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There were two stories in that day's news that stuck out to me. The first troubling story said that Twinkies could be going bankrupt. Yeah, how could that be? I mean, you talk about too big to fail! But, alas, the company that was making Twinkies was talking about filing for Chapter 11. Maybe if I ate enough of them in the next couple of weeks, I could make a difference.
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If you say the word "garden," I immediately think of my friend Mel. Man, he has one of the best-kept, most productive gardens I've ever seen. I've eaten some of the fruits and vegetables of his labor. Growing up as I did in an apartment in Chicago, I've got a lot to learn about gardens, believe me. I'm horticulturally challenged shall we say. Well, Mel taught me a lot. I mean, one section of his garden is dedicated to his grapes. And when those vines start growing, He does something that looks very strange to a city-slicker like me. He goes after those vines with pruning shears. He starts cutting away branches - a lot of branches. Of course, it's called pruning.
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"So are you planning to go on a cruise sometime soon?" It was the guy checking me out at the drugstore, and he was pointing to the newspaper I was buying and sort of asked that with a wry smile. Because on the front page was this haunting picture of that capsized Italian cruise ship that went aground a few years ago now.
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For many years I lived in New Jersey where we were blessed with a heavy dose of Italy. There were so many Italians in our area, it should come as no surprise that we had so many Italian restaurants. And what's their favorite dressing on a dinner salad? Of course, Italian dressing. Actually, I didn't know what Italian dressing was for much of my life. I always heard it called by the ingredients that make it up - vinegar and oil. And frankly, I'm sure glad they put them together. Can you imagine a salad with just vinegar dressing? You'd bite into your salad and your salad would bite you back! But then I couldn't get very excited about a salad that just had oil dressing on it either. That slimy covering...that's not going to be very appetizing. Vinegar without oil, oil without vinegar - not very appealing. But put them together, hey, you've got a pretty tasty combination there!
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It was the early winter of 1994. It was when the Sanitation Department of New York City would not forget for a while. Much of the East Coast got hit big time with this parade of snow storms and ice storms. And at one point, they were coming about every other day. You take a hard freeze and frequent storms. It just created layers of frozen precipitation on the ground. Kind of like geological strata except slippery. Olympic skaters could have practiced on Broadway or Fifth Avenue.
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Maybe I'm just too sensitive, but I always feel a little sheepish when I walk into a store, knowing I'm not going to buy anything. I'll just be browsing and, you know, some bored salesperson stands up and starts moving my direction. Maybe what makes me feel bad is her look of hope, of expectancy, of "at last I can justify my existence" - "at last I can accomplish what I'm here to do." So the salesperson pleasantly asks, "May I help you?" To which I answer with the two most hated words in the life of a salesperson, "Just looking." I am such a disappointment.
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Our grandson used to love to play "hide and seek." I didn't tell him I was pretty much onto his favorite places to hide in our house. But he figured out the best places to become totally invisible when I'm looking for him.
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I had to make a 6:30 A.M. flight. My dear wife was the lucky one who got to drive me to the airport. As I staggered to the car about 5:00 in the morning, I said, "Where's the sun?" Obviously, the sun was on a later flight that morning. But what made the drive really challenging was not the absence of sun, it was the presence of fog. I'm talking thick fog all the way to the airport. Our visibility was really limited. The traffic reporter on our news station said that it would be difficult even driving roads you knew like the back of your hand. And believe me, the road to the airport is one we knew all too well. As we traveled toward the turnpike exit that leads to the airport, the fog got really thick and disorienting. We were in the right lane with almost no sense of exactly where we were, when suddenly we saw the sign - "Turnpike." That was our turn, but we were practically right on it when we realized where we were. So, my wife turned just in time, and I even made my plane. As we got on that ramp, she said, "It's a good thing I didn't trust my instincts. It just didn't feel like we were at the point we were." She only had a second to decide whether to trust her instincts or the sign. I'm glad she trusted the sign.
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Several years ago I thought they were talking about my grandmother storming up the East Coast. Actually, it was a hurricane with her name - Irene. Oh, and I know what that name means. It means peace. How ironic.
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Our daughter and son-in-law inherited our big red van. Let me describe it to you. There were two seats in the front, there's a bench seat in the back, and in-between nothing but open floor - carpeted open floor. It was always challenging to talk in there. In fact, it was almost impossible when the windows were open.
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The image of a burning candle on an iPad. That's actually the way that many people paid tribute and honored Steve Jobs' death and life. How appropriate. I mean, he was that inventive genius; the innovative marketer who brought the communications revolution from the "geekosphere" to something you could actually hold in your hand.
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Some of the ugliest scenes from the 20th Century, of course, come from the Nazi Holocaust during World War II. And some pretty inspiring scenes, actually, come from it as well. One of the most famous accounts of those awful years was written by a Jewish psychiatrist named Victor Frankl - a survivor of the concentration camps. Frankl told of how the Jews there had almost every freedom stripped from them: they were imprisoned, they were awakened any hour of the day or night, they were treated like slave labor, humiliated, always facing the specter of death. But he lived to tell us about the one freedom they learned no one could take away from them - the freedom he saw in many of those who survived the horror. And it's the one freedom that could make you a survivor.
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I'd rather not have to use one of those carts to carry my groceries out to the parking lot. If you take it out there, you should be nice and return it to where it goes. Right? No, I'd rather use the mule approach, carrying every possible bag I can in my arms, my hands, hanging from my shoulders. So here I am, moving precariously toward the door of the store, with every appendage committed. Problem: how am I going to open that door that goes to the parking lot? If I start walking toward it, it remains closed, threatening my bodily welfare and my new treasures when I walk into the door. But if I just stand there, it won't open either. Well, thankfully, you know. Stores have automatic doors. The door remains closed, though, if I stand still, and it remains closed if I only walk part of the way toward it. But as I walk steadily toward it until I'm close to it - voila! - the door opens just before I need to go through it! What a world!
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For Christmas, I bought the ladies in the family these necklaces with a beautiful colored glass charm on them. And the Japanese word "nozomi." There's a story behind those necklaces.
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If you don't like to wash your hands, don't ever become a doctor or a nurse. You have to wash your hands a lot! Scrubbing up is a routine procedure for people in the medical profession. I don't think any of us wants to be opened up by some doc who hasn't washed his hands all day! Right? Actually, a loved one of ours had a major heart surgery a few years ago, which she made it through. What she didn't make it through was the staph infection that she picked up in the hospital. It's avoiding that kind of thing that's at the heart of a hospital's insistence that healers and caregivers get really clean before they touch you. If they carry infection, they can do a lot of damage.
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Whenever we passed a park, when I was a kid, I shifted into nagging mode to get my dad to stop, because I loved the swings. Didn't do that spinning carousel thing. No, never did enjoy throwing up. Then, the seesaw. That was fun. Yeah.
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It was one of those great night-night conversations that a father can have when he's with his son or daughter at bedtime. Our son-in-law tried to prepare our four-year-old grandson for sleeping by saying, "You know you don't have to worry at night because Jesus is with you." Our grandson, ever the thinker, said, "How do I know that Jesus can see me?" Dad told him, "Well, Jesus is up in heaven, watching everything we do. And He also lives inside each of us and He can see everything." Oh, ponder time! And then, "So that means I'm Jesus' house!" (We knew that he had asked Jesus into his heart.) Dad affirmed him, "Actually, that's exactly how the Bible describes it!" Then came our grandson's application questions, "Is Mommy Jesus' house?" "Yes." And you're Jesus' house?" "Yes." "And my little brother is Jesus' house?" (Well, his little brother then was too young to give his heart to Jesus yet.) Daddy said, "Well, not yet." Good. Sounds like Daddy passed the theology test.
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Over the years, we've always tried to keep the real mission and meaning of Christmas in front of our children. Taking food and clothes into New York City, for example, to give to homeless people there. It put a whole new face on Christmas. Only a few miles from our home we were face-to-face with the tragedy of people without any place to call home. I remember the time when I went into the city to talk with some homeless people for my youth broadcast - to try to open my listeners eyes and hearts to a needy world. One man was living on the street, near a major bus terminal. His house was a large, tattered cardboard box. He actually allowed me to crawl inside that box with him, and it was heartbreaking that a box was home. At Christmastime - well, at any time. Wow! It's just a tragic thing to be without a home.
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Our boys used to approach Christmas as methodically as like a military campaign. They painstakingly made their Christmas lists sometimes like October? You know, you must get the jump on anybody who wants to buy you underwear or socks. Right? So, they listed what they wanted in priority order, with what they called "the big one" right on top, circled and surrounded with big stars around it. One year, our oldest son had the year's hottest toy on top. I knew I would have to break my pattern and do this particular shopping early. So right around Thanksgiving, I bought it before it became virtually "ungettable." But my son must have reminded me about that like twenty times between then and the day he got it - that very happy Christmas Day. Of course, I just smiled.
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Christmas is always kind of a love fest with our family. And they're all so good at paying attention to what people want and need, and getting the great gifts. You know? So I expect good things, and I hope what I'm giving fits the description as well this Christmas. And you know what? Sometimes, occasionally I will find a little gift that I forgot to give. No, I don't save it for next Christmas. It might be "Happy New Year" or something like that.
