Real Fake Christmas

I have done something traitorous. I am ashamed. And now I'm going to justify it.

I bought an artificial Christmas tree.

I know, I know, lots of people have fake trees. It's not a sin; it's a lifestyle choice. That is, unless you were born and raised in the Christmas Tree Capital of the World, also known as Indiana County, Pennsylvania. That's Indiana--the hometown of Jimmy Stewart, whose father owned Stewart's Hardware, where they never, EVER sold fake Christmas trees. Indiana, which could have been used as a set for Bedford Falls--a town steeped in Americana and decorated by Currier and Ives. No, in my hometown, trees of plastic and wire are not only frowned upon, they are despised and rejected as invaders of the true spirit of the season and killers of the local economy.

And it's not like we live in a place where it's hard to get a real tree. I suppose if you lived in Las Vegas, it would be easy to justify a fake tree. Heck, nothing is real in places like that. They even have fake Santas.

But Maryland has trees. There are tree farms not more than 15 minutes from my house. But we're not going there this year. Our tree was delivered by UPS. In a box. I ordered it online. From Sears.

So why did I do it? Why did I forsake my heritage and ignore the wishes of my sentimental oldest son and wife?

It's simple. I wanted to enjoy Christmas more.

Once upon a time, Karen and I were dreamers and idealists. We bundled the boys in thick coats and trudged out to the tree farm with a bow saw and high hopes. We walked over the hills and valleys, through the snow, to find "the perfect tree." Usually, what we got instead was complaining children, cold feet, snowballs down the back, fights, arguments, and an afternoon of misery. Ah, the memories!

So we started buying the tree from the boy scouts on the corner. The boys were off the hook now, but Dad wasn't. It was up to me to get the thing trimmed up, in the door, into the stand, straightened, and well lit. It took hours, and caused me to use words I shouldn't use, synonyms for "Hey, why are you guys sitting around drinking hot cider while I'm torturing my fingers and breaking my back?" It caused me to lose sleep because it took till 1:00am, and because on at least one occasion it crashed to the floor in the middle of the night. It left needles everywhere, it never fit right in the corner, and it was ugly by the time January rolled around. Did I mention we often forgot to water it?

So this year Christmas is coming from a box. It will be straight. It will be well lit. It will fit in the corner. It will take about 1/5 the time, leaving me time to enjoy my hot cider.

And it will smell like plastic.

The Great Conspiracy

Do you ever feel like the world is conspired against you?

A few weeks ago, one of the headlights on my car was burned out. Now, I'm about as handy as a foot, and auto mechanics is a language I understand as well as Chinese. But I've replaced bulbs before, so it was going to be no big deal. I even had an extra bulb in my workshop from the two-pack I bought last year.

I popped open the hood, unscrewed the bulb, and was ready to put the new one in when I realized my new bulb was slightly different. And I do mean slightly. There was one little extra tab that made it impossible to fit it in. So I checked the number on the old bulb, realized I needed an exact match, and drove off to Auto Zone to get it.

I returned home, plugged in the new bulb, and then spent about 15 frustrating minutes trying to reenter the bulb plate into the back of the fixture. You have to have it just right (you can't see it) before it will screw back on. Finally, I got it inserted and screwed on. I turned on the headlight to check it. And discovered I had replaced the wrong one. I had replaced the high beam instead of the regular beam.

Okay, I'm an idiot. But I discovered the extra bulb that didn't work before was actually for the regular headlight. So I didn't have to go back to the store. I screwed in the new bulb, got the fixture back in place (only five minutes this time), and was finished.

Having accomplished such a manly task, I pushed my luck. The brake light in our van has been on. I thought I'd check the brake fluid. I popped the hood, and located every reservoir of liquid except the brake fluid. I took the manual out of the glove box, found the engine diagram and there it was, buried in the back, unmarked. I unscrewed the cap to see if it was empty. It wasn't. But as I went to screw the cap back on, it slipped out of my fingers. I heard it drop, make several mysterious pinging noises, and then....silence.

"No way!" I said, though I was thinking of some other words I've heard Karen use when she's mad at me.

I crawled under the van. Surely it was on the ground? No, it was stuck somewhere inside the engine.

Now it was getting dark, and we had plans to go out. But I had effectively rendered our van undrivable, and I had a full day at church tomorrow and we needed the van. I was officially an idiot.

I ran inside to get a flashlight. In our house, flashlights disappear more quickly than milk and cereal. I couldn't find one. So I got in my other car and drove to our local hardware store. I nearly ran over the owner as she walked to her car, having just turned over the "closed" sign. I raced to CVS, where I found the flashlight aisle, which happened to be devoid of all flashlights. Unbelievable. I couldn't stop now. I got back in the car and headed the other direction, towards Walmart. I decided to check at Sheetz instead. Sure enough, they had nice little flashlights and they weren't terribly overpriced. I bought three, and paid $79 for a lifetime warranty against losing them.

I returned home. It was now dark. I was frustrated and embarrassed. What started out as a simple task that should have taken ten minutes and the brain of a pea had turned into a two-hour production for a pea-brain.

And I was hearing voices. You know the ones I mean--the ones that assail your weaknesses. How can I make this so difficult? Why am I so inept? Why can I not fix anything without a huge hassle? Why is the world conspired against me?

I imagined the call I would have to make. "AAA? Yes, I dropped my brake fluid cap inside my engine. What? You need to take my entire car apart? $1500 plus labor? Okay. What's that? Yes, I know I'm a mechanical weanie..."

I peered inside the engine with my flashlight (No kidding -- I almost dropped it). Nothing. I got down on my hands and knees. Yes, to pray, but also to look under the van. I crawled around for a few minutes, ran my hand under every nook and cranny, pleading for mercy.

Finally, at that moment, I felt something. The cat? No, the cap. I grabbed it. I climbed out and very carefully screwed it back on. The conquering hero. The relieved idiot.

I wondered later, Is the world conspired against me? Sometimes it feels that way, doesn't it? Little things turn into big things, and our weaknesses are attacked in ways that feel supernatural. The man who fears public speaking is put on the spot at the meeting. The woman who worries about her weight has a job interview with a fitness queen. The unathletic teenage girl is placed on the gym team with the super-competitive boys. The child who fears embarrassment spills his milk on his shorts. The man who can't fix anything renders his van useless by unscrewing a cap.

The world finds ways to make us feel small, to pick on us, to drop us into the engine, just before dark, and make us want to disappear.

The world is conspired against us. But it's no match for Jesus. He knows our weaknesses, and he really doesn't mind them at all. They are just opportunities for him to show us how much he loves us. He takes us by the hand. He fixes what we've broken. He doesn't embarrass us or demean us. He just says, "Hey, I've got this one. No big deal. Trust me. All will be well, child. Light bulbs replaced, small battles conquered, and hopes laid for greater things."

"In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”

Grown Men and a Giant Ball

It doesn't take much to entertain boys.

I remember a camping trip we took to the Outer Banks about six years ago. The boys set up a squirrel trap. It was a plastic box, with a stick attached to a string holding it up. They laid a path of peanuts to the box. They sat on the step of the camper and watched as a squirrel began grabbing the peanuts, breaking them open, and eating them. They giggled and laughed for hours, their faces alive with their potential conquest, which never quite happened.

It doesn't take much to entertain boys.

This past weekend Tim and I went on the Mountain View Men's Retreat. It was one of those "get away and be guys" type of things, focused on becoming men of God. There were about 80 of us there, and it was a lot of fun. The food was good. The accommodations were nice. The speakers and music were challenging.

But the highlight was the giant ball.

We had a series of challenges on Saturday afternoon, a little competition to get the blood flowing. We broke into eight teams, and played a series of four games. Our team was called Happy Hour on Everest (long story). After two semi-sedate indoor games, the teams moved out into the field for a game known simply as "Push the Ball." (Actually, we could have come up with some better names, but it was a church retreat). It involved a 5' inflated ball with a canvas cover, some cones, and nothing else.

Two teams at a time sent three players onto the field. The players poised at opposite ends of the field while the giant ball was placed in the center. When the command was given, the players charged the ball and attempted to push it across the other team's goal line.

We are men. We like simplicity.

We all watched as the first two teams gave their all for the glory of victory. The fast ones raced to get to the ball first, some launching their bodies at it like meteors. One young man went completely airborne, much to his delight and to the delight of the crowd. The big ones got behind the ball and stood their ground, pushing with all their might. It was like watching rhinos play soccer. Some matches went quickly; others looked more like 15-round heavyweight fights. Men were rolled over, pushed to the ground, trampled, exhausted, nearly decapitated. They risked life and limb and paralysis to move the ball. They screamed and groaned and laughed and cried. I watched. Discretion is the better part of valor.

It was spectacular. Ask any man what he remembers about the weekend, and he'll tell you. "The Giant Ball."

So last week, my boys, for the first time in years, set up the squirrel trap in the front yard. They brought the string in through the kitchen window and laid a path of peanut butter around the box. The next day, Tim and I were standing in the kitchen and noticed a squirrel in the yard. We pulled the string. And for a few glorious seconds, we had one. It raced around under the box like, I don't know, a crazy squirrel. We laughed hysterically and giggled and danced.

No, it doesn't take much to entertain boys.

So it begins

Yesterday at 11:57am, I handed over the envelope and asked the mail clerk to add postage. Enclosed were an application, transcript, reference letter, essays, and a check. Destination? Admissions Office. Grove City College. 100 Campus Drive. Grove City. PA. 16127. Since with the application goes the understanding that, if accepted, he is agreeing to an "early decision," there is no turning back.

Jonathan will soon be leaving for college.

I had some mixed feelings about sending the letter. On one hand, it's a huge relief. The college search can be overwhelming. We've talked about it for a year, but done little about it. Checked out some websites. Put all the mail in one big box. A few weeks ago, Jon, Tim and I made a road trip to Grove City (Karen's and my Alma Mater). We have a nephew there, and a good friend from church. It was our only college visit. Both boys loved it. We intended to visit a few others, but never did. Applying for early decision simplifies life.

On the other hand, there are questions. Did we do enough research? Is this really the right place? How will we pay for it? Can I survive with my son five hours away?

The first three questions just require peace, pragmatism and prayer. The last one requires more of me than I can give just yet. I'm not ready to sort through the emotions associated with my first child leaving for college. I'm not ready to think about him turning 18, throwing his last pitch of high school baseball, or walking across the stage in a cap and gown. On top of that, the thought of Tim being a senior next year is too much for me. I'm going to ignore those concepts for now--if I don't think about them maybe they aren't real--and deal with the present. Basketball tryouts are tonight. There's a roast in the crock pot. We have youth group on Sunday. There's a boatload of laundry to do, and most of it belongs to Jon and Tim.

I still have a few months to wrestle with it all, and write more blogs about it, I suppose. I just need some more time.

For now, the letter is in the mail. Heck, it's probably arriving today, in the very office where we had the admissions interview. I wonder what they'll think of my son?

I wonder if they'll realize how much he's loved, and how hard it was to send that letter?

Celebrating Ten Years at the Landon House

This Monday we will officially inhabit the new offices of Mountain View Community Church at 8330 Fingerboard Road. I am incredibly excited. The offices are beautiful. It smells like new carpet. The furniture is shiny and clean. It's a dream come true.

For the past ten years, we have held our offices in the historic Landon House, a 250 year-old building with lots of history, character... and problems. It was exciting at first. I had a huge office, with a balcony. I had my name on the door and space of my own to study and pray. For Guy, who had been working out of his basement since planting the church three years earlier, it seemed like we'd arrived.

But over the years, we got weary of the place. It was just too hard to work there sometimes. The mice were into everything. The heat never worked right -- some days it would be 50 degrees; others it would be 100. The power would go out frequently, especially in the early days, when were were testing the capacity of the old building's electrical circuitry. We went years without high speed internet, and my phone never worked. Strangers were always coming and going, looking for the owner or just walking through looking for ghosts. Lots of other tenants came and left--but we stayed. We waited. We dreamed. We knew our time was coming. And there was a Panera only a few miles away.

Well, we made it! Today I packed my last box, wiped the mouse droppings from my desk, and said goodbye to the old place. In honor of the past 10 years, here are a couple lists about our experiences at 3401 Urbana Pike, home of the Haunted Landon House.

Top 10 Things I Won't Miss About the Landon House
10. Phone lines with clarity resembling undersea telegraph lines.
9. Having to take my garbage home.
8. Strange sounds -- mice running around, the dance studio repeating the "Lollipop" song over and over, haunted sound effects.
7. Carrying in drinking water -- I just wasn't convinced the water there was safe.
6. Going to the dark basement to flip the breaker.
5. Winter days with no heat.
4. Wiping my hands on the shower curtain because we were always out of paper towels.
3. People asking me, "Have you seen Kevin?" (Dolan, the owner)
2. People asking me, "Are you Kevin?"
1. Reaching into my box of Cliff bars and pulling out a handful of mice droppings.

Top 10 moments I'll Remember
10. Creating a haunted house for Manic Monday in the days before the owner started doing his. It was scary. We raised a girl from the dead in the attic and made a middle school girl cry.
9. Walking out of my office and seeing General Andrew Jackson standing in the hall
8. Scaring people. One Sunday night in December I came early to set up for the annual SOS Christmas party. But the power had gone out and the place was pitch dark. The owner was sitting in the parlor drinking wine by candlelight, and didn't know I was there. I think I scared the crap out of him.
7. Showing up early one morning and finding a "condemned" sticker on the door.
6. Slipping on the icy steps one night before SOS. I went airborne, and landed on my back, almost knocking myself out. After several minutes on the cold ground, I managed to crawl back into the house on my hands and knees, and was discovered on the floor by Mary Sarah Kneebone, who compassionately asked, "What happened to you?"
5. Andrew Wilson dropping an air conditioner out of the second story window by accident while trying to install it.
4. Beth Jones putting pizzas in the ovens and inadvertanly filling the place with the smell of mouse urine
3. Watching the filming of the Sabers and Roses Reality Show from my window. I watched them film the "surprising conclusion" about ten times.
2. Throwing giant mushrooms off the balcony and watching them explode.
1. Meeting for SOS. We met there every Sunday night for 4 years. The first night we had 65 students. We prayed at 6:18. We worshiped, laughed and cried there. Cool, historic, even creepy at times -- it was the most unusual youth center ever.

So, despite my complaints, I really am grateful for these past 10 years. I know the Landon House was God's place for us to be. It always reminded us of Jesus' words, "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where thieves steal (our XBox and PS2), and moth and rust (and mice) destroy, but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven."

Why not me?

Why couldn’t I have been Bryce Harper's father?

If you are a baseball fan, or a resident of the DC region, you probably know about Bryce Harper. This 17-year-old phenom, already featured on a cover of Sports Illustrated and heralded as the “LeBron James of Baseball,” was chosen by the Washington Nationals with the first pick in the 2010 Amateur Baseball Draft yesterday. He is being billed as the greatest hitting prospect in the past 50 years. Harper is already a legend. Once, when he was ten years old playing on a 12-year-old team, he went 12 for 12 in a tournament with 11 home runs and a double. This spring, when he should have been finishing his junior year of high school, Bryce was playing for a junior college in Nevada in order to be eligible for the draft. He set records and wowed the scouts with his prodigious talent. Soon he will be a multi-millionaire.

If Bryce Harper was my son, I would be quoted in the daily papers, know all the scouts on a first-name basis, have unlimited access to the highest thrones of Major League Baseball, and never need to work another day for the rest of my life.

Why couldn’t I have been Bryce Harper's father?

Instead, I am stuck with the three boys who happen to live in my house—none of whom projects as a first-round draft pick, none of whom will play Major League Baseball, appear on the cover of Sports Illustrated, or become a millionaire. I have been given a raw deal.

Consider Jonathan, for instance. He’s 17—same age as Bryce Harper. He’s never hit a home run in a game, though he’s given up a few. Truth be told, he likes to play guitar more than he likes to practice baseball. And get this: The other day he was sitting in church with his friends. A friend of our family, Miss Patty, the mom of one of Jonathan’s best friends, who’s been coming to church by herself for about three months, came in after the service started. She always sits with us, but we were scattered about, so she sat down by herself in the row behind Jon. And wouldn’t you know it, my son, ignoring all decorum and blowing off his friends, put his dirty shoes on the seat cushion right there in the middle of church and climbed over the seat, plopping down beside Miss Patty. The nerve of that kid! I wish he was Bryce Harper.

Or consider Timothy. He’s 15—only two years younger than Bryce Harper. He doesn’t play baseball anymore—he gave it up for tennis, of all things. What’s the future in that? Last night he was working on his homework for hours, trying to get his grades up. He says he wants to go to Grove City College—where Karen and I went to school, and more importantly, where his cousin goes now. Grove City is not exactly a professional athletic factory, if you know what I mean. And get this: After only three hours of studying, he gets lazy. Instead of studying terms like Blitzkrieg and Armistice, he gets a bucket of water and sponge and goes crazy scrubbing our refrigerator. He even threw away valuable pieces of art that have been hanging on there for years. When he was done, I didn’t even recognize it anymore (it’s white – I didn’t’ know that). The nerve of that kid! I wish he was Bryce Harper.

Or consider Thomas. He’s 12—two years older than Bryce Harper was when he was crushing those 11 home runs in a single weekend. The only home runs Thomas hits are when he assumes the identity of "Joe Random" and tries to make his way to the majors in a video game. He likes baseball and is pretty good at it, but he’s not even on the travel team in our little town. Instead, he spends most of his time sitting at the piano composing arrangements of praise songs. And get this: He can’t even leave the house or go to sleep without telling us that he loves us. Just the other night, as Karen was leaving his room and turning out the light, Thomas said to her, half-asleep, “Tell Dad I love him and thanks for being my dad.” What kind of feeble attempt at parental manipulation is that? The nerve of that kid! I wish he was Bryce Harper.

Okay, I’m done venting now. I guess I’m stuck with my three sons—limited as they are--with their bad manners, poor study habits and manipulative affections. You get what God gives you. Like the cliché says, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” I’ll try not to sound sour about it.

But why couldn't I have been Bryce Harper's father?

Joy, Sorrow. Baseball.

This past Friday, the Walkersville baseball team lost in the regional finals to North Hagerstown by a score of 5-2. It was a rematch of last year's regional championship, which Walkersville won. Last year was exciting, but this year I had a much greater personal investment in the outcome. It is Jon's junior year, and he's been a big part of the team. So for the past few days I've been feeling a bit downcast. I'm trying to sort out why.

One reason is that this team consisted mostly of players whom I've had the privilege of watching since they were eight years old. Many of them are seniors and so it was our final chance to see them all play together. Our first full summer in Maryland, Jonathan made the 8-year-old all-star team at Glade Valley. That scrappy crew won the Cal Ripken state tournament. The picture of those little dirty, smiling faces clutching trophies is frozen in our memory banks. They had lots of other great moments through the years, too, playing rec and travel ball, and competing in tournaments. Now about half of them are donning their caps and gowns and shaving their "playoff beards" for graduation. I don't know during which season they grew to be so tall. They are a special group of young men, and although Jonathan has another year left with some of them, it feels like a chapter has ended. It was a wonderful chapter.

Another reason I'm a bit downcast is the actual circumstances of the game. Based on the situation with the pitching staff, I was certain Jonathan was going to be a key factor in the game. Sure enough, he came in to pitch in the bottom of the 3rd. There was a 2-0 count, a runner at second, two outs, and we trailed 2-0. He got two quick strikes and I was sure he was going to be the hero, but then the batter hit a ground ball through the hole between third and short to plate the opponent's third run. I felt that ball scrape across my heart as it trickled into left field.

Jon pitched another 2 1/3 innings after that. He threw quite well, striking out North's #3 hitter and not allowing any good contact. But some more ground balls found their way through, a few plays didn't quite get made, and there was a strange stoppage of play that resulted in a balk, sending my taut emotions over the edge. The result of all that was another two runs. Meanwhile, as every baseball fan knows, hitting is as fickle as a girl with three prom invitations, and on this day, the Walkersville bats chose their right to remain silent. The five runs were too much to overcome. Jon needed to be great for his team to have a chance, and he was merely good. I felt his pain.

So we're left wondering what might have been. Two more wins, and we would have been playing for the Maryland state championship at Cal Ripken Stadium this weekend. How incredible it would have been to see those dusty eight-year-olds come full circle and win a state championship again. My wife tells me I spend too much time "what-iffing," but I wonder what it would have been like to see one of these kids I know so well make the key play or get the big hit, or to see Jonathan at the bottom of a dog pile after recording the final out? What a glorious moment that will be for some young man this weekend. His parents will cry, I'm sure.

So I'm sorting out my emotions. For someone who loves the game as much as I do--for whom baseball is inseparable from life--to have the joy of watching my son and his friends display such talent and achieve such success all these years has been a gift. But every season comes to an end, whether we are ready or not, and I guess that's the only time it hurts to come home. Joy and pain are as intricately connected as winning and losing. I'm just not sure which is responsible for the tears in my eyes.