The God of the City, and Baseball

My dad and Chuck, his buddy from work, bought tickets to the first game played by the Pittsburgh Pirates at Three Rivers Stadium, held on July 16, 1970. Back in the days before computers, email, and smartphones--when dinosaurs still roamed the earth--my dad ordered the tickets, paying by paper check through the mail. I remember Dad coming home from work day after day, looking for his tickets in the mail. Disappointed, he'd have to phone Chuck to tell him they’d not yet been delivered. The tickets finally arrived in the afternoon mail on game day, too late for Dad and his friend to make the drive to Pittsburgh and attend the historic home opener.

For years, that unused ticket remained clipped to an old calendar which hung in the basement stairwell of my childhood home.

When I learned, several years ago, that Three Rivers Stadium was going to be demolished in order to build a new ballpark for the Pirates, I felt as though I was losing an old friend. I’d sat in the stands of that stadium for a number of games, sometimes with the youth group from my church; oftentimes with my dad and other family members.

I remember my mom bringing a picnic basket to the stadium, filled with Faygo Pop and  with cold Shake-and-Bake chicken she’d made the night before and wrapped in foil. Before coolers and backpacks were considered security threats at major sporting events, fans used to be allowed to bring outside food to games. Shake-and-Bake chicken never tasted so good as it did that summer afternoon while waiting for Willie Stargell and company to win one for the hometown crowd.

As a child, Three Rivers Stadium represented Dad and baseball; summer, foil-wrapped chicken, and everything good. I had no idea the ballpark was considered an ugly stadium, one plopped down onto a piece of land in Pittsburgh with little thought given to urban planning or how its location would affect those in the surrounding neighborhoods.

During the course of this year's Jubilee Conference I had the privilege of hearing David Greusel, the architect who designed PNC Park, describe the process he used in building a new home for the Pirate franchise. He spoke of walking the streets of Pittsburgh, taking in the city’s architecture, and getting a feel for the neighborhoods. He said he studied old photographs of Forbes Field, the ballpark which pre-dated Three Rivers Stadium, and incorporated design elements which reflected the history of the ball club. Greusel stood at ground level at the site of the new stadium, imagining the view fans would have of the city while watching the Pirates.

ESPNcolumnist Jim Caple described the stadium Greusel built in this way:

Frank Lloyd Wright designed his masterpiece, Falling Water, as a retreat-in-the-woods a couple hours outside Pittsburgh for department store owner Edgar Kauffman. Cantilevered over a waterfall, the home is both completely modern and thoroughly romantic, interacting harmoniously with the landscape by merging modern building materials with the natural elements surrounding it.

Falling Water is regarded as the perfect blend of art, architecture and environment.

Or at least it was until PNC Park opened.

Greusel described his work on PNC Park as a gift of love, reflecting his love for God and for the city of Pittsburgh. Having taken a wrong exit on my way to the conference, I found myself driving past PNC Park and through the neighborhood which surrounds it. The streets are clean and walkable; businesses surrounding the stadium are open and appear to be thriving. On game days, I'm told, those streets through which I drove take on the atmosphere of a community street fair.

I wish my dad had lived to see it.

There is no large banner draped from PNC Park which quotes the gospel message of John 3:16. Patrons of Pirate ballgames may or may not ever experience a life-transforming encounter with Jesus. But David Greusel designed a stadium which bears witness to a living God who cares about things like art, architecture, economics, and beauty. Greusel’s work reflects his faith in a God who is concerned about the welfare of the city, One who extends common grace to all.

The good folks of the CCO, sponsors of the Jubilee Conference, produced this video of David Greusel talking about how he connects his faith with his calling as an architect:

David Greusel - The Lie & The Love from Jubilee on Vimeo.

Linking my baseball playdate with Laura @ The Wellspring:

And with the Write it, Girl community:

Many Convincing Proofs

The good doctor Luke, personal friend of the Apostle Paul, wrote a couple of books to his friend Theophilus. In those accounts, Luke’s aim was to present many convincing proofs that Jesus had risen from the dead. And, though the canon of Scripture is closed, during Sunday morning’s session of The Jubilee Conference, speaker Bob Goff encouraged participants to continue to look for convincing proofs that Jesus is alive.

Goff’s work is one of those convincing proofs.

Throughout the course of the conference, speakers explored the themes of creation, the fall, redemption, and restoration. Goff, an attorney, is President and founder of Restore International, an organization committed to rescuing and rehabilitating victims of forced prostitution and slave labor, and of bringing the perpetrators of those crimes to justice.

Taking the stage while carrying a bunch of balloons, Goff told the crowd he had no idea how helium kept the balloons in the air. Likewise, he said, he had no idea how forgiveness worked. But, he said, forgiveness is real and it’s powerful.

Because of Christ, said Goff, we get to introduce people to forgiveness.

Restore International pursues justice for the needy in some of the poorest countries of the world. Goff worked with the judiciary in Uganda to resolve a backlog of court cases which had kept nearly a hundred young men imprisoned. At the end of one day, almost all were restored to their families.

Because of the nature of the crimes of which they had been accused, they faced the likelihood that they would be rejected by their families upon their release. Restore worked with the families, emphasizing their need to forgive their children and welcome them home. And, the young men were encouraged to forgive their captors.

During the course of his work in Uganda, Goff learned of an eight-year old boy who was mutilated and left to die, having had his genitalia cut off by a local witch doctor that trafficked in body parts. Restore International was able to prosecute the case against the perpetrator, a man who will spend the rest of his life in an overcrowded, windowless prison.

Goff, convinced that Christ’s message of forgiveness extends to all, visited the witch doctor in prison, shared the gospel, and prayed with him.

The young boy accompanied Goff to the United States where he was invited to visit theWhite House. And, through a generous donation and the skill of a surgeon at Cedars Sinai Hospital, this young boy has now undergone restorative surgery.

Throughout the course of the conference, I heard many stories, like this one, which bear witness to the reality of forgiveness and restoration through the living Christ. Have you seen them, the many convincing proofs that Jesus is alive? Where?

Linking with Laura @ The Wellspring, with whom I got to play during Jubilee:

And with Michelle @ Graceful:


And Jen and the sisterhood @ Finding Heaven:

A Playdate in Which I Don't Ski

Snow falls quietly outside my window at the ski resort where I sit with laptop, books, water bottle, paper, and pen. I’m not a skier so it makes no sense for me to take up space in a ski resort, except I need a place to stay while the beloved Swede has gone off to play.

He’s spending the day at a men’s only sporting clays shoot. The event is a fundraiser in support of campus ministry, but nobody’s fooling anybody. It’s an excuse for guys to spend the day outside with other guys, away from the office and blowing stuff up. It is playtime, and a chance for my man to spend time with the man who stood next to him on the day we said, “I do” to one another.

I’m playing, too, in my own way. Jim Brickman plays quietly in the background, through the magic of the internet and Pandora. I’ve got time to sleep and pray; to read and write. I just scribbled pages and pages of nonsense about coffee and Jell-O. Maybe I’ll turn my scribblings into something someday. Maybe I won’t. But I had fun remembering.

I’ve packed St. Andre cheese and some crackers.  I’ll nibble on those later while waiting for my daughter to come join me for dinner this evening. Tonight will be our first night alone together since the day she walked down the aisle and said, “I do.”

Today is a quiet playdate, the restful kind. I am reminded of days when, as I child, I stayed home from school because of a sore throat or the flu. I played quietly in my bed or on the sofa. I rested and slept and allowed myself to heal.

I sit watching the snow fall, tipping the edges of evergreens with frosty white. And I wonder why anybody would rather be out there skiing.

Linking with Laura @ The Wellspring, embracing the God-joy:

And with L.L. Barkat @ Seedlings in Stone for On, In, and Around Monday:

New Songs of Celebration

My son informs me that there is such a thing as good rap music. I like to think I’m pretty hip, current, and aware for a gray-haired, middle-aged mom. I have an mp3 player. I took my son to a concert by an aging former lead singer of a classic rock band. But I’ve never been a huge fan or rap, hip-hop, or any of the other music played at deafening levels in clothing stores at the local mall. I assume most of that music is designed to be played at those levels to camouflage lyrics which glorify violence, substance abuse and the degradation of women.

Last fall, when I visited my son at his college, he asked if he could play some music for me. He’d attended a concert on campus and bought some CDs recorded by a local indie band. He said that the band members had shared interesting personal stories, telling about the ways events in their lives had shaped them and their art. “You know, all that stuff you’re interested in and always talking about,” he said.

He popped a CD into the player of the rental car as I was trying to navigate my way through the city of Chicago without getting killed. I rolled my eyes as soon as the music began. It was rap. Or hip-hop; I’m not sure. I can’t really tell the difference.

“Just listen,” he said. And, because love is patient and love is kind, I resisted my impulse to drive the rental car into a concrete barrier and listened. This is what I heard,

I’m hard pressed on every side but I’m not crushed/
Perplexed yet I’m not in despair/
Purpose burning I can feel it when my heart pumps/
All I know it’s more than worth the wear and tear/
Oh giving in is simple/
“Give it in!” Oh giving in is simple/
“Give it in!” Oh giving in is simple/
“Give it in!” though giving in is simple, I am not that simple.*

The Word of God. Which is living and active. Life-transforming. And set to a rhythm and rhyme scheme which is foreign to my ears, but appeals to my musician son who drums on every surface that doesn’t move out of his way.

I’m not a musician. I’m not a poet. I’ll probably never be able to discern any qualitative difference between good and bad rap music. Old-timey gospel hymns speak my love language: Isaac Watts, the Wesley brothers; a little Augustus Toplady now and then.

Last night, in his truck on the way home from church, my husband was playing some music by The Zac Brown Band. Zac Brown, a country singer, strikes me as a good old boy; not exactly a poster child for the church-going crowd. He sings songs about living chicken-fried and sticking his toes in the sand. Just before my husband turned off the truck, I caught this lyric from Zac Brown’s song, Who Knows:

Sing until the darkness it is lifted.

The world is a dark place, in desperate need of songs that will drive away the darkness. I may never become a fan of my son’s kind of music. But I’m becoming more open to its value.

During his semester break from college, my son got together with some of his musician buddies. This is some of what they did:

Sing to the LORD a new song,
   his praise from the end of the earth,
you who go down to the sea, and all that fills it,
   the coastlands and their inhabitants.
   Let the desert and its cities lift up their voice,
   the villages that Kedar inhabits;
let the habitants of Sela sing for joy,
   let them shout from the top of the mountains.

Isaiah 42:10, 11 ESV

And yes, college students and indie rap and hip-hop bands in Chicago; by all means sing a new song. Sing until the darkness it is lifted.

(*Simple, lyrics by Tony Pozdol and Freddy Bustamante of St. Bagu)

Linking my musical playdate with Laura at The Wellspring:

 And with Jen and the sisterhood:

A Taste of Home

Every so often, during family dinners of my childhood, my dad would wad up his used tea bag and throw it at one of my siblings or me. We were usually laughing and goofing off and, when Dad decided we’d reached our full measure of silliness, he’d assert his authority by flinging a soggy teabag toward one of us. Looking back, I think the silliness encoded into our genetics may have come from my dad’s side of the family.

So many things happen around a dinner table, more than mere consumption for the sake of meeting biological needs. Parents teach and correct behaviors. Laughter and conversation flow. People tell and re-tell stories, sometimes accompanied by agonizing groans or an embarrassed eye roll. Sometimes angry words erupt or a chair sits vacant.

The Passover was a family meal instituted by God on the night He delivered His people from slavery in Egypt. He required them to celebrate this meal every year by eating particular foods, celebrating certain traditions, and telling and re-telling the story of their deliverance. While preaching about the Passover, my pastor pointed out that when God wanted His people to memorialize their deliverance He didn’t lecture them or preach them a sermon.

He invited them to a meal.

He invited them to a meal where someone might have placed his elbows on the table; where someone might have overcooked the lamb or knocked over a glass of wine. He invited them to a table to laugh and tell stories and enjoy each another’s company.  Perhaps Jewish fathers became so exasperated with their children that they flung unleavened bread in their general direction. Flawed people who sinned against God and one another were called to gather around a meal to be reminded of their desperate need for deliverance.

Jesus celebrated the Passover with his disciples, telling them that He had eagerly longed to eat with them on the night He was betrayed. He told them He wouldn’t celebrate with them again until the Passover was fulfilled in the kingdom of God. In heaven, Christ waits to eat with them again. He waits for all His disciples to join Him; eagerly longing to sit at the table, laughing and enjoying the company of those He loves.

My son and many of his friends have been home from college for the past few weeks, celebrating Christmas vacation. Many of them compared notes about the food served in dining halls on their campuses. All seemed to be grateful for the opportunity to enjoy family meals, familiar tastes of home-cooking prepared with love.

So many things are happening when God’s people gather around the Lord’s Table, something He told His people to do until He returns. We remember our stories. We sit next to flawed people who sin against God and one another. We are reminded of the great cost of our deliverance. We eat familiar food prepared in love.

And the Lord’s Supper is a meal which tastes like home.

Many gathered around tables during the holidays, preparing and eating traditional foods. Every good thing which happened at those tables points to a better meal, one where no one burns the turkey, no one speaks in anger, and no chairs sit empty. There Christ waits; eagerly longing to share a meal with those He loves.

My dad will be at that meal. I wonder if there will be teabags in heaven.

Linking with Michelle @ Graceful:

And with Laura @ The Wellspring:

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year To Be Lucy and Ethel

Mama always says, "Don't wear your bedroom slippers to the shopping mall."

But Mama's wisdom doesn't necessarily apply during Christmas. Especially when you've got some brand new jingling elf slippers:

And you're on your way with Ethel to get your annual Santa picture taken:

But I'm getting ahead of myself. First we had to have lunch and exchange gifts. And nothing quite sets the tone for a Christmas gift exchange like a retro diner which serves 26-inch hotdogs:

Over the years, Ethel and I have adorned ourselves for our photos with some fairly ridiculous accessories: reindeer antlers, elf hats, feather boas. This year, after reading an ebook about practicing Advent, we decided to deck ourselves in purple. Yep, all day I was a long, cool, walking Advent pillar, and so was Ethel (although she's not nearly as long). All day we engaged in our own little secret Advent conspiracy.

Because writer Anne Lamott said, "You don't always have to chop with the sword of truth. Sometimes you can point with it, too."

So we walked around all day bearing witness to the Source of ridiculous joy. And the amazing thing we discovered was: Once you know what you're looking for, you start seeing evidence of it everywhere:

Ethel gave me the most fantastically amazing handmade gift of love:

She saw a picture in a catalog of a sweater beaded in peacock feather patterns and thought to herself, "I can do that." And so she did. God has gifted my friend with amazing creativity and mad art skills.

I gave Ethel ice cube molds in the shape of false teeth. Because I'm classy like that. And because I know that someday, when we live next door to one another in a nursing home, she's the kind who's always going to be stealing my teeth. And I look forward to growing old and ever more ridiculous with my friend.

Then she opened the elf slippers. And we were on our way:

We like to believe we add a little joy to Santa's life, making the season more merry and bright for everyone:

For it is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a child himself.

Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

Happy Advent and Merry Christmas from Lucy and Ethel!

Linking our Advent playdate with Laura @ The Wellspring:

And, even though this may not have been what she had in mind, with Charity @ Wide Open Spaces who is hosting an Advent community writing project for The High Calling:

Chesterton, Lucy, Ethel, and Santa: The story of how our tradition began

Discovering Advent: E-book by Mark D. Roberts

Broad Brook Anthology: A Vermont Playdate

Lately, it seems as though checking my email feels an awful lot like walking down the driveway to my mailbox. The real mail, the stuff worth making the walk or logging into my account, lies buried beneath ads for Black Friday and Cyber Monday. I glance through my mail, both virtual and real, toss most of it into the recycle bin, and return to my writing or to household chores. Last week, however, in the course of scanning and dismissing most of my messages I nearly missed an important invitation from an old friend.

The message contained an announcement about an upcoming performance on which my friend had collaborated. Just over the border in southern Vermont, the town of Guilford was celebrating its 250^th anniversary. A local resident, a poet named Verandah Porche, had spent several years interviewing elderly town residents, mining their recollections of a lifetime shaped within the farmlands of the Connecticut River Valley. And until I typed that last sentence, I didn’t recognize the whimsy in the name of the woman who authored this project.

My initial response to the invitation was to dismiss the play as a small-time production, most likely performed with poor acting and amateur props. Then I stopped to think about my friend, a gifted photographer, and the quality of work I’ve seen him produce. I begin to consider the possibility that this little local production might actually be very good, perhaps even better than every Christmas pageant I’d ever attended throughout my life. Besides, I hold a special place in my heartfor old-timey family history, even if I don’t have a personal connection to those involved in the stories. The beloved Swede and I found we had some free time on our schedules, so we decided to make the drive to Vermont.

I am so glad we did. The production, titled Broad Brook Anthology, combined the recollections of local townspeople into a play for voices. The work was named for the stream which flows through the community connecting many of the family farms which provide context for the stories. Performed in the town’s historic meeting house, a company of six actors local to Vermont and New York gave voice to the reflections of the town’s elders. My friend had photographed the residents in their homes as they had told their stories; and he projected their portraits, interspersed with historical photos, throughout the course of the performance. Another resident composed original music for the play which a trio of local musicians performed.

We heard stories, stories about working hard on the family farm and of getting up early to deliver bottles of milk. The words: We were poor but we were satisfied, echoed throughout a number of the narratives. We laughed as we heard tales of mischief wrought in the days of one room schoolhouses, of children who fled to the hills at the sound of the recess bell never to return for afternoon studies. We saw photos of a devastating flood, one which shaped the earliest memory of a resident who watched as the current swept away his young cousin. We eavesdropped on courtship stories, many of which began at square dances at the local Grange hall. We viewed wedding photos of brides dressed in vintage gowns standing next to handsome men in uniform, some of whom had just returned from the war.

The final line of the performance came from a man who is now widowed but remains in the small community where he lived, loved, and raised a family. He said he finds peace in his solitude, surrounded by familiar landscape. He wanders the woods and hills of a place which shaped his life and considers the awe of existence itself.

This effort by local townspeople in celebration of their shared history accomplished so many good things. The play, and the years of work which went into creating it, honored the stories of ordinary men and women who had lived, loved, played, and worked in community with one another. Many of their stories have now been preserved in both image and word. A local poet, photographer, and composer; several actors, musicians, and audio and video technicians exercised their crafts, combining their efforts to produce something which was beautiful and good.

After the performance we returned to the home of our friends, nibbled on slices of fresh apple and chunks of Vermont cheddar, and told stories of our own. We caught up on one another’s histories, and shared our narratives of living, loving, playing, and work. At the end of the evening we said goodbye and turned down their dirt road, heading away from their place and toward our own.

And this morning I can’t stop thinking about the awe of existence itself.

Photography for Broad Brook Anthology provided by Jeff Woodward.

Linking with L.L. Barkat for On, In, and Around Monday:

And with Laura Boggess at the Wellspring:

Appointment With God

Come on in. Have a seat, he says. You’re late.

“I know,” I mumble, eyes bowed.

This isn’t the first time. And I notice you’ve missed several appointments lately. You do realize the importance of these meetings? I held high hopes for you; now I’m not so sure. I may have to withhold some of the benefits I intended to offer you.

“I’m sorry. I overslept. I’ll try harder. I promise.”

He says nothing. He’s heard my empty promises before.

Well let’s get to it then. Did you finish that reading I left for you?

“I meant to. Life got kind of hectic.”

Hmm. I assume you brought your list of action items?

“They’re here; though I’m sure I left out a few things.”

I lay my list before him, jabbering on about the merit of each item. I offer my take on each, suggesting possible next steps he might consider. I wait for a response.

Not bad, he says. Here’s what I can offer you. I can agree to numbers 2, 5, 7, and 8. I’ll give you healing from the head cold, allow you to find the pay stub you lost, grant you the job interview you wanted, and smooth things over with the woman from your church. But 3, 4, 6, and 8 don’t quite line up with my priorities. They don’t fit within my overarching vision. I’m not saying they’re completely off the table, but you need to rethink those requests and see if you can get them to line up more closely with my will. But don’t expect me to make this easy for you. Don’t expect me to outline my will in crayon for you, making it obvious. You’re going to have to do some digging and see if you can figure it out for yourself.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I say, tucking my list back inside my notebook; casting a glance at my watch.

You don’t really enjoy these meetings, do you?

“It’s not that. I just know I haven’t accomplished much lately. I’m sure you’re disappointed.  I’m afraid you’re going to be upset with me.”

Well that’s something you’ll have to work on then. I see our time’s up. Good meeting. See you tomorrow, same time. Don’t be late.

We shake hands.

For years I wrestled to commit to a consistent quiet time with God. I lived as though time with him followed an exchange similar to the one above. Lately I’ve been rethinking the whole idea of quiet time. I read through scripture and begin to question whether or not it’s actually a thing, one God requires of me.

This past year I read a book written by a woman who met God in the Yard. She wrote of delighting in his presence. She got me thinking that's what I want to do. I want to enjoy God. Maybe even glorify him.

Working on some material for a women's Sunday School class starting this week at my church. This is a piece of it.

Linking with L.L. Barkat who got me thinking:

Laura Boggess in her playdates series:

And with Michelle in her Hear It, Use It community: