"Show Me Your Heart!"

In the end it came down to heart. That's what it took for the Saipan SDA School to finally bring home it's first volleyball championship ever.

This year's team had everything else all season long. They had skills. These kids were spiking, digging off the net, delivering blistering overhand serves--all on regular basis. These were skills I hadn't seen in any of our teams from previous years and I wasn't seeing in too many of the teams we were playing this season. They had a knowledgeable coach who was able to hone those skills and teach them new ones as well. This was not one of those years where the kids had little more than a glorified cheerleader "coaching" them (translate: Me!). Missy was about as close to professional as it got. They had a postive attitude. On the whole, our kids played with smiles on their faces. They had fun. If they lost, they didn't beat themselves up too much about it. After all it was just a game. The team reflected the unique spirit of the 8th grade class that anchored the team--relaxed, good-natured, always ready for a good time.

But as the regular season came to a close, with more wins than losses, there was still something missing. There were few hard fought games. In the games we won, we generally clobbered the opposition which were playing at a much lower skill level. The games we lost, were against teams that were at least as good as we were, and yet we couldn't seem to quite pull it together to bring home a win. We entered the championship series essentially having never lost a match to most of the teams, and having never won a match against the others. We were missing something. We were missing the will to win. We were missing heart. Teams of years past had the gift of heart. Theyhad scrabbled and sweated and fought for a third place berth, only to lose it, because they simply didn't have the skill. Now here was a team that had the skill--playing with their hands and with their heads came easily. All they needed now was to play with their hearts, and regardless of the outcome of the game they would honor their predecessors and walk off the court champions in the game that mattered most, the game of life.

On Tuesday, October 23 we won the first round handily--again, against a team we'd always beaten--and on Thursday we entered the semi-finals against Grace Christian Academy, the second ranked team in the league, a team we had never defeated. GCA, anchored by a lanky 8th grader approaching six feet tall with a fearsome spike, was a force to be reckoned with. To win against these worthy opponents, we would need that missing ingredient. I told the 8th grade members of the team as much during a brief pep talk after worship Thursday morning. I'd been thinking a lot about that beautiful speech Billy Bob Thorton gives in the great football film Friday Night Lights, and while my speech lacked both the haunting, meditative guitar solo playing in the background and the screenwriter's eloquence, the message was still the same. Play for each other. Give your all. Play with your heart.

And in the end that is exactly what they did. The games were hard fought, both teams putting every ounce of everything they had. There would be no blowouts, neither in the semi-finals where we finally beat GCA, or the following day when we defeated Whispering Palms--another upstart team from another tiny school (they had fought their way into the championships in an upset of the top-ranked team. The 1st and 2nd ranked teams would battle it out for third while SDA and Whispering Palms faced off in a "David vs. David" contest). In the regular season we'd always won against our friends at Whispering Palms, but we knew that players that defeated a team that had never lost a match all season had clearly metamorphosed into some serious competition. Sure enough, their team had gone from a whisper to a roar. All the games were close, there were rallys that seemed to stretch for minutes, there were miraculous saves. These games were a joy to watch. But when the dust settled that Friday afternoon, the SDA team were champions.

It was exciting to win the championship. Lots of parents and students came out to support the team--we were quite a sight, we fans, massed at the very brink of the sidelines, loyally shuffling to the other side of the court when the teams switched sides at the end of each game. One of our students, "Ko", won the league Most Valuable Player award. The newspapers and the local TV station were there snapping pictures and taking interviews. The trophy was large and golden and the weight of it felt good in the hands.

But my favorite memory of this dream season, wasn't basking in the glory of the final victory. My favorite moment was the previous day on Thursday, in the final moments of a very close third and final game vs GCA. Those last points were pure heart--the kids focused, tightly-knit, playing for each other, playing with all they had. And at the final serve, I cried "Show me your heaaaaaaaaart!" And they did. In the next moment the court erupted in joy as we realized we were going to the finals. That was the moment of true victory for me--it was a moment I'd experienced with other teams for whom I'd been every bit as proud. The only thing that made the difference this time was that the points happened to be in our favor.

I was raised with the idea that competition is a bad thing. And indeed there are many pitfalls to competitive sports. We've all heard stories about the lengths people will go to win, how ugly people can become over what is really just a game. In fact that movie I mentioned earlier,Friday Night Lights, paints a vivid picture of the costs to a community and to the atheletes themselves, of the obsession with winning. But, I believe there can be value to competition, provided that it's kept in perspective, provided that players, coaches, fans understand that it really is in how you play the game, not the winning or losing (which in a contest between two equally talented teams in many regards really does essentially come down to chance). Or rather the winning and losing comes in how you play the game, not in the numbers on the scoreboard at the end of the game.

In that sense, I can confidently and proudly say: We won.

"Whatever your hand finds to do, verily, do with all your might. . ."
--Ecclesiastes 9:10a


Pep Rally

Team

Coach

Game

Fans

Heart

Sportsmanship

Victory

MVPs

Champion

Babs and I get our hands on the goods

Happy Birthday Vince!

I might be too busy to blog, but I'm not so busy that I'd forget my only brother's 32nd birthday. Happy Birthday Vince! I hope your day is a good one.

My Personal Influences: From a Distance

The vast majority of the people who have made a difference in my life are people I know and who know me. They are friends, family members, and teachers who had an active personal role in my life. In general, the rich and famous, the "stars" haven't had much real influence of over me. I had no teen idols, no high-flying heroes. The bands I liked, I liked for their music; the authors, for the books they wrote. I made it a personal point of pride that I didn't admire the artist personally. After all, I didn't know them personally. I didn't know what they were really like. The song was not a relaible indicator of the character of the singer, the story not a reflection of the writer, the sermon not a statement on the preacher.

But over time, there were a few people that I came to admire from a distance. It's true I don't really know any of the people on this list, nor would I claim to know what they are really like. But I do know they all have had a profound influence on my life and I know that regardless of whether any of them were to "fall from grace", their impact on my life would in no way be lessened or compromised. Their influence does not come from their position on a particular pedestal. In fact, more often than not, it's the opposite. It's their very human-ness, their frailty that they've shared in some public way, that has led me to admire and respect them. I think it's no accident that almost everyone on this list has had a spiritual impact on my life. After all, there can be no danger in a looking up to a person who only points you higher.

Normally, when I complete a "Personal Influences" blog, I'll send out an e-mail to all the people I wrote about, to tell them thank you and to invite them to read what I wrote. For most of the people on this list, I won't be doing that. Some are dead, and are thus beyond the reach of my gratitude. Others are so famous, that the fact that they made a difference in my life is probably passe to them. They probably get stacks of fan mail everyday from people saying essentially the same things I said. What's one more paen of appreciation amidst the general chorus of adulation? But whether they know or not isn't so important. What matters is not that they make a difference to lots of people, but that they made a difference to me.

So here they are: three musicians, two authors, one preacher, and a cybertribe of ordinary human beings who've made an anonymous and extraordinary difference in my life.

Rich Mullins
Bono
The People from Interference
Keith Robertson
Keith Green
Dwight Nelson
John Grisham

Rich Mullins
"Save me from those things that might distract me
Please take them away and purify my heart
I don't want to lose the eternal for the things that are passing
Because what will I have when the world is gone
If it isn't for the love that goes on and on. . ."
--"My One Thing" by Rich Mullins

I asked Rich Mullins for directions to the bathroom once. I ran into him right after my first time seeing him in concert. Here I had the brief opportunity to talk to one of the most influential men in my life and all I could to do ask was ask him to point me in the direction of the nearest toilet. He didn't know where the facilities were, but we talked for a few minutes and I was impressed to hear the same grace, humility, and generosity of spirit in "real life" that I heard in his songs and during his onstage patter.

I'll never forget the first time I heard Mullins' classic album A Liturgy, A Legacy, and a Ragamuffin Band. I was vacationing in Pohnpei, during my year as a student missionary, when a fellow SM handed me a battered dubbed cassette tape. I popped it into my walkman that night as I lay in the darkness on my couch guest bed. I pressed the play button and the tape began in mid-album, mid-song and, even so, immediately, I was blown away. The combination of gorgeous, organic melodies and eloquently poetic and heartfelt lyrics was unlike anything I'd ever heard before. It was as if he'd given voice to my most heartfelt prayers and put them to music. Some thirteen years later, Rich's songs still have the same affect on me and his unique expressions of life and faith have become my own as well. When "the morning came too soon and the day could be so hot, there was so much work left to do and so much you'd already done" I still sang with Rich, "O God you are my God and I will ever praise you, I will seek you in the morning and I will follow you all of my days." When I returned to the U.S. after my stint as a student missionary, I promised "I'll carry on" and was comforted by the fact that the "Holy King of Israel loves me here in America", the "land of my sojourn". When I felt like "sometimes my life don't make sense at all" and "I'd rather fight You for something I don't really want then take what You give that I need" I sang "Hold me Jesus, cause I'm shaking like leaf. You've been King of my glory, won't you be my Prince of Peace."

Rich Mullins is someone who expresses my deepest longings, struggles, and aspirations as a Christian far more eloquently than I ever could. Whenever I listen to one of his songs I always hear truth, that familiar ring that says "Yes, this is right, this is true, this is what I believe." And the remarkable thing about Rich is that it wasn't just the music. It was also the way he lived his life. The man who wrote perhaps the most famous modern Christian anthem, "Awesome God," often performed in jeans and bare feet. He lived in a traditional hogan on a Native American reservation in the Southwestern U.S. teaching music to kids. He lived a life of humble, unassuming service, eschewing the glamour and acclaim he could easily have had. He was the polar opposite of the typical, perfectly put-togther, right-leaning, praise & worship Christian celebrity. He not only sang Jesus, He lived Jesus.

Rich Mullins died in a car accident on September 19, 1997. When I found out, I felt almost as if a friend had died, and genuinely grieved the loss. While I might never write songs like Rich could, I knew I could live a life like his, one of giving to others without looking for reward or recognition, one where God was "my One Thing." While he may not have known how to find the closest restroom, He knew where to find God and he never stopped pointing people in that direction. I'd like to be able to do the same.

Bono
"I believe in the Kingdom Come
Then all the colors will bleed into one
But yes, I'm still running
You broke the bonds
You loosed the chains
You carried the cross
And my shame
And my shame
You know I believe it
But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for"
--"I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" by U2 (lyrics by Bono)

"Whoa, whoa. Did he say what I thought he said?" Rewind the tape. Listen again. Yes, there it was. Kingdom come. Carried the cross. What was this? A blatant reference to the God I believed in on an ostensibly secular rock and roll record. And not just a cheap, praise-y shout out, but words heartfelt and authentic. Real. Words that resonated with the experience of my own heart. There I was, a rather morose high school senior, having been turned on to U2 by the catchy, danceable "Mysterious Ways" all over the radio, stumbling upon an echo of my own spiritual journey. The voice? A guy in dark shades, black leather, with an earring in each ear, a cigarrete dangling from his hand, and an ironic smirk on his face. In time I would discover a man who believed in a God who wasn't short of cash, a man who waited patiently for the Lord who inclined to hear his cry, a man who longed to claim the victory Jesus won, a man who knew that grace was a thought that could change the world, a man who prayed that God would take his heart and make it break. In short, a man not so very different from me. There was one very big difference though. He went by one name, and that name was one of the most famous in the world. The name was Bono.

From Bono I've gained an understanding of the value and ministry of being real, which is ironic since this is a man who makes his living putting on a show. And yet when I think about Bono, the lead singer of one of the biggest rock bands in the world, U2, it's his honesty and realness--in his lyrics and in his life that have influenced me the most. Especially during the 90's, Bono had all kinds of onstage personas--the Mirroball Man, the Fly, Mr. MacPhisto. Yet no matter what character he took on stage, his words, his voice, and the music of his bandmates, The Edge, Adam Clayton, and Larry Mullen Jr. were always refreshingly real and soaringly down to earth. Like the music of Rich Mullins, the music of U2 is true. If Rich represented the destination, Bono represents the journey. If Rich's music, lyrics, and life embody what I aspire to be, Bono's music, lyrics and life embody where I am right now. Rich Mullins tells me what (or rather Who) I'm looking for. Bono reminds me I still haven't totally found Him yet.

I like that Bono's not a traditionally "appropriate" Christian role model, that the church often can't quite figure out what to do with this fellow who smokes and drinks and cusses and talks about God and grace, love and peace. I understand his discomfort with the failings of religion, and his frank awareness that he's probably not the best poster boy for standard Christianity. I feel the same way a lot of the time. I relate to and admire his struggle to life a faithful life. I like that he talks too much (a bit like I do) and is somewhat overly opinonated (definitely like I am). I admire his compassion, his tireless work on behalf of the poor and the sick, and I especially appreicate a funny kind of humility that he shares with all people that recognize they ultimately answer to Someone bigger than themselves. I hope to have these kinds of qualities myself. There are many things Bono can do that I can't (like write amazing, classic songs that will be sung by millions) and many things he is that I will never be (like super-charismatic and unbelievably rich). But one thing I've learned from the life of Bono, one aspect of Bono that I can be, is this: I can be real.

The People of Interference











Irvine511. Unico. Melon. Yolland. BonosSaint. Mrs. Springsteen. Liesje. AEON. Anitram. Martha. U2Democrat. Angela Harlem. Deep. Vincent Vega. A_Wanderer. BonoVoxSuperstar. Sulawesigirl. DazzlingAmy. U2IsTheBest. No Spoken Words. Neverman. PhillyFan. VertigoGal. Night_and_Day. Who are these people, you ask? In one sense, I don't really know. I've never met a single one of them in real life. Almost all of them, I wouldn't recognize if I saw them on the street--I don't know what they look like. For most of them, I don't even know their real names. And yet for these apparent strangers, I feel genuine affection, real friendship, and authentic care. They, and many others (including me), are regular posters on Interference, officially a U2 fan site and message board, but in actuality so much more than that. It is perhaps the most diverse and intellectualy stimulating community I've ever belonged to. And, at least on the forums I visit regularly--especially the politics, religion, and world issues forum "Free Your Mind"--U2 is hardly ever mentioned.

I know the idea of communicating with a bunch of "cyberfriends" online can seem a little hokey--my wife certainly thought it was weird for a long time, and I'm sure I would have thought the same in the past. I wasn't looking for this, after all. What I was looking for, when I stumbled across Interference in January of 2006 was a way to get tickets to a U2 show in Japan. I found that, and a whole lot more. At any time of day or night I could find a debater's dream in the "Free Your Mind" forum discussing and debating every issue under the sun from the Iraq War to Creationism. In the Interference "Journals" forum I was able to take peeks into the diverse musings of people from all walks of life, people who were so different in their viewpoints and experiences, and yet so similar in their basic humanity, their joys and griefs, dreams and struggles. In what other way, besides the internet, could you gather believers (Christians of every stripe, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists), agnostics, atheists (of every stripe--I didn't know they came in as many varieties as believers do until Interference), conservative Republicans and liberal Democrats (and vice versa), teenagers and grandparents, college students and college professors, media professionals and blue collar workers, artists and heating and cooling systems repairmen, single, married, and divorced people, gays and heterosexuals, people from Ireland and the United States, Australia and Germany, Canada and the UK, Israel and Africa. A meeting of such a diversity of minds for thought-provoking discussion is intellectual, philosphical, and spiritual gold.

It's obvious that a group like this is going to change you. You can't possibly hold on to your presumptions and assumptions in a world this wide. And indeed, the people of Interference have had a profound influence on my thinking, on my perspectives, on my life. In discussions that are generally thoughtful and intelligent these people have challenged and strengthened my faith, both revised and reinforced my beliefs, widened and sharpened my views. They've influenced me to question more and assume less. I'd like to hope I'm doing the same for them.

I'll admitt there's a lot I don't know about the people of Interference, but what I do know is that they are thinking, feeling, loving human beings who have encouraged me to think more deeply, feel with more empathy, and love more truly. And that's really all I need to know.

Keith Robertson

I couldn't remember Keith Robertson's name. I had to look it up when I was preparing this blog. What I did remember was the name of one the characters he created, Henry Reed. The books that Robertson wrote that Henry starred in, beginning with Henry Reed Inc. (for which Robertson won the William Allan White award) completely changed my life. Henry Reed was a skinny guy with glasses who spent his summers with his aunt and uncle in Grover's Corner, New Jersey. Each year he'd get together with his friend Midge Glass and cook up some scheme to make some money for that summer (thus the "Incorporated" in the title of the first book of the series). Henry was a little bookish, he was about the age I was when I read his books, and his best friend was a girl, so I suppose, I another skinny guy with glasses, related to him in a way. His buisness plans were always entertaining, but what I found most fascinating about Henry Reed was that he wrote a journal. All the stories in the book were written as if they were Henry's journal entries. For some reason, that concept--of writing down the details of your life every day, captured my imagination. Though I'd been "writing books" since I could remember, this was different. This was not a made-up story that I had to work at. This was telling the story of my life, as it happened. This, I could do. I could write a journal just like Henry Reed. And so in the summer of 1985, I did exactly that. And 41 notebooks and 22 years later, I'm still at it. I've added an online presence with my Interference journal, and of course, this blog. But it all began with a man whose name I couldn't remember. Keith Robertson.

I did a little research on Keith Roberston and found he was born in 1914, served in the U.S. Navy during World War II, wrote several books (including the Henry Reed series), mostly for children, and died in 1991. I couldn't find out much beyond that (he doesn't even have a Wikipedia entry), but I know that largely because of him, journaling is a regular and vital part of my day, and writing in general is a passion for life.

Keith Green
"Well I know the loneliness I had before
Is gone now
I'll never feel it anymore
Cause your love has released me
From all that's in my past. . ."
--"You Put This Love in My Heart" by Keith Green

Keith Green was crazy. "Bananas for Jesus" was the way he described it during one concert. This guy was 100% sold out for Jesus. He was uncompromising, fiery, almost prophetic in his zeal. Naturally he made some people uncomfortable, but he also drew people with his fierce sincerity and galvanizing passion. A lot of people felt both discomfited and drawn. I was one of those people.

By the time I discovered Keith Green, he'd been dead for almost 15 years. I heard Keith Green's story before I heard his music. Well, actually I had heard some of his songs on a tribute album by modern Christian contemporary artists (I especially liked Rich Mullins' cover of "You Are the One") introduced to me by Carl Waldron (see Personal Influences: Catalysts) but the music didn't really register with the artist. My friend Clari Worley (See Personal Influences: Spiritual Guides) had lent me a copy of his biography No Compromise written by his wife Melody Green. "You have to read this book," Clari had said in her trademark charistmatically earnest style. So I did and found myself profoundly moved by this story of an aspiring musician coming of age in the early seventies in Southern California. Here was a man who tried it all--sex, drugs, and rock and roll, every religion under the sun--and had found it all wanting until he found Jesus. And when that happened, he jumped in headfirst and never looked back. I was amazed and challenged by the depth of his commitment, the intensity of his passion for Christ, and all that he accomplished in the few short years from the time he became a Christian until his untimely death at the age of 28 in a plane crash in 1982.

A few months after I read his biography, I finally had the chance to hear Keith for myself. It was probably best that I heard his music last, because it was certainly an acquired taste. He had a rather nasal, high pitched voice and the production values of his records were definitely vintage 1970's. But there was something about his songs, just like the story of his life, that was utterly compelling. It was that same sense of complete and total commitment, of heartfelt love for Jesus. When you listened to most of the stuff on Christian radio, after listening to Keith, everything else just sounded so tepid and shallow. Keith sang with heart and it came across in his lyrics and in the very way he sang. I had heard that Keith was often a favorite among new converts to Christianity, especially younger ones, and I understood why. His music was spiritually real and that's what they--and I--were hungry for. As a college student longing to know more of Jesus, Keith Green's music was the soundtrack to my deepening faith.

What's interesting though, is that now, at a time in my life where I've come to be very wary of religious fanaticism and zealotry of any type, I still find myself compelled by Keith Green. Maybe it's because Keith wasn't ever crazy about being religious. His craziness wasn't the madness of a Bible thumper intent on pushing a partiuclar doctrinal or political position. He wasn't about "taking back America" or building a particular megachurch. He was crazy about a Person, the way one is crazy in love. And he was in love, with Jesus. And every time I listen to him, it makes me want to love Jesus as much as he did.

Dwight Nelson

When I was in college, the big question every Sabbath was: Is Dwight preaching? If he was, well you could be sure we'd be front row center at the vast stone sanctuary of Pioneer Memorial Church. And if he wasn't? Well, that might be good week to check out All Nations Church or to skip services all together. I know that's probably the worst attitude to have when it comes to church attendance, but it does illustrate the extent of Dwight's resonance with much of the collegiate community at Andrews University where I went to school. Pastor Nelson was seemingly tailor-made for ministering and preaching at a large university church. With his trademark mustache and sharp suits he reminded me of Alex Trebek hyped up on speed. There he'd be on the platform, just vibrating with energy, heartily singing all the hymns and praise and worship choruses without regard to key or tune. And when it came time to speak and he stepped up to the trendy lucite pulpit they provided for him, he never failed to blow you away with a fresh perspective on an old truth. With his penchant for attention grabbing (and lengthy) sermon titles, his habit of salting his sermons with liberal references to the front pages of the nations newspapers and magazines, and his dynamic yet intellectually stimulating preachig style, he was perfect for an urbane, literate audience of college students and college professors. It seemed he could make any subject interesting and the oldest doctrine new. But he wasn't merely a slick theological showman. No, far more than that he seemed to have a genuine love for and connection with the Lord, one that made what might have been just a sophisticated performance into a weekly heart-to-heart encounter with the living God.

In my role as church elder at my church I have to preach from time to time, and when I do often find myself referencing Pastor Nelson, from the way I title my sermons to the way I present my message. Most of all, I pray that I will stay connected to God so that He can speak through me and do what neither I nor Dwight can do on our own--touch the hearts of our hearers with the love of God.

There's one other major way in which Pastor Dwight Nelson influenced my life. He wrote a little book called A New Way to Pray. I don't even remember how or why I got ahold of it, but somehow it fell into my possession in the spring of 1994 and completely revolutionized by spiritual life. In this little volume Pastor Nelson explains a simple method for daily prayer and Bible study designed to draw relevance from the Scriptures everyday and enable one to both speak to and listen to God in a practical, rewarding way. I've been using this devotional method for years now and it has enriched my spiritual life incaculably. So if you can find that book, A New Way to Pray, I suggest you check it out. And if you're ever in Berrien Springs, Michigan on a Saturday morning, ask around and see if Dwight's preaching. And if he is, go to church. You'll be glad you did.

John Grisham

What I love about John Grisham is that I didn't know he was a Christian for the longest time. It's that aspect of his work as a writer that has influenced me the most. I'm sure there are "better" writers, and there are certainly books and authors I like more than the "King of In-flight Read" but probably no author has had more influence in shaping the way I want to write and the kind of writer I want to be. It's not that I've got a burning desire to write legal thrillers that hew to a pretty basic formula, but I do have a desire to write stories for a wide audience, not just aim for a narrow Christian market. I do want to put the story first, rather than using the story as a tool to push my faith. I do want to write stories that are authentic and engage the reader, while still staying true to my Christian values. In my opinion, John Grisham has managed to do all of those things. Grisham may never win the Pulitzer, but read his stories. You'll find they're well-paced, entertaining, and never feel forced (though if you stop to think about it gratutious sex, and strong language are surprisingly absent in his work. Yet his books never feel neutered or self-consciously censored. This is something I would love to--but haven't yet figured out how to--accomplish. I want to write a story that's real and authentic but also one that I won't be embarrassed for my father-in-law to read.)

Lately, having made his mint in the legal thriller genre, Grisham has branched out into other types of writing including fictionalzied memoirs and even nonfiction. He's also written a few books that more directly reference his faith. I remember several years ago reading his book, The Testament, the first book of his to feature a specifically Christian character. It was standard Grisham fare, and I read it quickly and enjoyed it, as I do all of his books. But I was impressed that introducing an explicitly Christain character didn't change a thing in the way he wrote. That kind of consistency as a writer who happens to be Christian is what I would like to accomplish in my writing as well.

Life List

"Climb every mountain," the song says. But what if you don't want to climb every one and the ones you do want to climb are more medium-sized?

“Life Lists” are all the rage these days. People are making master lists of all the things they must see, do, and experience in a lifetime. To be honest I’m a bit ambivalent about these life lists, at least for me. For one thing, I guess, I feel like I’m not missing too much in the life I’m living right now. Perhaps I’m setting my sights too low or something, but I feel like there’s not much I could imagine adding. Simultaneously, when you feel like your life is already a pretty amazing adventure, there’s something that seems a bit overwhelming about a life list—gosh, how much more am I supposed to do! And my life is already so full! How am I ever going to find the time?

Nonetheless, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that, yes, there are a few things that I’d put on a life list of my own. I decided that my life list would be limited to things I feel I can reasonably accomplish (I’m all for dreaming big, but I don’t want to put undue pressure on my life with dreams like playing onstage with U2 and other wild fantasies). And while I also want my list to be more than just an exercise in wishful thinking, I also want it to be less than a to-do list where I feel like my life will have been some how less than extraordinary if I don’t get to do them all. Like Jimmy Stewart in It’s A Wonderful Life I want my life to be full and meaningful even if I don’t get to “do and see it all.”

So, enough caveats; here’s the list:

Places to visit
Israel
Kenya
Egypt
India
New Zealand
China
Brazil
Trinidad & Tobago
Italy
Spain
Ireland
Great Britain
Prague
New York City
The American Southwest
The Grand Canyon

Places to go back to
Paris
Austria
Thailand
San Francisco

Places I’d like to live (Just about everywhere I’ve visited, I could see myself living but here are four places that especially come to mind)
Japan
Teach English for two years in Korea
Somewhere in South America
Hawaii (If I had to live in the USA this would be my first choice)

Things to do
Do a road trip across America with my best friend J Carlos
Take a massage course
Learn to dance with my wife
Run a marathon
Complete a triathalon
Climb a mountain (a fairly normal one. Everest level stuff doesn’t interest me)
Write a book & have it made into a film

See U2 in concert (again)


Books to Read
War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
Les Miserables by Victor Hugo

I’m sure I’ll add more items to the list. . .and who knows I might even take an item off if I realize I don’t care about it so much. Life is much more than a list, it is an adventure to be lived every single day.

September Snapshots

September has flown by. A few snapshots of the month:




Ube! At the beginning of September I went to the first of our dive meetings with our dive instructors, Dennis and Judy. They gave us some local sweet potatoes as parting gifts, and we baked them up that same night. Babs is pretty excited about them because, not only are they delicious, but they are her favorite color, purple! (As tasty as ube is, we do not care for many of the ways it is often prepared, including ube ice cream).




It's vollyeball season at the SDA School and our team is representing well. This photo, courtesy of Mai Rhea Odiyar, shows our team at their first game. We lost that game but since then things have changed. The team has new uniforms,they're gelling as a team, and their skill level is skyrocketing. I really do believe we have what it takes to win a championship this year. I'm so proud of them, not just because they are winning games but because they play with such a postive spirit and the joyousness that is their trademark. Missy's doing a great job coaching them too!

In the Company of Women: Our Annual Staff Retreat
The weekend of September 21 and 22 was our annual staff retreat up at the Maturana. Last year I had Grant to keep me company, but this year I was the only male in the group, and as a result the retreat definitely had a distinctly feminine flair to it. Fortunately, I've always been pretty comfortable around women. I'm enjoy a lot of the "girly" stuff . I liked the segments of the Oprah Winfrey show presented for our inspiration, embraced writing about my feelings and emotions (I do that already in my journal anyhow)and felt soothed by the candles and whatnot. I had no interest, however, in the foot baths & pedicures, so I guess you could say I "drew the line" there. Overall it was a fantastic retreat, the most restful and rejuvenating we've ever had. Bab's decision to extend the length of the retreat (allowing for, among other things, a luxurious nap Friday afternoon) and to not give us the schedule of activities (so that control freaks like me wouldn't be checking each activity off the list and noting with impatience whenever we got "behind schedule.") All the staff are hoping Babs will plan a second retreat later in the year.

Some photos below courtesy of Jessica Lee (I forgot my camera that weekend).

Mai, Judith, Missy, and Rikki enjoying the footbaths. (I read from The Namesake for a good hour or so while the ladies did their footcare and then drifted off into a nice afternoon nap)

I don't know why, but this photo just exudes the langorous pace and restful atmosphere of the entire retreat.

Judith doing some artwork



Last Saturday night, September 22, the church had a baby shower for one of my former students, Myla, and her boyfriend, Derek (Derek's next to me and Myla's next to him in the photo). Their new baby is just about two months old!



On Sabbath, September 29, two students (one former, and one current) got baptized. It was wonderful to see these kids taking their stands for Jesus.

Pastor Eliki and his wife along with Barbara escort the newly baptized students from the water

A happy mother and daughter.

Happy Birthday Mom!

Guess how old? I won't reveal of course, but I will say it's a landmark and we should all be so lucky to look this beautiful!

This is posted a little early, but I'll be away on our staff retreat this weekend:

Happy Birthday Mom! I love you!

The Barbershop: A Tale of Two Haircuts

The Barbershop by Jacob Lawrence

As a general rule guys don't indulge in much, especially in the area of personal grooming. But for most men--especially, I have found, black men--the barber is an exception. There is something truly luxurious about letting an expert pamper you in the barber's chair. It's probably how women feel about manicures and such.

At the end of April I had my first haircut in two years, a horrible ordeal that took more than two hours and required my longsuffering wife to use every tool short of a chainsaw to hack through the dreadlocks. From there on out, a regular haircut would once again be a necessesity. And so a month after that first haircut, I was ready for another one. We figured Babs would do it, like she had in recent years but it quickly became apparent that this was not going to work. The clippers had been pretty much ruined by the last haircut and would barely cut at all. My head was a patchwork mess, when Babs finally gave up and suggested I find a barber. She told me about a sign for a four dollar barber she'd seen not too far from our house and I set off in search of it. Even a four buck haircut had to be better than the weedeater-chic look I was sporting.

What I found was a small marvel.

The Violet Barbershop

The place, oddly named, Violet Barbershop, was literally no more than a room--Chinese language DVDs for sale in one corner, a single barber's chair in the other. When I entered, another customer, a trendy-looking South Asian,was already in the chair and so I sat down to wait and to watch, as it turned out, a master at work. The diminutive Chinese barber wearing a wife-beater and a tattoo was a true craftsman. He moved with lightning speed and laser-like precision, but with an artist's grace. He switched between the comb, the electric clippers, the barber's shears like a juggler, making multiple tiny clips that added up to a sharp looking haircut. I was literally mesmerized watching him. And just when you thought he was done, he sprayed the guys neck and sideburns with a few bursts from a plastic spray bottle and pulled out the straight-edge razor! He whetted the razor on an old-fashioned leather strop hanging from the chair and then began the final touches to the masterpiece that was this Bangledeshi man's head. To be honest, I couldn't wait for him to work his magic on me.

I was not disappointed. The confident handling of the clippers, the attention to details at the hairline, the sideburns, the nape of the neck, the puff of cool mist from the spray bottle, the scratch of the straight edge, the talcum powder, and for the finish, the gentle whisper of the soft-bristle brush sweeping any stray hairs. I knew, as I walked out of the little Chinese barbershop, that I would be back again. Could I get a new pair of clippers and go back to home haircuts? Sure, but for a few moments of masculine pampering, for ten minutes in the presence of genuine talent and skill,four dollars was an unbelievable bargain. There is truly something inspiring about someone who has developed their chosen skill to the highest degree, even when it's something as simple as cutting hair.

My next haircut was not with the Chinese Master, but it too was a remarkable and memorable experience. I was in Minneapolis, Minnesota with Babs and her parents, visiting my sister-in-law Jenny and her husband Matt. My hair was beginning to look well-groomed by 1986 standards and it was time for another haircut. I'd seen a barbershop just a few blocks from Jenny's house, and so on a late Friday afternoon, on the spur of moment, I decided to stroll over and get myself a trim.


A scene from the movie I was "in" briefly, Barbershop, starring Ice Cube.

When I walked in the door to this shop, the experience couldn't have been more different from that at Violet Barber in Saipan. I felt like I'd walked into a movie, the movie Barbershop, to be exact. Have you ever seen it? Ice Cube is the protagonist, the owner of a barbershop in the 'hood. In this film, the barbershop is what the local watering hole is to white folks, "the place where everybody knows your name and they're always glad you came." Well, this place was just like that movie. Four guys, each with their own chair, a couple customers waiting their turn, all of them African American (well, with the exception of this one vaguely Latino looking guy--just like the movie!). The conversation was loud, as it only can be when brothers get together and start debating. The topic was the Iraq war and the arguments flew back and forth, on the surface sounding heated, but underneath suffused with friendliness and warmth. Believe it or not, the atmosphere was so remarkable that I didn't say a word (and that's saying quite a lot for someone who is ordinarily opinionated as I am). Who was I, the stranger in town to barge in with my white accent and bold opinions. No, I would stay quiet, listen, and bask in a feeling I hadn't realized I'd missed--that of being at home among the brothers.

When my turn came to sit in the chair, I found that there was one thing my barber had in common with the Chinese Master. He too was artist, and the feeling of being tended to by an expert was very much the same as I'd experienced in Saipan. Though the price was four times as high, I found that this unique experience was also worth every penny.

When I came back to Saipan, I went back to the Chinese Master once more, and I would still be stopping by once a month if I could only find him. Last Friday when I went for my latest trim, his shop was locked up and a map was posted directing me to a new location. I tried to find it but couldn't. I did stumble upon a $3 place, and I got a very speedy and completely adequate haircut from a friendly Chinese Korean lady there. But it wasn't the same. Maybe it was that she didn't use the straight edge? Or that she asked me a lot of questions? I don't know. . .in any case, the magic just wasn't there.

I hope I can find the Chinese Master again. And the next time I'm in Minneapolis, I'll be sure to stop in at the local barbershop near Jenny's house, even if I don't really need the cut (maybe I'll even put my two cents into whatever the topic of debate is that day). After all, there is real value in being in the hands of someone who takes pride in what they do, value in the camraderie of the clippers.


This photo was taken a few days after my most recent haircut (which unfortunately, was NOT done by the Chinese Master. Still, it looks pretty good, huh!)

A brief history of my haircuts:

1973-1992: My mom cuts my hair in the way that only a mother can. With lots of love and only a casual nod to the current styles. My hair during this period could generally by typed as "shaggy", as was typical of most people's hair during the mid-to-late seventies and eighties (though in high school I did have the famous "ledge", a box-top cut with an awning that jutted out over my forehead like a sort natural sun visor).

1992-1998: My pal Elliot cuts my hair every three weeks (except for two brief interludes, once during my student missionary days in Chuuk when my best friend J gave me a basic buzz and again for 11 months in 96-97, when I let my hair grow out into a curly afro.) He's a professional with the clippers and I have sharp looking "fade" that looks deceptively easy to create.

1998-2001: My hair is cut by the pre-school directors at our school, first by Jana Gatchet, and then by Sheri Rodman.

2001-2005: Babs becomes the Official Barbar. . .er Barber.

2005-2007: The wild years. The clippers stop working. I'm too cheap to buy another pair, and instead grow my hair out, first to a 'fro and finally to shoulder-length dreds. My mother is not pleased. I suspect my mission supervisors in Guam aren't exactly thrilled either.

Stumped

My Algebra II students and I pose with problem that stumped us.

One of a teacher's greatest fears is the fear of being stumped, of standing before your credulous students--they who trust that you know All, because you are the teacher--and having the spigot of knowledge suddenly dwindle to a thin stream before drying up all together. There's nothing worse than struggling in real time to understand a concept you're supposed to be teaching your students while they look on expectantly. Your heart pounds, you break into a cold sweat, you clear your throat and go "hmmmmmm" a lot. Eventually you start talking to yourself, turn your back on the students to face the board and start scrawling, desperate to figure out how the heck to do this, before finally in hasty shame suggesting that "we're running short on time so we'll get back to this one later"

I used to run into these nightmare moments more frequently when I first began teaching, but as the years have gone by and my confidence and knowledge of the subject matter has grown, they've become fewer and further between.

But this year, I've started teaching Algebra II, a subject I haven't taught in about seven years. I had the distinct sense that sooner or later I was going to be stumped. And this past Thursday, it finally happened.

We were taking questions before grading the previous days homework, when:

"Mister, how did they get the answer for number 15?"

The odd numbers have the answers in the back of the book. Smart students use those answers to be sure they are doing the work correctly. Not-so-smart students copy the answers down and move on without a second thought. These were smart students. So they already knew what the answer should be. They just couldn't figure out how to get that answer. The very fact that they cared about the "how" should have given me a clue that this was going to be no ordinary "stumped session."

I glanced at the problem--"Solve for S," it said--and then quickly solved it on the board. The answer was "S is equal to 2P over R."

Except it wasn't.

I studied the problem. How on earth did they get that? I puzzled, feeling my skin growing warm. Now I'm sure the math whizzess that are looking at this problem see the solution clear as day, but for some reason, I couldn't see it. I cleared my throat. I "hmmmmed." I turned my back to the students and scrawled away on the whiteboard, momentarily insensible to their presence in the room.

But this time, I didn't suggest we move on. And here, one of the worst experiences a teacher can have turned into one of the best moments any teacher can ask for.

The students rose out of their seats and gathered with me at the whiteboard. One, a young lady who I call "The Vice President" snatched the marker out of my hand and started writing. Her classmates "The Treasurer" and our newest student who I'll call "Violet" called out suggestions and started scrawling themselves. Their minds were whirring and they weren't just hazarding wild guesses--they were using their Algebra skills, applying the principles they'd learned. These kids were 100% engaged--something every teacher longs for in their students. I was so proud of them, I thought I'd burst. It was worth being stumped, just to see them jump into the deep end and really wrestle with this equation. That was the first great reward of being stumped that day--seeing my students joyfully engaged in challenging themselves and learning, using the skills they'd acquired. A teacher can't ask for more than that.

"Violet" was the first to find the solution, using a cross-multiplying method I'd always used for equal ratios but had never seen used to balance an equation like this. More amazing than the fact that she solved it, was the fact that I wasn't embarrassed that she solved it before I did. I was pleased and gratified to learn something new as well. But I wasn't satisfied, and neither were the other students. If it could be solved through cross multiplication, then it could be solved using the traditonal means of balancing an equation that I'd been teaching. We continued to tangle with the problem until at last we saw where our error had been, and how the problem could be solved. But there was still one more question--we'd gotten our answer, partially by clearing the decimal. But what if we left the decimal there? Why wasn't the answer turning out the same? I stared at the problem for a few moments and then the light came on. The answer was the same. I practically shouted this news to my students and began to enthusastically explain it. At first they didn't get it, but then they did, and we ended the class on a literal learning high. The second great reward of being stumped was learning something new, understanding a familiar principle in a whole new light. Ideally, a teacher never stops learning, and I was thrilled to see my own education continue that day.

Often we think that as teachers, as adults, the most important thing is to know everything. But sometimes it's when you're stumped that the real teaching--and the real learning--begin.


Here's a recreation of Thursday's problem. I didn't have the presence of mind to photograph the actual class, but on Friday I asked the Algebra II students to rewrite the problem and the solution we found, so that I could post it here. (Unfortunately, they neglected to show all the steps in solving the equation, but you get the idea).


And in other news. . .another amazing class! Here's "T" and a classmate acting as "news anchors" for RNN (Revolution News Network). On Friday, the class filmed a news report segment on the Battles of Trenton and Princeton for their 7th/8th American History class. The set has a sort of hyper-patriotic, Fox News type vibe, doesn't it. But hey, this is the American Revolution after all!

The Last Long Walk: Larene Leaves

Larene & Me at the airport, Wednesday, September 5, 2007

When I think of Larene, I will always think of her smile.

I didn't know Larene as well as I knew many the other teachers. Last year she was the Pre-School Director so she was always at this campus, and even though she lived with Virle and Joiey on our compound, we never hung out very much. I probably spent more time with Larene in the first three weeks of this school year than I did in all of last year. But Larene never made me feel like a stranger. She always greeted me with a warm smile and an open heart. She could have just given me a polite nod and a simple wave, but she gave us all, whether close friend or more distant work colleague, the gift of her brilliant smile and a cheerful greeting.

I was impressed by Larene's dedication to her job teaching Grades 5/6 while we waited for Judith to arrive. She could have just marked time and showed videos, but she didn't. She seemed to put her whole heart into her class and her work with them. And when the time to leave her new set of kids came, I was moved by her tears and by her obvious love for the kids in her care. I'll miss having the opportunity to know get know her better.

Larene, I wish you every happiness and every success. Go with God and He'll keep you smiling!

Larene Delos Reyes left us for her next big adventure about a week and a half ago on Wednesday, September 5. She left with a pack on her back, tears in her eyes, and, of course, a smile on her face.


Larene receives a Certificiate of Appreciation from Barbara on her last day of work at our weekly Joint Worship.

Larene with a lot of people who love her and will miss her (Wednesday, September 5, 2007)


Larene's Long Walk

A New Drama Season: REAL Gets in Touch with it's Feminine Side

The Girls of REAL: This season's REAL Christian Theater acting troupe (minus our one male actor, Peterson. He had another commitment at the time this photo was taken).

Last weekend, from Friday, August 31 through Sabbath, September 1, we had our annual REAL Christian Theater retreat.

This is the start of the team's 8th season and in many ways it felt like a very different team. Our team is almost entirely new this season. Virtually all of the old veterans who'd been with the team for years are gone now. In fact, with the exception of co-director "CK Girl" and myself, no one in this year's troupe has been with the team longer than two years. Our team is also one of the smallest we've had in recent years. There are only eight actors right now (we've actually got almost as many staff as we do performers--four directors, a light and sounds person--who is a kid though, a set & props person, and a team manager). But perhaps what makes this team particularly unique is that this year REAL is made up almost entirely of girls.

There are exactly three males on the team--Peterson, a recent high school grad who was a member of our team three years ago, "T", an 8th grader, who is our sound and lights tech, and me. Everyone else--actors, directors, staff--are women and girls. While it would be nice to have a more "balanced" group, I'm really excited about all the people on our team this season, and I also think that our all-girl makeup will present some unique opportunities to address issues and topics that the girls in our audiences can relate to and that the boys in our audience can learn from. I've got some very sharp and capable women in my co-directors Mai, Veronyka, and "CK Girl" and I'm excited to see what ideas they'll come up with.

The retreat was a success. Our theme was "Ready our Hearts to Carry Your Love" and our theme song was the Caedmon's Call tune "Carry Your Love." We had a great 24 hours of teambuilding and team bonding led by Mai and spiritual orientation led by Veronyka. "CK Girl" took some beautiful publicity photos and team manager Carol Paez and Babs cooked us some delicious meals. Sabbath afternoon the girls performed, many of them for the first time, presenting some short skits that they had created. I have to say I was very impressed by the talent of these actors, especially those that were so new to the stage. The performances were funny, believable, compelling and if they were any indication, we've got an amazing season ahead.

This coming Monday we'll have our first regular rehearsal and REAL Christian Theater's 8th season will officially be under way!

The Token Males in REAL: Peterson & "T"


One of our activties during the retreat: One team member closes her eyes, another team member strikes a pose, and the first team member must then "sculpt" a third member into the same pose based soley on "feel."

We had a particular vivid sunset on Friday night. I managed to catch the last bit of the blaze of glory in this photo.




Video of the team gathering for our first activity of the retreat, as our theme song plays in the background. It's gonna be a great season!

The Journey to Judith

And Abraham said, "God will provide. . ."
Genesis 22:8a

Now it came about that in the spring of 2007 that God tested the Saipan SDA School and said to the principal "Barbara!"

And she said "Here I am."

And He said, "Grant has some bad news for you. . ."

And so began the journey. I don't think I ever truly understood the famed story of Abraham and Isaac recorded in Genesis 22--indeed, I'd come to be actively uncomfortable with it in recent years. That is until I trailed along after Barbara on this, her journey up her own little Moriah.

Grant's decision not to return to Saipan for a second year was a shock. It just didn't seem right. How could this possibly be God's will? He was an excellent teacher, a vibrant leader, beloved by the kids. The second year was supposed to be even better than the first. And yet, there it was. Grant was leaving. God was calling him somewhere else, it seemed. And Barbara knew. A premonition, a whisper from God, call it what you will, but a few days before Grant delivered his resignation letter, Barbara sensed it was coming. It would it be the first of several such whispers Babs would hear in the long months ahead.

I'm sure along the way, Abraham was on the lookout for the lamb that he'd assured his son would be provided. I'm sure he heard a rustle in the bushes here, glimpsed a flash of wooly white amidst tall grasses there. I imagine he gazed longingly at the flocks grazing along roadside pastures waiting, hoping, and praying for the signal from the Lord to take one of them to be the sacrifice instead of his son. And so it was with Barbara. She interviewed prospective teacher after prospective teacher. Several sounded really good. A few were even excellent. She would make them an offer. And in a few cases they even said yes. The talk turned to airline tickets and arrival times, but always, always the bottom would drop out. Obstacles would arise, they would regretfully decline, and we would lose them. And often, Babs would hear the whisper in advance--ironically, often when everything seemed to be coming together--"No, this is not the one. They're not going to come." And the next day, sure enough, the door would close.

I'm sure that along the way, Abraham was tempted to force the issue. To just take what God had not chosen and make it work instead. Maybe a dog would do. Or how about a small bird? Anything, but his son. Maybe that was the test. To step out and take less than the best, less than what it seemed God required. So Barbara was tempted. It wasn't always that no one wanted to come. Sometimes it was Barbara who closed the door. She knew that some of the talented and eager applicants she encountered were wonderful, but not right for our school. She knew what she was looking for and in faith, she refused to settle.

Through the summer months, Barbara worked the phones, fired off e-mails, went through interview after interview, and there was nothing, and all the while Moriah's windswept peak drew closer.

And at last we were there. The mountaintop. The place of sacrifice, it appeared. We returned to Saipan. School began. And still there was no one. Our former pre-school director, Larene Delos Reyes, gamely and ably stepped into the gap to teach the the 5-7 homeroom while we waited for. . .what? For God to provide? Either He would come through in the clutch or Barbara would make the sacrifice--teaching full-time, the school hobbling along as best it could--and any work on fundraising or school expansion certainly put on hold.

And then, a phone call. It was Walla Walla College. "We heard you needed another teacher. Well, we have this girl who is interested in Saipan but she put down Majuro as her first choice, so she's going there." Not much hope there. But they gave Barbara her number and on a whim, Babs gave her a call. No one answered. So Barbara gave up.

A few days later, Walla Walla called again to question whether this girl was to come to Saipan, because the General Conference was voting the next day to send her to Majuro. Barbara told them, "No, go ahead and send her to Majuro." A few hours passed and Barbara was in the midst of a ho-hum webcam interview with yet another prospective teacher. The connection was going in and out, and while she drummed her fingers on the desk, waiting to be reconnected, the phone rang again. On the other end of the line was the girl--Judith Edwards. She was calling to say she wanted to come to Saipan.

Everything happened so fast after that. Barbara set up an interview and this time when the whisper came again, it said "This is the one."

Judith decided to make the sacrifice. She put her educational and career plans on hold, left behind friends and loved ones, abandoned her comfort zone, to come a tiny little rock in the Pacific to teach God's precious children. I'm sure it was scary, I'm sure it hurt some too, but she was willing and eager to make the sacrifice. And we're so glad she did.

Judith landed in Saipan early last Wednesday morning--just a week before Larene was scheduled to leave--to begin her adventure on Saipan. This Tuesday she'll step into the classroom that's been waiting for her all this time. I'd be surprised if she wasn't a little nervous--we all were on our first day, and add to that the pressure of being the Answer, the Provision. Talk about high expectations! But I'm confident that Judith will do a great job. After all, God called her, and He will enable her to thrive and shine.

So say a prayer for Judith. Because while our journey to find her has finally come to an end, her journey is just getting started.

Welcome to the team, Judith!



The late-night welcome for Judith on her arrival early on the morning of August 29, 2007.



"And Abraham called the name of that place "The Lord Will Provide", as it is said to this day, 'In the mount of the Lord it will be provided.'"

--Genesis 22:14

To be honest, I think lots of believers have gotten the story of Abraham and Isaac dead wrong. Check out my blog Faith Journeys for my latest post entitled "Getting Abraham and Isaac Right" which goes into further detail about what I learned about faith and sacrifice from our "Journey to Judith." Just click on the link on this page or go to http://www.movingfaith.blogspot.com/

Learning to Fly: Farewell to Keisha

Keisha (aka "Bono Girl") and Me

One of the privileges of living here in Saipan as long as we have is that we literally get to see our students grow up. The first kids I taught here in Saipan are adults now, finished with college, entering the working world, some even serving our country in the armed forces. A little more than a week ago, I saw the latest of my "kids", Keisha Paez, spread her wings and fly.

I've known Keisha (formerly known as "Bono Girl" in these blog pages) since she was in third grade. I taught her in one capacity or another for four years and she was a member of REAL Christian Theater from fifth grade until she graduated from high school. We've experienced a lot of ups and downs. After all, Keisha is a bit like fire--she can burn you badly and she can warm your heart. I've experienced both with Keisha--the former being unavoidable what with me being a teacher and her being a teenager--but luckily I've experienced far more of the latter over the years. And I know, that like a fire, she'll light up the world wherever she goes.

On Friday, August 24, she boarded a plane bound for her new life, as college freshman at La Sierra University in Riverside, California. I know she'll do great in college and I can't wait to hear her stories of her adventures when she comes home at Christmas!


The oldest and youngest Paez share a moment of brotherly bonding.
A few days before Keisha left for the States we got together with her family at P.I.C. to celebrate a birthday and spend some time together.

The Paez tribe. Note Keisha is NOT wearing her shades. This is as rare as seeing a photo of. . .well, Bono, without his shades.

Babs and I at the airport with Keisha on the day of her departure.

As a take-along treat, I made Keisha a batch of her favorite dessert--my famous peach cobbler. You can see here she's pretty excited about making her fellow passengers jealous when she digs into her cobbler while they are contemplating their little square of institutional chocolate cake.


It's not just teachers that take The Long Walk. Here's Keisha's.

. . . .And with Keisha gone, the dwindling Paez tribe walk on, to the next chapter in their lives.

Well the good old days
may not return
And the rocks might melt
and the sea may burn

I'm learning to fly
but I ain't got wings
coming down
is the hardest thing

I'm learning to fly
around the clouds
--Tom Petty

Go with God, Keisha. And fly high.