Up and Down

I have a new obsession: tracking my book sales via Amazon rank. This is as compelling for me as hitting “send/receive” on my email. Amazon updates this every hour and the fluctuations are wild. “God’s Shoes” started out at around 750,000 dropped to 500,000 overnight a couple of days ago. After sending out a few emails about the book to friends and family it dipped all the way down to 54,000 before rising this morning back to 124,000. Amazing.

I have no idea what this means in the grand scheme of things beyond the fact that most books out there only seem to sell a handful of copies. It’s more fun than anything else. Of course it gets the competitive juices flowing. Gene Robinson’s book “In the Eye of the Storm” was at 7,000 the last time I checked. I’m coming to get you, bishop!

Granted this type of obsession also brings out the worst in us. Throughout our lives we constantly worry about our “numbers” — GPA, class rank, tax bracket. Numbers become equated with self-worth. But the only true measure of worth is ultimately based upon relationship with God. Not numbers, not rank but our status as a children of God.

Excuse me now while I check to see how many people visited my blog today…

Read On

Something clicked. Zack’s gone from “Reading’s boring” to reading a book a day literally overnight. And it all started with “Stink” (the book, not the odor).

Ben’s loved to read ever since he could, well, read. And you feel like a great parent when you have to pry a book out of your child’s hand and turn off the light at night. “Step away from the book!” Given his druthers he’d read until midnight. Zack was different. While he loved to be read to — generally the same book for months on end until we were all sick of it — he had no desire to read on his own. He could read himself, he just preferred for me and Bryna to read to him.

Maybe it was because reading was his brother’s “thing” or perhaps he wanted to be completely confident in his reading before he immersed himself in anything beyond “Hop on Pop.” Whatever the reason, he’s now a reading maniac. Thanks to the initial “Stink” book that first caught his fancy — we’d trotted out all sorts of books to pique his interest all of which were met with absolute apathy. 

Now he’s reading the Mary Pope Osbourne “Magic Tree House” series. He’s on book number eight of about 40 in the continuing saga of Jack and Annie. Thanks to our friend Melanie we have them all — she was her publicist when she worked at Random House. The boys have even met Mary which makes them mini-celebrities among the early reader set.

I’m just glad the boys seem to have inherited our love of reading — it doesn’t hurt that they were so atrocious last week that we took away Wii for the foreseeable future.

What Size Are God’s Shoes?

The author copies of my book arrived from the publisher yesterday. Since I’m not a woman, I’m not allowed to compare the whole process to giving birth. I tried that once when I completed a long term paper and all it got me was a dirty look from Bryna.

But it’s awfully nice to hold, okay cradle, the finished product in my arms. No word on the book’s Apgar scores.

Part of me had trouble believing it would ever be printed — I had visions that some newly-hired editor-in-chief would suddenly appear and put the kibosh on the whole project: “What were you thinking publishing this drivel?!”

But it made it into production and now there are a few thousand copies waiting to be adopted into good homes. Please don’t leave “God’s Shoes” orphaned! I’d be terribly embarrassed if my mother was the only one to buy a copy. At least I didn’t have to ask her to write the blurb on the back — Barbara Crafton graciously did the honors.

So, here’s how to get 25% off the steep cover price of $12. This offer is only valid for the loyal readers of my blog (and anyone else you can think of). Go to www.churchpublishing.org use code WHAT08EM at check-out for this special discount. This offer expires on September 15th. After which time you can look for my infomercial on late night cable TV.

On the Air

Well, I survived my first “live radio” interview this morning. I was a guest on the Paul Clayton Morning Show on KFUO in St. Louis. It was short and sweet — only about five minutes. Just long enough for me to make a fool out of myself.

Actually it was fine and a good learning experience. I called into the station, got to listen to Paul go to commercial, and then he greeted me briefly before we went “live.” I was so shocked that he pronounced my name correctly it almost rendered me speechless. Almost.

I’m not sure if this will sell any books but you never know. I’m happy to do whatever the folks at Morehouse line up since I believe in what I’ve written and think it can be a helpful resource for parents. And, if I do say so myself, I have the perfect face for radio.

Immortal, Invisible

We went to mecca this past weekend. No, not Graceland but Cooperstown. We took the boys on a pilgrimmage to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame and stayed with some friends who actually live up there. I always thought Cooperstown was inhabited only by the ghosts of ballplayers past — like Shoeless Joe Jackson and Honus Wagner. But evidently you can live there even if you’re still among the living.

Bryna commented that she’d never seen the three of us (me, Ben, and Zack) so equally enraptured as we wondered around the HOF. This was actually my third visit to Cooperstown but I hadn’t been there since I was in high school. It’s still as magical a place as ever, full of “holy” relics like Jackie Robinson’s spikes and the bat used by Babe Ruth to hit his famed “called shot” World Series homer.

I may (sort of) joke about making a holy pilgrimage to Cooperstown but it’s amazing how much of our language surrounding sports revolves around religious imagery. Baseball greats are “enshrined” in the Hall of Fame and we refer to our baseball heroes as “immortals.” Just a few idolatrous touches but nothing really harmful as long as it’s all kept in perspective. If we save our true worship for God we’ll stay in pretty good spiritual shape. I have a special place in my heart for both Jesus Christ and Cal Ripken. The one was the messiah, the other a darn good baseball player. So slightly different job descriptions.

But you can mix the two. The day after spending the morning at the Hall of Fame I snuck in for an 8 am service at Christ Church, Cooperstown. Many writers have waxed poetic about the “liturgy” of baseball (thank you George Will). I’ll stick to the liturgy of the church but will always reserve the right to occasionally worship at the ballpark.

For Immediate Release

Want an inside look into the PR machine behind “God’s Shoes?” Well, if you keep reading you’ll get to take a peak. Just don’t tell anyone I let you in on this. I might get my kneecaps broken by some publishing thug.

Below is the Press Release that was sent out this week. Feel free to believe the hype. Or not.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

 

 

PRIEST/AUTHOR LAMENTS YANKEE-FAN KIDS HAVE “GONE TO THE DARK SIDE”  

 “One of my great fears in moving to New York was that my boys would become Yankee fans. Being from Baltimore and being a huge Orioles fan, this was simply unacceptable. When they were really young I had them brainwashed to say, “Go Orioles, boo Yankees.” But then they turned to the dark side. Maybe it was inevitable since all their friends love the Yankees and, well, the Yankees always win. But on this score, I still think I’ve failed as a parent.” 

Author and Episcopal priest Tim Schenck takes this humorous example from his life and turns it into a life lesson that God does indeed exist in the midst of domestic chaos if we just keep our eyes open and our sense of humor intact.  This essay (“The Power of the Dark Side”) is one of 40 in Schenck’s soon-to-be-released book, What Size are God’s Shoes? Kids, Chaos and the Spiritual Life (Morehouse Publishing, August 1, 2008). 

The title of the book came from a conversation with his two boys, age 7 and 9, who started asking questions like “Where does God live?” and “How big is God?”  Schenck would say uninspiring things like God is everywhere and God lives in your heart. But the incessant kid questions kept coming and Schenck thought of one: “It’s a logical question; if God is so all-encompassing why wouldn’t you wonder about the size of God’s shoes?

Schenck says he wrote this book for anyone who’s trying to find God while immersed in the zaniness of raising kids. “Parents of young children will especially relate to the stories I share. The subtitle really says it all: Kids, Chaos, and the Spiritual Life. If this resonates, the book is right up your alley.”

Schenck’s introduction speaks further to the theme of the book: “It’s hard to have a “God complex” when your kids expect you to play “garbage truck” every night. They’ve since outgrown this game of me lying on the floor as the boys stuffed trucks, action figures, and plastic dinosaurs into my shirt.  When the garbage truck got full to the point of overflowing, I would go to the town dump by standing up. This would then be repeated ad nauseam. On any given day, I might find myself absolving sins in the name of the church one moment and serving the cause of waste management the next.  So much for clerical elitism.”

ABOUT THE BOOK:

Electronic galleys available now. Excerpts, review copies, and interviews available on request from Morehouse Publishing, c/o Bill Falvey, wfalvey@cpg.org,  917-373-8510.

What Size Are God’s Shoes?  Kids, Chaos, and the Spiritual Life

Morehouse Publishing  *  Release August 1, 2008  *  $12.00

5.5” x 8.5”  *  Paperback  *  144 pages  *  ISBN: 978-0-8192-2312-8 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: 

Tim Schenck has published articles in a variety of religious and secular publications including Family Circle, Spirituality & Health, The New York Times, Christian Parenting Today, The Living Church, Episcopal Life, and The Baltimore Sun. He is the rector of All Saints’ Episcopal Church in Briarcliff Manor, New York. When not tending to his congregation or spending time with his family, Schenck, an avid amateur triathlete, can usually be found swimming, running, or biking. He lives in the All Saints’ rectory with his wife, their two sons, and their dog.

 

 

Lend Me a Hand

I’m exhausted. Bryna took a continuing education class last week — 8 am to 5pm — and she’s taking another one next week. Although she already has her masters in school counseling, she needs four more courses to complete her permanent certification.

It’s not so much that the camp drop offs and pick ups are so bad. Oh, who am I kidding? They’re horid. Lines of stay-at-home moms in luxury SUV’s, an oddly configured drop-off zone, and an inhumanely short stoplight to get out of the swirling vortex, all combine for a miserable start to the day. At least on those days that I face camp drop off before coffee. What was I thinking? And what ever happened to car pools?

I wouldn’t be so tired if all of this didn’t coincide with Bryna’s newly diagnosed case of tendinitis in her right wrist. The doctor said it’s a result of overuse (though how you’re supposed to use your right hand less is a mystery). Actually it may be linked to lifting weights at the gym but in the meantime it’s wrapped in an ace bandage and she’s been icing it. So I’ve had to do a lot of stuff around the house that Bryna would normally do. Like cut up watermelon. She literally had to walk me through it step by step. As a friend said to me, “You can write a book and run marathons but you can’t cut watermelon? That’s pathetic!” Fine. But it’s amazing how much Bryna does around the house that gets taken for granted.

I know what you’re thinking: “Poor baby.” Admit it. But when momma’s not functioning at 100%, the whole family unit suffers. Especially when I cut Zack’s sandwich into squares instead of triangles.

Going Long

There are officially 32 regular season games left to play at what’s now being called “the old” Yankee Stadium. A new one, with a lot more luxury boxes, is being built in preparation for next season. I took the boys and Ben’s best friend Cole to number 33 yesterday afternoon. It’s tough sitting with three young and enthusiastic Yankee fans when you loathe the team. Especially when the Yanks win as they did yesterday in 10 innings.

Of course it went into extra innings. I’ve found that whenever I take the kids to a game it inevitably goes into extra innings or overtime. Usually this only happens for night games — and we end up staying up until midnight and then paying dearly with cranky kids the next day. This is especially aggravating when it’s a meaningless game between the Knicks and the Trailblazers but I’m glad my theory holds even for day games.

And it’s not like they close the concession stands during the extra innings. While they stop serving beer after the 7th, the cotton candy guy keeps circling until the bitter end. Not that I had anything stronger than a Coke at the game. Call me old fashioned but I just can’t bring myself to pay $8.50 for a Coors Light. I could buy a whole case for that price!

As an Orioles fan, I won’t be sad to see “The House that Ruth Built” get demolished. But as a dad I’m bummed out that the place I took Ben to his first game will meet the wrecking ball. Just as I was devastated when the old Memorial Stadium, the place I saw my first game with mydad, was torn down. Of course I got myself a stadium seat when they were selling them off. But that’s not happening with Yankee Stadium. Besides the fact that the prices will be exhorbitant, I simply refuse to have any Yankee memorabilia in the house. Besides my children.

A Fond Farewell

Well, our goldfish Clem gave up the ghost on the Fourth of July. This bionic 29 cent goldfish lived an astounding 5 1/2 years. Ben wants me to call the Guinness Book of World Records — in carnival goldfish years Clem was about 950. I’d rather just drink a pint of Guinness and raise a toast to Clem.

But considering the boys are 7 and 9 we had Clem for a good portion of their lives. So a sad day around here. No tears were shed but we did all gather this morning to bury Clem in the backyard. The boys picked out a nice spot on the hill overlooking the house — so Clem could watch over us — and I conducted the burial service.

Bryna and I discovered Clem’s demise after returning from an evening in the city to watch fireworks from a friend’s rooftop deck. Oddly enough Delilah was curled up in front of the fish tank — a place she never goes. It’s said that pets have a sixth sense when it comes to death and I’ve seen enough examples of this not to doubt it. But still.

In the meantime we have an empty fish tank sitting in the family room. The boys wanted to go out immediately and get another one. But I think we’ll take a break from fish for awhile. If for no other reason than to honor Clem’s time as a member of our family.

Anybody need a nearly new can of fish food?