Frog Blog

As of yesterday the boys have a pet frog. Or toad. No one really knows for sure – it’s like trying to tell the difference between a pet crocodile and pet alligator. Fortunately we don’t have one of those. But only because it’s frogs not alligators that lurk in our backyard.

It’s actually a pretty substantial frog. I’ve seen tiny ones hopping around but this guy is about the size of a racquetball. They set up a whole terrarium with dirt, mud, water, and moss. So it’s a pretty nice condo that would fetch a fortune on the Upper East Side.

They’ve named it Clem after our late fish (the one that bought the farm — or fish tank as the case may be – on the 4th of July this year). Not the most original name but, hey, at least they didn’t name it after me.

What does it eat you ask? So did they. As if I regularly go out and frolic with frogs. Luckily they knew where to go for the answer. The same place they go whenever dad has no clue about things like why the sky is blue: to Google. Apparently either frogs or toads eat worms. And since they didn’t know which one it was they thought of a good way to find out. Stick a worm in there and see if it ate it. If it did it was a toad (or frog). And if it didn’t it would be a hungry frog (or toad).

So not only did I find a worm for them last night, I was elected to feed Clem breakfast this morning. It’s not good to start your day by picking up a squirmy worm before your morning cup of coffee. But that was the extent of my morning devotion today. The sacrificial worm was fed to the gods to appease the deity in the terrarium. At least that’s the way it felt.

We’ll see if Clem (or Clemmy as Zack calls it to distinguish it from the late fish) makes it to St. Francis day. I may have to set him free.

The Way Life Should Be

That’s what the sign says when you drive in on I-95. “Maine: The way life should be.” I’m not sure if that’s true during the bleak mid-winter, but in late August it seems about right. Definitely some undertones of the Kingdom on earth.

We started yesterday as we do most of our time up here — with good coffee. And ended it as we usually do — with good seafood. We discovered the Portland Roasting Companyand kicked things off with a steaming mug of Tanzania coffee. Then up the coast to Wiscasset which bills itself as “The prettiest village in Maine.” Not sure about that but we get up there every summer to visit our good friend Ann Johnson. Ann’s another seminary friend from Seabury-Western who’s the rector of St. Philip’s, Wiscasset.

Ben and Zack love her dog Schooner, an enthusiastic black lab but the best part this year was meeting Ann’s recently adopted two-year old daughter Azalach from Ethiopia. She is a beautiful and amazing little girl and after spending a bit of time with her Zack dubbed her “the smartest two-year old I’ve ever met.” High praise indeed.

After hot dogs for the boys, crab cakes for Bryna, and a lobster roll for me we drove back to Portland to watch the Portland Sea Dogstake on the New Britain Rock Cats in a Double A minor league game. The three boys had a blast, Bryna froze, and the Sea Dogs took the game 6-4. Ben and Zack look quite fetching in their new Sea Dogs hats.

The day ended with a quick post-game meal at Gilbert’s Chowder House in Portland. Incredible clam chowder. Of course what else would you order at a chowder house? Unless you’re Ben and Zack for whom it may as well have been Nathan’s — hot dogs all around!

Good Day

Any day that begins with coffee at your favorite coffee shop in New Hampshire and ends with eating a lobster in Maine is a good day. We woke up in Portsmouth and met our good friends the Stevens at Breaking New Grounds in the heart of the historic district. We’ve known Rob and Jennifer since our seminary days and nothing beats hanging out with old friends — we had dinner with them at Rye beach the evening before as our kids frollicked together in the surf. Rob’s the rector of St. John’s in Portsmouth, a thriving parish in a great town.

After breakfast (and letting the boys blow off some steam in the hotel pool) we headed up to Portland, Maine. This included a stop at the outlets in Kittery. Stopping at outlets always makes me want to both cringe and hide my wallet. Though it’s not mywallet I really need to worry about. Fortunately we were able to get out of there relatively unscathed and ironically I was the only one that bought anything — they happened to have a pair of the shoes I run in, the Nike Air Structure Triax, at the Nike outlet. And I saved $20! Okay enough of the shopping mania.

Back to the beach in Scarborough, Maine with our friends the Mazzolas who are renting a house for the week. Then lobster and fried clams at Ken’s Place. Not a bad way to spend a summer day.

Open and Shut

We took Ben to his first wake last night. There are certain things I think it’s important to shield children from but death isn’t one of them. It’s a balance, of course, and it worked out nicely that Zack was scheduled for a sleepover at his grandmother’s house across town.

But we live in such a death-denying culture as it is that I don’t feel the need to perpetuate this with our kids. Death is an integral part of the human condition, not something we can put a V-chip on to prevent children from seeing until they reach a certain age.

One of the reasons we had goldfish was to start these very conversations — most of them simply don’t live very long. And we’re not the kind of parents who pull the old bait and switch routine by quickly replacing them with fish of a similar color. I’ve done my fair share of toilet-side burials.

And yet as people of faith, how can we talk about resurrection without speaking honestly about death? This is the whole paradox of Christianity: that out of death there is life. So it is nothing to hide from or fear but rather to embrace the fact that through faith in Jesus there are no final goodbyes — they’re all merely temporary farewells. While human pain and grief are quite real they take place within the context of resurrection. And that’s the heart of the good news of the Christian life.

Ben didn’t particularly know Dr. McGinnis — he was Bryna’s best friend’s father. But Bryna’s friend Hollee has been an important figure in Ben’s life since he was born and we just visited Hollee’s sister Karen last month in Cooperstown. So we talked to him about being supportive of our friends and the importance of simply being present for them in difficult times. And Ben rose to the occasion, even kneeling with me in front of the open casket as I whispered a prayer.

Sure the open casket creeped him out a little bit. Heck, it does the same to me. But the hardest part for Ben wasn’t going to the wake itself but putting on nice clothes for the occasion. At nine, he’s old enough to be gently drawn into conversations about life and death but never too old to put up a fight about dress pants.

Role Reversal

Bryna’s best friend’s father died of a massive heart attack Monday night. Words like “unexpected” and “shock” keep getting thrown around. Cy McGinnis was a well-respected Briarcliff psychologist, a sweet and gentle man. Bryna and Hollee have been the closest of friends since her family moved next door to the McGinnis’s when she was in 4th grade. Bryna’s mother still lives next door which is how we heard about this.

We got the call about 10:40 pm and Bryna headed right to the hospital. It was one of those situations where you don’t ask questions, you just go. Dr. McGinnis was pronounced dead on arrival at the Phelps Hospital ER.

It was an unfortunate role reversal for us. I’m used to getting calls like this, throwing on a collar, and heading to the hospital. It comes with the professional territory. In this case they didn’t need a priest, they needed a friend. Well they needed both but as devout Roman Catholics a call was placed to their parish priest. For once I wasn’t called upon to “do” anything but pray. Which is really the only thing to “do” anyway in such a situation.

Bryna spent much of yesterday “managing the house” for the family while they took care of the myriad details. Ministry comes in many forms.

Once the initial disbelief wears off, this will hit everyone hard. Including Bryna, for whom Dr. McGinnis was in some ways a surrogate father figure and a constant presence. The family has already canceled a long-planned trip to Maine they were to take next week in celebration of Cy and Eva Marie’s 50th wedding anniversary. He will be missed.

Sign Me Up

On Saturday I held my first book signing (ever) at the Barnes & Noble in Newburgh. It was definitely an interesting experience. It’s strange to walk into a store and see a large poster with your name and the cover of your book. When I first saw it I thought to myself, ‘Hey, that looks like a good book.’ And then I realized that, oh yeah, I’ve seen this before.

All the publishing literature I’ve read states that the average number of sales at a book signing is four. Which sounds woefully low until you do one and realize that unless you’re a celebrity author very few people are going to come out to see you. James Patterson I’m not.

You could ask, given the low sales at these events, why anyone would do a book signing? Good question. It’s all about the buzz I guess. When people actually meet an author they feel personally connected to the writer and the book. The thought is that then they’ll tell some friends about it and the whole thing will mushroom. I’m willing to do these events because I believe that “What Size Are God’s Shoes” can help parents on their spiritual journeys. We’ll see how it goes.

At least the six copies I signed put me above the average. And, hey, it’s the middle of August so what would you expect? Regardless of what you hear about the popularity of the “Staycation” there’s still no one around. And they did invite me to come back around the holidays so that was nice.

One woman I met who adores the Jan Karon Mitford Series realized as I was signing her book that I was a real life “Father Tim.” She insisted on giving me a hug. Um, okay.

There’s a line from an old Supertramp song that goes “I’m a winner, I’m a sinner. Do you want my autograph?” I’m not sure how this relates to anything except that it kept popping into my head on Saturday.

Tech Deck

It’s the latest “must have” item among the elementary school-aged boy set. It’s the Tech Deck. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, count your blessings.

What is it? It’s basically a mini skateboard that comes in a variety of styles. “Collect them all!” Kids at camp have been playing with (and/or nagging their parents to get) them all summer long. Now, you can’t ride the thing — unless you were the size of a grasshopper. You’re supposed to do tricks with them using your hands: flips, jumps, etc. Our kitchen table has been transformed into a skate park.

Yes, we finally broke down and got each of them one last week. Actually Bryna broke down when I was out of town — I flat out refused to buy them something so ridiculous. Even though, as the boys pointed out, “they’re only $4 each.” Yeah, for the first one.

Yesterday Zack lost a wheel in my car on the way back from dinner. This was a huge crisis until I saved the day by tearing apart my car and using a flashlight to recover the minuscule piece.

My real complaint with the Tech Deck — beyond the name which makes no sense to me –  is that I didn’t invent it myself. What was I (not) thinking!

Book Giveaway

They can’t give my book away in Erie, Pennsylvania.

At least they’re trying to. I stumbled upon an item in the on-line edition of the Erie Times-News in which they’re conducting a drawing to give away a free copy of “What Size Are God’s Shoes.” If you’re too cheap to spend the $12, click here to enter!

Ride On

While “good parenting” is generally subjective, there are several critical touch-points that must be imparted from father to son. Without them a parent’s whole raison d’etre is put into question. These hallmarks include, but are not limited to, teaching your son how to throw a baseball, swim in the deep end, not fear dogs, and ride a bike.

On this last point I’ve failed miserably and I feel terribly guilty about it. My boys can’t ride their bikes. I could blame it on the fact that we have a steep driveway that leads down to a busy road. They also haven’t showed much interest in learning. But the bottom line is I’ve waited too long and it’s only going to make it tougher for them.

On Saturday I took the training wheels off and we went to a baseball field. Someone suggested this is a good place for kids to learn — the infield is flat and the dirt is soft. So we’ve finally started the process. I held on most of the time while encouraging them to get used to pedaling. There were a few seconds where I let go but then grabbed back ahold of the bike as it started to go down.

I kept thinking about the gospel passage for the next day — the one where Peter takes a few steps on the water toward Jesus but then gets distracted by the storm and begins to sink. Of course I didn’t work that into the sermon since I’d already written it and didn’t feel like revisiting it. Next time.

So we’re going to need to spend some more time on this before school starts. My goal is to have them riding by September. We’ll see — there’s going to be a whole lotta complaining and frustration in the meantime. And I’m talking mostly about myself.

As for motivation? I’ve told Zack he won’t be able to get that motorcycle he craves without first learning to ride a bike.

Georgia On My Mind

I “killed” in Georgia Wednesday morning!

I’m not sure if that’s appropriate radio lingo. Alright, I guess it works a lot better for a blues musician playing a gig at some honky tonk in the Mississippi Delta. But I had a great radio interview for “God’s Shoes” on WDUN in Gainsville, Georgia (northeast of Atlanta). I was a guest on the Morning Show with Bill and Joel and had a lot of fun with them. They were both wonderful, insightful, and entertaining hosts who clearly have a knack for putting their guests at ease. We chatted about the title — just what size are God’s shoes? — and I bemoaned the unfortunate fact that my boys have turned to the dark side and become Yankee fans. All in the context of finding God in the midst of domestic chaos.

The fun part was that Bryna was able to listen to the show on the computer downstairs while I was on the phone upstairs. Though the show was live, there’s a slight delay which meant when I came clomping down the stairs afterward Bryna had to shush me since I was still talking on the radio.

You’ll be glad to know that the station broadcasts Rush Limbaugh’s show. So later in the day, after hearing me spew God stuff, listeners could stay tuned to hear Rush spew his right-wing bile. What a contrast!