of Psalm 19.  Make sure to watch it full screen.

View from the ISS at Night from Knate Myers on Vimeo.

Are We Paying Attention to All This?

Its late summer now and the daylight here is growing shorter.  Past is the 54th anniversary of my arrival on this planet.  Lately, over the course of this summer, I have been reflecting on how much of this life I am really understanding.  Or appreciating. Or celebrating.  And I don't blog here as much as I did during my late 40s - I should change that.  Maybe that could become an exercise in more frequent reflection and celebration.

How much do I grasp of this journey and the remarkable relationships I have been given?  And as we all move from day to day, how often am I missing the presence Divine in the midst of the everyday?  I might be missing a lot, and I would like to change that.

Now deep in middle age, and passing more milestones in life, do I even have something close to a sense of wonder and mystery about it all?    Is there, deep within me, a glimpse of a vague understanding of my part in this relentless, remarkable, enchanting, mysterious gift I have been given in the form of friends and family?

Older Daughter is back beginning her final year in college at DePaul in Chicago, after a great summer at the Rose Bowl Aquatic Center, helping to lead the Sting Rays Swim Team.  Younger Daughter is weeks away from starting her own remarkable journey at the University of Washington.  As the seasons of adulthood change, am I really taking in all of this amazing ride?  Do I get it; do I really understand?

It seems we hold these moments of life with our children like some kind of impossible net made of gossamer threads.  We can never get a complete or permanent grip.  And, it seems, this is the way it is meant to be.


Kevin Kling is a storyteller, and I recently heard him interviewed.  He said this, that completely struck me; it was an epiphany of sorts:

"As children, we are closer in time to the Creator.  I realized who I connected with.  As a kid, I connected with my grandparents.  We were in the same light. I was in the dawn, and they were in the twilight, but we were in the same light.  They were heading to the Creator, and I was coming from the Creator.  And, because of that, we spoke a very similar language.  I wondered as I was getting older and as I looked back, where that goes.  Because it does go.  We become entrenched in this world.  As time goes on, and we come to the end of our lives, we return to that point."

"Because it does go".  My goodness!  Where has it gone for me?  In the busy-ness of running my own business?  In the blur of the everyday? Sometimes, we just get lost in the immediate, don't we?  We become entrenched in this world.  I love that phrasing.  Heading off to work each day, dealing with the immediacy of life. We are like the people in the Rockwell painting"Lift Up Thine Eyes".  Although its too small to see, the print on the sign reads, of course, "Lift up Thine Eyes".  Beneath it, the hoards of the city trudge onward to work, heads downcast.

As this new chapter of life in the form of "empty nest" comes into focus, I want to pay attention, to make a difference in the lives of others, and to remember and celebrate it. 

Your Work Has Purpose

To me, this is a wonderful example of ordinary people working together to do extraordinary things.  That we all might be so inspired by the work we do.....

Mars Curiosity - Amazing!

On August 5th, Mars Curiosity will land.  Cross your fingers.  This is stunning!

This Marriage - Eric Whitacre

Heard this today for the first time.  So sweet and sublime.....

May these vows and this marriage be blessed.
May it be sweet milk,
like wine and halvah.
May this marriage offer fruit and shade
like the date palm.
May this marriage be full of laughter,
our every day a day in paradise.
May this marriage be a sign of compassion,
a seal of happiness here and hereafter.
May this marriage have a fair face and a good name, an omen as welcomes the moon in a clear blue sky.
I am out of words to describe how spirit mingles in this marriage.

Lindbergh's Grave and Memorial Day

Earlier this week, I experienced a small epiphany of sorts at 37,000 feet over the Midwest. 

I was returning home from a 4 day business trip to Washington DC.  Before I departed, I downloaded several pages of one of my favorite blogs, Flight Level 390, to read on the plane.  It seemed fitting to read about the adventures and musings of an airline pilot while flying home myself.  I simply love the periodic reflections of Captain Dave, and heartily recommend them.

One of Captain Dave's posts was a reflection and a poem on Charles Lindbergh.  This recent May 20th was the 85th anniversary of Lindbergh's courageous and record breaking transatlantic flight, a flight that forever changed the world.  And here I was, with 120 or so other souls, 7-plus miles in the air over an unmarked Midwestern state, traveling at 0.83 times the speed of sound, in a metal tube with wings.  How far we have come since that single man dared the odds and transformed history.

And tomorrow is Memorial Day, the day we set aside for the first trip of the spring to the beach, or barbeque's, or pool parties.  But the meaning of Memorial Day is so much more. 

Lindbergh's grave near Hana, Maui.

I remember about 35 years ago my parents and I made the drive to Hana, Maui; a picturesque and winding road that ends at the small clifftop Hawaiian village of Hana, a place directly out of Heaven on Earth.  My Dad kept talking about Lindbergh owning a small home there, and having recently been buried someplace nearby.  My Dad thought Charles Lindbergh was an amazing American icon.  He was right.  At the end of his life, Lindbergh chose to be flown from a hospital in New York, where he was being treated for lymphoma, back to Hana and the place he loved so much.   His grave is simple, and not marked on maps.  Those who wish to honor him find the grave site on their own.  

And there I was reading this poem, speeding through the sky with ease, tears in my eyes, reflecting upon many things; the amazing advance of technology, the courage of a man to go it alone, the character of this generation that preceded ours that took risks like Lindbergh, and the service of my own Dad to his country as a B17 pilot in World War II.  Many things in this poem struck me as deeply meaningful, I share it with you, in the hopes it might have meaning for you as well.

Lindbergh's Grave

That long green swell that sears my eyes

As I lie in this bed of black stone,

Is it the Irish coast rising in the dawn

Beyond the brushed silver of my blind cowling

Where, throughout the night,

I trusted Not in some desert God's directions,

But in the calibrated compasses of man?

That rushing sound,

is it the hordes at Orly,

Swarming past the barriers and lights

To scavenge my Spirit,

and lift me up

Into the air that only heroes breath?

Or is it the age-old sigh of sea on stones,

Known to those who pace the shingle

And the swirled black sands that seep

Up from the sea's loom to wrap

Impossible islands in a shawl of waves?

That painting daubed on the chapel's window-

Not the roselined mandala at Chartres

Where flame in glass misprisoned sings-

But a cruder Savior, bearded, browned and popular,

An icon obtainable to plain sight,

a trim God Flat upon the glass in dull gesso limned,
And, when light moves behind it, looking down....

Is this the sign in which, at last, we conquer?

Conquer? I'd laugh the laugh of stones

Had I but eyes to see and lips to breathe.

No, I am content here where man and apes

Together waltzing lie, having done at last

With all horizons, having done at last with sky.

If you would see me now pass by

The small green church where ancient

Banyans looming shade and guard

The tower and the bell which you

May toll for me, or you, or all those

Not yet delivered to the stars and sea.

And then, retreating, mark the trees

Whose tendrilled branches hold but air,

And shadow both the church and stones

Beneath which wait both apes and men,

Who, foolish with their hunger for the air,

Swung branch to branch up all the years

Until, letting go at last, they learned

Through my night's leap, at last, to rise.

Sea, stone, tree, ape and Savior.

These now my long companions are.

Better here, I think, in this dank green

Cartoon of Paradise, this slight-of-hand Eden;

Better here beneath the pumice stones

Where strangers drop a wreathe from time to time;

Better in here deep than out there wide --
Hovering over the pillaring waves alone,
Suspended between the old world and the new,
Trusting in man's compass to guide me home;
Descending down the sharp cold blade of dawn.
Better, much better, in here at last to wait
In here where the shawl of the waves below
Enfolds that fire they could never snare.

Gerard Vanderleun

American Digest

Palapalo Ho'omau Church Cemetery, Kipahulu, Southeast Maui

Sigh No More - Mumford & Sons

This is the reason this song was written.  This is the reason we were born.  This is the reason I love Young Life.




[sigh no more | a reflection of beauty] from JJ Starr on Vimeo.

Lay My Burden Down - Aoife O'Donovan

Just discovered today that this touching song was penned by a relatively new artist, who I have been seeing quite a lot of these days.  Aoife O'Donovan of Boston.  When you get discovered by Alison Kraus, you are doing quite fine, thank you.

My Father's Father / The Civil Wars

This is completely haunting and beautiful to me, and speaks of the mystery of our past.  As I continue to research the history of my own family, 11 generations now in America, with members on opposite sides of the Civil War, these words have new meaning.

My Father's Father

I hear something hanging on the wind
I see black smoke up around the bend
I got my ticket and
I'm going to go home

The leaves have changed a time or two
Since the last time the train came through
I got my ticket and I'm going to go home

My father's father's blood is on the track
A sweet refrain drifts in from the past
I got my ticket and I'm going to go home

The winding roads they led me here
burn like coal and dry like tears
So here's my hope
My tired soul
So here's my ticket
I want to go home
Home
Home

My Friend Molly

Someday, I hope I get to meet Angela, who has written this beautiful piece about our family friend, Molly.....
 

Molly
She is the first reason
in 23 years
that I've ever had to wake up with the sun.
And her magic number is 21.

Born with an extra chromosome,
Molly is a miracle.

She loves musicals, math problems,
and literally refers to EVERY book she sees as her 'favorite'

Molly colors the world.

On ordinary days,
She reminds me to sing songs that aren't playing
And see things that aren't there.

At least, that is... to jaded eyes and ears like ours.

See, Molly has a gift:
She lives as if no one is watching.

A true freedom.

She lacks an ego,
Operates solely on love,
and doesn't respond well to anger.

She is hello hugs,
goodbye smiles,
and occasional slaps on the butt.

She is random questions
no; I mean REALLY random
(She once asked me what time Jesus was born)

She is beautiful compliments and peculiar observations.

Molly is bright purple boots, knee high socks, and umbrellas when its not raining.

She is cafeteria salads topped with,
of all things,
sweet relish.

She is chocolate milk.

Together, we are anything but 'disabled'
We are silly.
and it is not uncommon for both of us to laugh uncontrollably
when someone makes fart noises in the classroom.

I try to be an adult;
But it is hard when she makes the musings of childhood
seem so much more appealing.

We chase 'bad guys' around the track during gym,
and break into show tunes in the hallway,
and whenever she decides to
I let that girl dance.

because she is preserving my silly...
AND developing my patience.

Not every day is a bowl of cherries,
See, Molly likes to sass me from time to time.

She has an attitude that rivals my own,
and is not afraid to tell me,
straight up,
to "Get out of her face"

She is charming,
but some days she gets frustrated.

Not because she cannot communicate her thoughts,
but because we don't always speak her language.

I guess the only "down" to the syndrome
is that everyone else can't seem to catch up.

There is nothing 'disabled' about her.

The problem is with us;
see, the world likes to taint the beautiful with its "normal"

But Molly is a musical when the world is silent.

One of the goals of her education plan,
Is to become more "well-adjusted"

And I can't help but ask "...to what?"

To boring?
To egotistical?
To vain?

Molly is so many things that 'normal' is not
and because of that
I've yet to watch her interact with someone
who doesn't immediately fall in love.

She makes every day happenings anything but.

Once, at fifth period,
Molly was working on her times tables,
and I was taking notes...when in her loudest voice, with a smile on her face,
completely out of nowhere,
she yelled:
"Teach me how to fly!!"

..and after we laughed it off,

I picked her pencil up off the floor and said:

"ME teach YOU..?! Girl please,
you're the one with the wings...

now get back to work."
 
Angela Aguirre

Miles and Lilly

There is so much going on here in just 1:39, I could hardly begin to tell you.  But I will.  Begin, at least.

Beauty, simplicity, friendship, innocence, room for everyone to play, exploring new things, and love.  Lots of love. 

"This is Real"

The following is based on a true story.

Her life thus far, taken in the context of the all the possible kinds of lives of teenage girls, had been an easy one.

She had grown up in an affluent suburb of Southern California, gone to the finest private parochial schools, and had seldom touched real pain or loss.  Her parents were basically good people; her father a corporate attorney, and her mother an accountant turned community volunteer.  For her high school years, she had gone to a private, Catholic all girls high school on a mountain top, overlooking the green exclusive and private hillsides of her growing-up years.  Her grades were good, she had a nice group of friends, and  had been admitted at several highly ranked colleges.  She even attended mass.  Occasionally.  Everything was going along fine. 

But suddenly, in the final months of her senior year, a weekend came that would change her more than all the combined blessing of her charmed youth.  And it would happen in a place both expected, and, at the same time, entirely unanticipated.

Each year of high school, the girls would take a long weekend for a spiritual retreat, a time away from the busy rush of school, sports, and social life back home.  A two hour car ride away was a retreat center that offered a kind of separation from the rush of modern teenage life.  For many, if not most girls, this was not something particularly looked forward to; it was more of an obligation than an anticipation.  Some even counted the hours until it was over; bored by the lack of wireless connections, and the need for a "religious event".  Silence.  What could possibly happen of worth in a place that was known for its silence?

For many girls, these retreats were not given much thought.  A time away from the annoyances of family and studies, perhaps.  For others, this was merely a time to be with friends.  If the intent and setting was intended to be focused on faith, that was at best, tolerable.

And yet, in her senior year, even in the midst of this routine of routine religious practice, something happened to this girl that was surprising, transformational, and filled with joy.  Unexpected joy.  Over the course of several days, in the midst of a structure of reading, conversation with friends and leaders, from solitude and reflection, in the most unexpected ways for this girl, God became known, Jesus became present.  To even this high school senior girl with a "good life" and no apparent needs.

As the retreat weekend came to a close, this senior girl pondered the larger questions of her future away from home and off to college, and this new presence in her life.  What did this all mean?  She approached a retreat leader with these words:

"This is real.  All this conversation about God that I have heard, for all these years, that I never really thought much about.  If you take the time to think, and pray, and ask God.....it turns out, it's real!"

Real.  Over the past 32 years, since my senior year in college, this has been my experience as well.  Perhaps that is the reason my eyes filled with tears and my heart swelled when I heard this story.  And the same thing happens every time I hear a similar story of redemption and transformation.  The kind of business God is about on a daily basis.

This girl's story also made me think of the words of G. K. Chesterton in his book "Orthodoxy":

The vault above us is not deaf because the universe is an idiot; the silence is not the heartless silence of an endless and aimless world. Rather the silence around us is a small and pitiful stillness like the prompt stillness in a sick-room. We are perhaps permitted tragedy as a sort of merciful comedy: because the frantic energy of divine things would knock us down like a drunken farce. We can take our own tears more lightly than we could take the tremendous levities of the angels. So we sit perhaps in a starry chamber of silence, while the laughter of the heavens is too loud for us to hear.
 
Its real, my friends.  Real.

"The Message that points to Christ on the Cross seems like sheer silliness to those hellbent on destruction, but for those on the way of salvation it makes perfect sense. This is the way God works, and most powerfully as it turns out. It's written, I'll turn conventional wisdom on its head, I'll expose so-called experts as crackpots." - 1 Corinthians 1:17-18

Turkey, Ham, Family Dysfunction, and A Baby

He was despised, and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and as one from whom men hide their face he was despised; and we esteemed him not. ⁴ Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows; yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted. Isaiah 53

Lets just all agree that, more times than not, Christmas is not anything like the Hallmark channel or a Rockwell painting.

You know; those images of all the family huddled around the newly arrived nephew, or joyfully belting out Christmas carols; happy, laughing, and content in neat lives that radiate success and contentment.

But I cannot shake the thought that somehow something with Christmas is not right, and that it shouldn't be that way.  I am guessing that I am not the only person who thinks this way, not the only one who won't let go of expectations.  Each year, I find myself feeling perhaps like you; perpetually mildly disappointed as Christmas recedes in the rear view mirror.

A Turkey, Ham.....
As I look back at my life of 53 years, and all the Christmas Family dinners I have been through, I am beginning to finally be grown up enough to notice some general themes.  In the midst of all those rooms full of holiday revelers, I am guessing that you have seen some of these same people, or know of similar stories as well.  All of us have a story to tell, and all of us have lives that, in varying ways, reflect the suffering and joy of the human condition.


Every year, we seem to be involved in one or more large, noisy, extended family Christmas celebration.  These are invariably held with far too many people in a house slightly too small for the crowd.  And every year, there will be people there you have either know for years, or hardly know.  Both the ones you look forward to seeing, and the one that, well, you could do without.  We all come with our contributions to the festivities, a salad here, an apple pie there.  I come bringing my roasted turkey, still wrapped in beach blankets, keeping warm right out of the oven.  Those who are cooking challenged come bearing their Honey Baked Hams and salads from the designer grocery chain.  We all do our part.

Lets take a look around the room.


.....and Family Dysfunction
Bustling around in the center of the kitchen, the focal point of this holiday bacchanalia, is the not-so-middle-aged mom of the host family.  She has been the driving force of this Christmas gathering for more than a decade now, organizing, decorating, now hugging new comers upon entry, and making sure the punch bowl is full and the conversation is lively and cheerful.  But within her, life has not all been easy and cheerful.  There has been the death of parents, the worry over children, and her own health struggles that have carved lines into her smile.  Lines that speak of life, and loving, and worry.  She has a story to tell of her life that is rich, and full, with some parts not easy to hear and other parts enough to make you cry with laughter.  But that story will have to wait, dinner must be served.


Over there, by the salted nut bowl, there is the loud and crazy uncle, the one who is on his 4th marriage, (is it 4th or 5th, we never can seem to remember?) who has the omniscient knowledge of all things both political and moral.  He can speak for hours on any subject, but is nearly incapable of asking anyone how they are doing.  Whenever the Christmas carols begin, he is the one who starts to sing his own song, separate and apart and far louder that whatever the chosen carol is.  He has always been that way.  His whole life.  It drives you batty. 

Sitting by the onion dip bowl over there is the divorcee in the family, who is attempting to make herself look all put together, her hair is just so, and the outfit that is charmingly Christmasy.  In reality, her last two years have been full of enough emotion, pain, and distance from her family to the extent that it hurts to think about it.  Its not really entirely her fault.  She has mastered the art of the happy holiday smile and greeting, but you get the sense of a hollow ring to her greeting.  You wish you had something to say that could offer hope, but words fail you.  And so, you return the greeting with the best warm hug you can offer, and a few minutes of idle chatter about the kids and the weather.


Seated in the kitchen almost like a centerpiece in the midst of the bustle, looking almost regal, is the family matron of 83 years.  In one way or another, all of us here have been touched by her warmth, her engaging way of conversation, and the apparently real love she has for each person in the room.  She has a life story to tell that is remarkable; of teen years saving various household items for the effort of World War II, and of the meeting and marriage of her young soldier sweetheart, with whom she was married for 48 years, until his death several years ago.  She is quite alert for her age, and so full of grace, you want to sit next to her and listen for the rest of the night.  But, there are others in the room you need to catch up with.

And look, in the kitchen.  The gaggle of late teens and early twenties, the kids of several different families.  They have surrounded a bowl of guacamole dip and chips, which will be history in five minutes or less.  Our of the corner of your eye, you notice on the periphery of this group the moody college freshman who doesn't quite fit - who is not exactly socially graceful.  She tends to put the other kids at slight unease, never really feeling comfortable in this crowd.  These kids don't really understand where she comes from.  Neither do the adults.  Diagnosed with a mild learning disability and depression in her younger years, it feels to her like no one really understands her.  Although her parents have tried just about everything, she will not see a therapist, nor will she consider taking any medication that might alleviate her moodiness.  She doesn't like the dull ache she feels when on medication, perhaps she also revels in her shadowy personality.  Its easier to think everyone else is a butt hole, rather than than face up to your own pain.  We are all like that in some ways.


Unexpectedly, A Baby
Over there by the fireplace.  A sight that is in simple stark contrast to the carnival of family issues filling the rest of the house.  A dark-haired, younger mother is sitting quietly; the only person who seems entirely disconnected from all the noise, and bustle, all the preparation and masked pain.  She has a baby boy of less than six months, wrapped in a blanket adorned with little tiny snowmen.


This sight nearly stops you in your tracks, and you feel your breath softly exhaling as you take in this sight.  A baby.  Sleeping soundly.  You lean forward to watch that little face, softly twitching in slumber.  What thoughts are filling that new little mind?  Look how peaceful he is, not a care in the world.  No issues, no confusion about life, no dysfunction.  No having to act glued together and dressed up well.

Just how did we get here, at this Christmas party, carrying in the door our culinary contributions along with our pain, and sadness, our confusion and our fears?  And how, in the midst of all this noise and food, abundance and insecurity, can there be a little soul sleeping so soundly, oblivious to all the struggle, heartache, and frustrations the rest of us feel?

Our Christmas feelings may not end up with everyone happy, with each person in the room fondly reflecting on a life well lived thus far.  But at the deep, subtle, and shadowed center of all this Advent revelry, there is this; a baby.  We cannot avoid him.  For in a moment, more than two centuries ago, his screams of new life, brought forth in a crappy barn in the middle of nowhere, changed everything for all of us.  Forever.

Merry Belated Christmas.

From This Valley - Civil Wars

Oh, the desert dreams of a river
that will run down to the sea
like my heart longs for an ocean
to wash down over me.

Oh, won't you take me from this valley
to that mountain high above?
I will pray, pray, pray
until I see your smiling face.
I will pray, pray, pray
to the one I love.

Oh, the outcast dreams of acceptance,
just to find pure love's embrace
like an orphan longs for his mother.
May you hold me in your grace.

Won't you take me from this valley
to that mountain high above?
I will pray, pray, pray
until I see your smiling face.
I will pray, pray, pray
to the one I love.

Oh, the caged bird dreams of a strong wind
that will flow 'neath her wings.
Like a voice longs for a melody,
oh, Jesus carry me.

Won't you take me from this valley
to that mountain high above?
I will pray, pray, pray
until I see your smiling face.
I will pray, pray, pray
to the one I love.

I will pray, pray, pray
until I see your smiling face.
I will pray, pray, pray
to the one I love.

Norris Christmas Letter 2011

Across the miles, and memories, and dear friendships, from our home to yours, greetings of Advent Peace from the Norris Family!  As 2011 comes to a close, we can all say this sure has been an interesting year.  Read on, for a brief overview of what we have been up to in the past 12 months.

A Junior and a Senior 

As if life was not rushing headlong faster than any of us could imagine, Kelly is now a Junior at DePaul University in Chicago, and Heather is a Senior at Flintridge Sacred Heart Academy.  Kelly is looking forward to her last 18 months of college instruction (after spending the past three months with us here, as she finished some general ed classes in Southern California), and to being fully certified as an elementary level teacher upon graduation.  From there, only God knows what comes next, but the current plan is teaching someplace overseas for a few years.  She is quite used to world travel, having almost spent last Christmas in London, close to being snowed in on her way home from Livingstone, Zambia.  Heathrow in disarray, stranded in London, without luggage, and wearing only sweats and Tom’s shoes, she spent the next 72 hours improvising a new wardrobe, planning travel home, but also enjoying the snowy sights of London at Christmastide!   She made it home, via Houston to Los Angeles, on the 21st; it was the best Christmas present of the year for our family. Her smile on our doorstep will not quickly be forgotten.

Meanwhile, Heather’s life is never a dull moment, with present plans for 15 (yes, count them) separate college applications.  Thus far two acceptances, 13 more to go.  We are all so proud of Heather’s hard work, and Dad is just overjoyed he did not have to write an application check to USC.  Stayed tuned for more news.  The fall presented a surprise, as Heather’s grace and poise (characteristics having nothing at all to do with her Dad) propelled her to the final 30 young ladies to be considered for the Tournament of Roses Royal Court.  Alas, royalty was not to be, but Heather is quite happy with her life as a commoner, and another year on Varsity softball.  We love this girl.

Intramucosal Carcinoma of the Colon

Just a few words, but the gravity they contain can be life changing.  With those medical reference words, our lives together as a family took a summer detour we did not expect.  We don’t have a story of how our majestic and exemplary faith made this experience entirely free of questions or worry.  We learned deep lessons of love, commitment and friendship from so many during this time.  Surgery was required, and the result: no evidence of ongoing serious cancer.  In fact, what had previously looked likely cancerous was in fact, benign.  One more related surgery is scheduled for later this month; a purely preventative procedure.  Nancy is back to full and complete health, and we are all deeply and profoundly thankful.  Words simply will not do.  A word of prayer for one more short hospital visit for Nancy would be a gift to us.  The doctors want to keep a close eye on her in the years to come, but for now, the way ahead is clear.  Suffice it to say, we have a different understanding of the concept of the gift of each new day.  And in thanks, and as a celebration, we will be giving a financial gift this year in your names to the City of Hope (www.cityofhope.org), where Nancy received truly remarkable and compassionate care.  This was a summer we will never forget.

More Modest and Thankfully Dull Adventures

As for me, the balding guy who is the oldest around here, this has certainly been a year.  From emails to and from Zambia, sitting in the City of Hope hospital waiting room wondering about the future, to awaiting a Rose Court announcement; it never, ever, got boring.  This included a business trip to Alaska last year just before Christmas (spotted several moose on major streets in Anchorage, high temperature +15 degrees), a conference in Washington DC in November, with a day to enjoy the nation’s capital.  The year was filled with some wonderful musical interludes with good friends, the Watkins Family hour at the Coronet, Alison Kraus and Union Station under the stars at the Greek, The Civil Wars at the Wiltern, and fall evenings at Disney Hall with good friends.  A week at the beach at the close of summer, complete with rooftop sunset dinners full of the kids and their friends and much laughter.  Summer evening barbeque dinners on the back deck with friends old and new.  Bruin games at Pauley with friends new.  Life is rich and full, each day.  Thankfulness abounds.

And so, in this past year, as Kelly traveled to Livingstone, via London and Los Angeles, I wondered about what seems to be the only event that can unite the people of these distant and disparate cities. An event that occurred in obscurity more than two hundred centuries ago, in a dusty village in the middle of, well, nowhere.

At the point of a single birth, everything changed.  Time was carved in two.  For everyone, forever.  For countless thousands alone, with their thoughts on Los Angeles freeways, for the masses riding the London tube, and for the dusty streets of Livingstone.  And even for you too, standing in your kitchen reading this Christmas letter.  All these places, all us people, given a chance again. Given hope. Christmas hope.  Christmas love.  Across continents, and time zones, and time itself.  This is what Christmas is all about.

Merry Christmas from Steve, Nancy, Kelly, and Heather

Earth Time Lapse from ISS

Here and Heaven - Chris Thile and Aoife O'Donovan

This song is from the brand new album Goat Rodeo Sessions. I cannot believe how good this is.


With a hammer and nails and a fear of failure we are building a shed
Between here and heaven between the wait and the wedding
For as long as we both shall be dead to the world
Beyond the boys and the girls trying to keep us calm
We can practice our lines ‘till we’re deaf and blind to
Ourselves to each other and it’s
Fall not winter spring not summer cool not cold
And it’s warm not hot have we all forgotten that we’re getting old

With an arrow and bow and some seeds left to sow we are staking our claim
On ground so fertile we forget who we’ve hurt along the way
And reach out for a strange hand to hold
Someone strong but not bold enough to tear down the wall
Cause we ain’t lost enough to find the stars aren’t crossed
Why lie and why fall hard not soft into
Fall not winter spring not summer cool not cold
And it’s warm not hot have we all forgotten that we’re getting old

Of Princesses and Commoners

Sometimes it might be the better thing to not be among the chosen. 

You would think that at my age, I might have a better grip on this rather fundamental concept; that I might have the basic priorities of life sorted out.  But, due to a somewhat narrow minded perspective on life, and my decidedly clay-like feet, it seems I still have much learning to do.  Over in the past couple of weeks, I have again learned something I should have known very well all along.  And my daughter has taught me this lesson.

The (Seemingly) Important Thing - Becoming a Princess
In late September, Younger Daughter decided that she, like almost all of her Senior class at school, would try out for the Tournament of Roses Royal Court.  It seems almost all (only about 120) of the girls try out for what is known locally as "The Royal Court" (note the capitalization) mostly for the fun of it.  The Court consists of 7 young ladies from throughout the San Gabriel Valley, who are chosen to represent the Tournament of Roses each year, and to "officiate" over the Rose Parade on January 1st.  The field of applicants starts out with roughly 1,000, and is narrowed down over several weeks and interviews to a final field of 34, prior to the big announcement of the Royal Court, comprised of seven young ladies. 

As fate, seemingly random selection, and (biased Dad portion here) poise and warmth would have it, over the several weeks of Rose Court tryouts, Younger Daughter ended up in the final field of 34, who would stand up before the press and local dignitaries to hear the announcement of the Princesses of the Royal Court.  The Chosen Ones.  The girls in the final cut spent an afternoon at the famous Tournament House, being photographed and meeting with the press.  My daughter, meeting the press.  Has a strange sound to it.  In local social circles this is considered something elite, classy, and certainly the ideal compliment to a young lady.  Selection for the Royal Court means you have "made it" socially, that have been "chosen" by society; and that, in a way, you might even be, in some ways, royal.

And so, on a sunny Monday morning, parents, families, friends, and the press all gathered on the Tournament House lawn, to learn who would be selected for the Royal Court.  Long story short, the finalist who lives in our house got to return home later that same morning as a commoner.  She was happy for the journey, slightly disappointed, but fine with the life she leads.  I do love that girl.

The Common Thing
At about the same time all of this social fomenting was going on, something else happened in the life of Younger Daughter.  Something more mundane, not glamorous.  Just a school assembly on an otherwise unremarkable Thursday morning, for a cause that doesn't get much press at all.  Little limelight, and not something for social climbers.  A common thing.  To be more honest, this sort of assembly was about a subject many of us don't really do well with.  This assembly involves those in our society who are often not noticed, those who will be certainly never be chosen for any Royal Court having anything to do with the Rose Parade.

This was an assembly about helping families with children who have Down Syndrome.

Club21 is a learning, support, and resource center for those with Down Syndrome.  It was started by our dear friend, just four years ago, in the living room of her home.  Our family is blessed beyond measure to be a part of this effort.  For 14 years now, we have known Molly, our friends' daughter who has Down Syndrome.  As a result of this friendship, Younger Daughter has, on her own, taken this cause to heart.  For some time now, she has been planning to lead this assembly, as she felt her classmates, all 400+ of them at her school, needed to learn about families and kids with Downs, and how they might help.

And so, on that Thursday morning, the gymnasium at Flintridge Sacred Heart Academy filled with noisy high school girls, and with families of children with Down Syndrome.  An unlikely combination, two people groups who otherwise would not meet.  Girls who have everything, and special needs kids who need, well, a lot.  And they will continue to need a lot.  For a lifetime.  These are not kids you can afford to believe in for a just month, or a year.

One by one, families of Down Syndrome children got up and shared their stories.  Stories of disappointment, confusion, frustration, challenges, sadness, and joy.  Lots of joy.  After just a few moments, that raucous gym quieted to the point where you could hear a pin drop.  The assembly went on for almost an hour.  I have never seen more focused attention from so many high school girls in my life.  The girls were encouraged to take part in a charity walk that will benefit the families and kids of Club21.  This will not make the social pages of the paper, but it will make a difference in terms none of us have the ability to measure.

And so, in the end, although Younger Daughter will always be a Princess in my eyes, its the commoner in her that I really love.  And, often its better to be among the unchosen.