I Have Seen the Lord God Almighty (And Signed His Shoe)

God wore something like these...
God wore something like these...

I met God in Beverly Hills.

He was taller than me, and He had a long beard. I’d always pictured him that way, but in my mind’s eye God’s beard was milky-white and his presence was full of glory and majesty. When I met God, his beard was long (but brown and greasy), and instead of glory and majesty, he was full of alcohol. God didn’t ask me for a dollar, nor did he command me to serve him as a life missionary in Upper Moravia. God asked me to sign his shoe.

“Sign my shoe,” he said. His question startled me. I stopped and looked at the dark doorway from whence the voice had come.

“What?” I asked. I hadn’t planned on meeting God that night. I was dressed nicely, but I wasn’t wearing my Sunday best. I hoped he wouldn’t mind that I was wearing a pair of shorts in his presence.

God blinked and said, “I’m God. Would you like to sign my shoe?” He was sitting on the steps of a leather goods store holding a worn tennis shoe in his hand.

“You’re God?” I asked. “As in, God?”

He nodded in an understanding way and started to say something, but I interrupted. I wanted to know why God was here. I’d never heard of such a thing. Being careful not to get too close, I asked, “What are you doing in Beverly Hills?” I was surprised to see him here. Los Angeles, even Beverly Hills, didn’t seem like his territory. And God didn’t look like he belonged in Beverly Hills. Looking carefully at his plaid flannel shirt and torn jeans, I couldn’t help but wonder if God would belong anywhere.

He shrugged His shoulders and grinned. “I got lost.”

Such a thing had never occurred to me in all my years of Sunday School, and I almost asked why he hadn’t just purchased a map. But that might be received as impertinent. So instead I asked “Where were you going?” and immediately wondered if I had committed a faux pas by not addressing him as “sir,” or “thou,” or “Almighty Lord Who Examineth Our Hearts and Knoweth Our Minds.” Was it impolite not to call him by a title? And just plain old “God” didn’t sound very proper. Imagine asking the Creator of the Universe, “Where were you going, God?” It doesn’t work.

God answered my question with a sigh. “I was going to Disneyland. I’m from Michigan.”

The theological implications of this were more than I could handle. I took a few steps away from him. God stood up and stretched, watching me closely with wild eyes. “I got lost and asked for directions,” he said, pointing over my shoulder. “I parked on that street right there, and when I came back, my car was gone. Towed away.” I nodded sympathetically, which seemed to make God feel better. He smiled, and I noticed that God’s teeth were much cleaner than his breath. They were pearly white. “So, I’ve been stuck here for a few weeks. I don’t know when I’ll leave. Maybe when I find my car.” God stuck a hand in his pockets and pulled out a pack of gum. “Want a stick?” he asked.

I shook my head no. It was hard for me to accept a God who offered me sticks of Juicyfruit—and besides, he may have decided my time on earth was up and poisoned the gum. As much as I loved him, I wasn’t going to let him take my life in his hands. At least, not this time. God shrugged and stuck a piece of gum in his mouth. “If you see a yellow Dodge Dart with Michigan license plates, let me know. It’s my car, and I think the police are trying to sell it,” he said, chewing. He just kept throwing zingers at me. I’d always pictured God as a limousine-type guy, something grand and bold and glorious, just like all those Psalms. But God drove a yellow Dodge Dart. “Sign my shoe,” he said again, suddenly. He held out the worn sneaker and a pen.

I looked at him, and his eyes looked back into mine—and they were full of something that made me take the smelly shoe in my hands and look at it. Someone had written, “Peace,” and someone else, “I need a babe.” Next to that, “Nice to see you.” And then names, signatures all over God’s shoe in fading and faded blue ink. I took the pen and looked at God. His beard was long and scraggly; he was tall, but his shoulders stooped; his forehead was heavily lined. But he was God. He’d told me so. He’d asked me to sign his shoe. God was asking me to do something. Everything I’d ever been taught told me I had to obey. A nice-dressed couple walked by just then, and I could feel the question in their look: “What’s a nice guy like him doing talking to a bum like that?” Before I could say anything, God spoke up and said, “I’m God and he’s signing my shoe. I’ve made another friend.” The lady laughed and the man muttered, “Yeah, right,” and they hurried on.

I took a deep breath and signed my name. I handed the shoe and the pen back to him and he said, “Thank you, Duane.” “Don’t mention it,” I said. It was getting late—the people I was meeting were already waiting. I made movements to go.

“It was nice talking to you. I hope you find your car.”

God smiled. “I will. I’m not always lost in Beverly Hills.” “Yeah,” I said and turned to go. Before I could walk to the corner, God’s voice stopped me. I turned and looked back at him. He was waving. “Hey,” he said, those white teeth showing through the greyish beard. “You’d never believe how many people don’t want to be my friend! You’re one of the few. Have a great evening! I’ll watch out for you!” With a final wave, God walked the opposite direction, one shoe in his hand.

I haven’t seen God since then. I talk to him every day, but very rarely do either of us mention the time he got lost in Beverly Hills. Once I thought of asking him if he ever found his car, and what the deal was with signing his shoe, but I didn’t have the nerve. What God does with his spare time is up to him—it’s none of my business, really. I have this feeling, though, that the next time I see God, he’s going to have that tennis shoe in his hand, and he’s going to remember that I was his friend. He’ll point to my name and say, “You’re one of the few.” And I don’t think—right then, at that moment—his smile will be any bigger or friendlier than it was that night when I met God on a street corner in Beverly Hills.

‘Twas in the Moon of Wintertime

winter_moon“Twas in the moon of wintertime when all the birds had fled
That mighty Gitchi Manitou sent angel choirs instead.”
— from a French-Indian carol

The snow fell, swirling in the brisk wind.

The boy shivered and pulled his coat tighter.  He coughed and wiped his nose on the back of his mittens, wishing that Ezra would come out of the bakery soon.  He scrunched up his eyebrows, trying to look through the shop’s steamed-up windows, but he could only make out the words Miller’s Baked Goods and Pastries, painted in bright red and gold.

He tried to whistle, but it was too cold and his chapped lips wouldn’t pucker properly.  The boy wanted to go into the shop—he thought about running to the door and throwing it open—but Ezra had said, very firmly, “Now Dan’l, I don’t want you fol’wing me in, hear?  You stay put, boy, and I’ll be back.”

Daniel turned his face to the sky and smiled as the snowflakes fell onto him, sticking to his eyebrows and eyelashes, melting as they touched his skin.  It felt good, he thought, to stand and be imobile and let things just happen to you.  If Ma was still alive, she’d say, “Daniel, you stop that nonsense this instant and come out of the cold.  You haven’t got the sense God gave a dog.”  “But she ain’t,” he said to himself.  “She’s gone and now it’s just me and Ezra.” At the name, he thought once more about the bakery.  “Dang it, why don’t you come outside, Ezra?” he called, once again looking at the shop’s window.

A siren sounded somewhere down the street and Daniel jumped.  Instinctively, he looked for the sound and supressed an urge to hide.  “I ain’t done nothin’,” he said, calming himself.  “It’s okay.  Calm down.”  The police car sped past, tires swirling in the slush on the street.  The boy looked down, avoiding the car, avoiding the eyes of its drivers, not wanting to be noticed.  “Dang it, Ezra!” he said, and his breath steamed in the cold air.

He was a small boy—not young, but still a boy—but he had a look of oldness about him.  Maybe it was the felt hat, pulled rakishly over his left ear; or the scarf, twice the lenghth of his body, wrapped around his neck—the blue and gold stripes contrasting with his red cheeks.  Maybe it was the way he stood against the drug store wall, looking out of place and yet at home, here on the cold street.  If he could have seen through the window behind him, seen the druggist staring out at him, wondering why such a small boy was standing beside his door, in this weather, this late at night, Daniel might have felt that twinge in his stomach again—the twinge that only came when ladies, nice ladies, smiled at him or when Mr. Smith, the grocer, gave him errands to run.  It was a feeling he liked and yet hated, and if he had seen the druggist’s face, he might have wished himself somewhere warm again, like he had been before, with Ma.

Ezra was still in the bakery.  “What’s he doin’?” thought Daniel.  He stamped his feet and rubbed his mittened hands together, forcing the cold out of his body, forcing himself to stay awake.

The streetlight on the corner cast a yellowish glow on the snow as it lit, giving the drifts and hills a spookiness that looked out of character.  He was glad it was snowing.  Cold without snow doesn’t make sense, he thought.  Ma always said that snow gave cold a reason.  She always said it with a cup of hot chocolate in her hand, too—the cup overflowing with whipped cream.  Ma liked whipped cream.  Daniel shook his head.  She wouldn’t like this snow.  This snow is different somehow, even though it sticks to my eyebrows like it always does, he thought.  Ma, where are you now? he wondered.  Why’d you go and leave me with Ezra?

As the dark increased, the streetlight’s glow grew brighter and the falling snow took on the same spookiness as the slushy stuff that covered the street.  The boy noticed that down the street someone was walking — just far enough past the light to be in the shadows, but close enough to hear as the feet trudged through the melting, dirty snow.  The lights from the bakery shop glowed through the steamed windows, and he could now make out shadows within.  Someone with a hat — Ezra, thought Daniel — and a lady and someone behind the counter: all the boy could see was their silhouettes, frosted with the mist on the glass.  “He’s still in there,” said Daniel outloud, enjoying the cloud his words made in the cold air.  “Ezra, are you coming out?” he yelled suddenly, surprised at the break his voice made in the silence.

A shadow leaned out of the bakery door.  “Pipe down, Dan’l!  I’ll be out!  I hear ya!” barked the shadow, slamming the door behind it as it made its way back into the warm light of the shop.  Daniel brushed his hair out of his eyes.  Ma’d never let it get this long, he thought, looking at the few rebelious strands that went back to their place on his forehead.  He pulled the hat down farther on his head and his left ear was instantly warmer.  He reached a mittened hand up and rubbed gently on the other ear, massaging warmth into it again.

The snow fell, swirling in the yellow glow of the streetlight.  The moon, bright and full in the clear night sky, shone above it, casting its own cold, white light onto the snow drifts.  Daniel rubbed his hands together, slid his back tiredly down the wall, coming to a sitting position and pulling his legs closer to him by wrapping his arms around them.  “Dang it, Ezra.”  How long could it take? he wondered, wishing the moon wasn’t quite so bright, and hoping that Ezra would come out of the bakery soon.  “Before I freeze to death,” he said outloud.

Somewhere down the street there was the sound of yelling.  Daniel stood up, wiped the snow from his pants, and looked towards the noise.  It wasn’t loud, like a fight, but suddenly he could sense anger in the brisk air, and he wanted to go away.  He wanted to leave the street and leave Ezra and go back.  “The moon’s too bright,” he said, as much to hear his voice as anything.  Ma always said never to trust a bright moon.  There’s evil in them, she’d say.  “When it shines too brightly or is too white and full, stay out of its light, Daniel,” she said one night, long ago, when the moon was full like tonight and snow fell on their house.  “Evil moon, son.  Stay out of its light.”

Daniel shook from cold and fear.  The anger in the air was stronger now, and the yelling was coming closer.  Part of him wanted to stay — to wrap his scarf around him, pull the jacket closer, and hide in the doorway — and watch the noise, feel the anger as it came by.  But a stronger part of him, the part that his Ma had known, the part of him that was still little boy, wanted very much to be warm and away from this street and the streetlight and the bright, evil moon.  He ran across the street to the bakery and banged on the door.

Ezra stuck his head out.  “What is it, Dan’l?  Can’t you see I’m busy?  Now go on, boy, and leave me be!”  He was about to shut the door when Daniel grabbed his hand.

“Ezra, please!  Something’s not right out here.  Something wrong is on the street tonight.  I want to go.  I don’t want to stay here!”  His voice rose in volume as the fear gripped him in its brisk, cold, and snowy fist.  “I want to go!”

The older man pushed Daniel’s hand away.  “Shut up!  You hear?  Shut up and stay out there!  I oughta leave you — that’s what I oughta do.  You want to be left, boy?  You wanta be alone tonight?”  The boy shook his head, silent and afraid.  “Then you shut up and wait out there and let me finish my business!  Go on!”  And he pushed the boy roughly, slamming the door.  The cold air was not comfortable anymore.  The briskness that had made it so nice earlier now threatened to choke the life out of the boy and the moon, bright and white and full and powerful, bore down on him through the falling snow.  Daniel looked around — listened for the yelling.  There it was again.  Louder and stronger and more full of the evil in the air.

“Dang it Ezra!” he said again, to comfort himself and to curse the old man.

He sat on the steps, scrunched together for warmth, for protection.  All around him the night air, the blowing wind, the winter moon — everything pushed at him and pulled at him, and Daniel began to feel something stronger, something more than the moon and the air and the cold.  Ma!  It’s Ma, he thought.  He smiled and even laughed.  Ma in the winter, loud and brash, trying to scare the cold away.  “You can’t get me down, you fool wind,” she’d yell, walking down the street, snow covering her.  “I’ll beat you!”  And she would laugh — Daniel shuddered at the thought — loud and long, a glint in her eye.  “You can’t make me cold,” she said that last time.  That last time a few winters ago when the cold and the wind had gotten her down and had beaten her.  It sucked the warmth right out of her, and that last triumphant cry, “You can’t make me cold,” rang hollow and empty when Daniel saw death in her eyes.  The cold had won, and Ma had lost — lost it all as an old sick woman.

He jerked his head suddenly.  The noise was close now — very close — and he could do nothing but sit there and listen and watch, waiting for the noise, for the yelling, to grow louder and come closer.  “Ezra,” he said.  “I hate you.”

“What’s that?”

Daniel looked around and saw the shadow leaning against the railing.  “Nothing,” he said.  Ma said don’t talk to strangers, too, he thought.  Then why Ezra?  She didn’t know him from Adam.  Why Ezra?

“Indeed,” said the shadow.  “Why anything?”

Daniel just sat staring straight ahead, not answering and wanting not to listen.

“The yelling is growing louder, isn’t it, Daniel?”

The boy jumped up.  “Leave me alone,” he said, trying to sound brave but knowing he hadn’t succeeded.  “I’ve got a friend inside — and I don’t have any money.”

The shadow shrugged.  “I don’t want anything from you, Daniel.  I’m waiting for the yelling and the cold and the evil moon.  I’m waiting with you.”

“I don’t want you to wait.  I want to be alone.”

He could hear the shadow sniff.  “Then why Ezra?  Why run in there?”

Daniel sat down again, feeling smaller and helpless and wanting to be a little boy again, when he was warm most of the time and Ezra hadn’t been around and nothing had scared him.  “Just wait, Daniel,” said the shadow.  “Just wait.”  And the voice, as well as the shadow, disappeared.

The boy waited.  Was Ezra ever coming out?  He laughed and the brisk wind caught the sound and blew it into a snow flurry, where it danced in the light of the bright evil moon, growing louder and louder, mixing with the distant sound of the yelling and the noise, joining with the shadow’s vanishing voice, rising up in the wind, covering the street beneath an umbrella of weather and cold and snow and wind and sounds — laughter and pain and mysterious words — and leaving the boy, Daniel, sitting alone on the steps of the bakery shop, waiting for Ezra and the yelling and the evil to pass him by.

The moon, bright and full of white light, shone down through the snow as it fell, drowning out the yellow glow of the streetlight in its fierce whiteness, casting an  eerie, evil covering over the ground and over the boy.  The wind was cold, blowing around the boy as he sat alone, staring up at the winter moon, waiting.

Waiting.

While Standing in Line at Subway…

mean-ladySo last week, after a particularly long and trying day, we decided to eat at Subway for dinner.

Anywhere you go with four children, you realize that you aren’t the norm in our present day society.  Most people look at us like we’re crazy, which is a little bit true.  It takes a bit of a crazy mentality to go for four.  And it helps to be a little crazy because things just aren’t as controllable as you may like them to be.

So we walked into Subway.  It does no good to have all six of us stand in line, so I took Audrey and Austen and got in line after getting a quick breakdown from Robyn of just what she wanetd on her spicy Italian sub.   She went to sit at an open booth with the two youngest kids, and as I stood in line a woman in her mid-fifties entered and got in line behind us.  She looked like an old co-worker from my Disney days, and had a pleasant enough expression on her face.

Autumn decided she had to use the bathroom right then–and the only way to get to them was through the locked door.  The key was at the counter, so I asked Audrey and Austen to stay right there in line–I would be right back after I got the key to the bathrooms.  They followed me to the cash register, where the clerk helpfully gave us the key.  I walked back to where I had been in line, handed the key off to Robyn and said, “Excuse me,” to the woman who had been behind me.

“What for?” she asked.

“I”m just trying to get back in line,” I said.  “Thanks!”

“Were you in line?” she asked.

I think my mouth dropped open–my chin had to have fallen to the floor.  “What?”

“Were you in line?” she repeated.

I looked at her and could see she wasn’t joking.  Her mouth was set and her eyes were not friendly.  “Yes–I was right in front of you.  I just had to go over to the counter to get the key for the restroom so my wife could take my youngest to the bathroom.”  I was trying to explain it in as nicely a way as possible.  I couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen me.  My family–all six of us–aren’t exactly the types of people who blend quietly into the background.

“You didn’t save your place in line.”

I have never ever, in my entire life, been flummoxed before.  I’d always wanted to be in a situation where I could use that word correctly.  And here it was, presented to me by a grumpy woman in line at Subway.  I was flummoxed.  “Seriously?  I tried to leave my kids in line here, but they followed me…”

“They should have stayed in line.”

“They’re kids.  Of course they followed me…” I was helpless.  I couldn’t argue with whatever powers had convinced her that somehow I was trying to thwart her ability to get her $5 foot long.  I was waiting for her to yell, “No placebacks!”  Had I just travelled through a hole in the space-time continuum and ended up back at the drinking fountain in 3rd grade?  I literally shoook my head.  “I was standing here,” I said weakly.

“You were standing here?” she asked again.

I took a deep breath, sighed, and said, “Obviously it is important to you that you eat before these small children.  So, please, go ahead of me.  Please.”  The line had grown considerably since she had made me doubt my sanity.  “I’ll go to the back of the line, since it’s that important to you.”

I went and sat down where August still sat, blithely waiting for one  of his parents to return.  The nice old lady in the booth behind us smiled and said, “You know, if you need to stand in line, I can watch your baby.  I’m a state-certified and licensed day care provider.  And I have six children and four grandchildren.”

I smiled back at her.  “No, thank you.  It’s okay.  I’ll just wait for my wife.”  I glanced over at the line.  “I just don’t have the energy to deal with crabby people.”

“Nobody does,” she said.  And at that moment, the crabby lady leaned as far out of the line as she could–I swear she was doing the splits so she wouldn’t lose her place to the people behind her.  “Sir,” said crabby, “go ahead and get in line.  I see you have a baby and small children…”

I wanted to turn around and yell, “I had small children with me in line!  Are you serious?”  Instead, I just turned and said, “No, it’s okay.  I’ll just wait for my wife.”

When Robyn came out of the bathroom with Autumn, I returned the key and got back in line with Audrey and Austen.  I watched as crabby lady ordered her sandwiches, tried to smile at her as she walked out the door–she looked everywhere she could without making eye contact with me again–and placed our order.  By the time we were done, she had received her order a total of 3 minutes ahead of me.

The lesson here?  Remember that the rule of placebacks is still in effect.  Remember that next time you’re in line.

A Popcorn Kernel, A Little Girl, and a Crazy Father

I was watching a movie with the kids last night.  We do it most Monday nights while Robyn is at her meeting.

Last night I made popcorn for each of them and we all sat back to enjoy the exploits of Indiana Jones.  I had a fedora on–I’d worn it all day because of my lack of a hair cut and desire to look better than a trucker, which is what I look like when it gets too long, kind of sticking out like wings under a baseball cap–and Autumn kept coming by and saying, “Be Indiana Jones,” so I would talk in a funny voice.   She wandered around–after all, the exploits of Indiana Jones aren’t exactly three year old material–and while I was feeding August, she came by with something in her hand.

“I’m going to put this in his nose,” she said.

“Uhm, no you are not,” I said.

“Okay, I’m gonna put it in my nose,” she said.

“Uhm, no you are NOT,” I repeated.  “Do not put that in your nose.”

Clearly disappointed, she said, “Okay,” and put the kernel in her bowl.  We continued the adventure, she continued to call me Indy and things went along quite well.  Until she walked over to me and said, rather cutely, with an absolutely adorable smile on her face, “I put it in my nose!”

“What?”  I couldn’t believe she said what she had just said.  “You didn’t.  Autumn.  You didn’t put that in your nose.  Did you?”  I looked at Audrey, Autumn looked at Audrey.  “Do you think she did?”

“I did!” said Autumn.  “I did put it in my nose.”

Audrey frowned at me.  “I think she did, Daddy.”

“You did not.  Autumn.  You did not do that.  You did not put that in your nose.  Did you?  You did?  No, you didn’t.”  Was I trying to convince her or myself?  But by the look on her face I could tell she was telling the truth.  And suddenly, the adventures of Indiana Jones were nothing compared to the adventures of Kernel in the Nose.  I handed the baby to Austen and picked up Autumn as quick as I could, carrying her to the couch and holding her head back.  “Do. Not. Move,” I said, holding her as tightly as possible.

There it was–stuffed way up beyond the nostril, all the way into her right sinus cavity.

My mind was racing.  I wondered if I could just pick it out–like I do when she gets those nasty boogers little kids seem to get–but there was no way my fat fingers were going to fit.  I left her on the couch, ran upstairs and grabbed some tweezers.  In the next twenty minutes I proceeded to try everything I could think of to get that popcorn kernel out of her little nose.  I blew into her mouth, blew into her nose, used tweezers and am sad to say a few other absolutely ridiculous things that I’m sure will wake her in a cold sweat when she hits college.  Nothing doing, that thing was not going to come out.

I knew I was going to have to take her to the emergency room.  I really didn’t want to, not so much from the cost factor, but because she had two lovely bruises on her face, and having experienced the questions of hospitals when Austen had broken his leg–and I really didn’t want to go through that again.  (For the record, she is extremely fair skinned so any slight bruise looks pretty nasty.  She had fallen out of her bed while reaching for a book one night and banged her face on the bookshelf–giving her a lovely green “Joker-esque” mark on her left cheek.  Then she fell out of our bed two nights later and got a huge goose egg from banging her head on my bedside table.  So she looked like she had been through the wars already.)   I had no choice–I could not get that kernel out, and there was no way, in spite of her reassuring me with “The popcorn doesn’t bother me at all now, Daddy!” that I was going to leave it in there.

It’s still in there.

Texted Robyn to tell her I was on my way to the ER, called my mom to come over and watch the other three, and hurried down the road to Valley General.  Luckily, Autumn was pretty calm by this point–all the torture she’d gone through as I desperately tried to pull a popcorn kernel from her sinus cavity had been forgotten because of the promise of ice cream after the doctor visit.  We did rehearse several times as to how she had acquired the bruises, in case anyone asked.

When it was finally our turn to see the doctor, she had charmed her way through the entire ER.  Her long blonde hair, cute smile, and the fact she was singing a made-up song to the Raiders of the Lost Ark theme, probably helped.  Doctor Rob came in with a crazy syringe contraption, and although I was going to film the whole thing for later posting on my Facebook page, by the time they got to almost pulling it out, she was crying too hard–mostly from the fact that they had restrained her arms–and the father side of me gave in and I just held her and told her she was going to be fine.

Through the syringe, eventual tweezers, and the amazing work of Dr. Rob, the kernel was eventually out.  I was going to bring it home for posterity, but I dropped it somewhere in the ER.  Every doctor and nurse made Autumn promise to never do it again.  Of course, I think she heard me tell the nurses that at least it wasn’t as bad as when her brother broke his femur.  Now I’m just a little nervous that her competitive nature might get the best of her.  Maybe I’ll make her spen d the next month living downstairs…just to be safe.  And, of course, without any popcorn.

After Watching WALL*E Again…

We watched WALL*E last night.  It was the first time I’d seen the movie since the theatre, where I didn’t get to enjoy it as much as I would have liked.

(Aside, I really like going to the movies.  I love seeing movies in theatres with awesome sound, with huge screens, in optimal viewing conditions.  We saw WALL*E in the only theatre in Lake Chelan, an old movie theatre with original seats from the 1930’s, a non-awesome sound system, and non-optimal viewing conditions apart from the fact we were on a nice time away with our family.  Oh, and Autumn had to go to the bathroom three times, never went each of the times we ventured into the vintage restrooms, and finally, during the last act of the film, when I refused to take her a fourth time, proceeded to wet her pants.  While sitting on my lap.  So I had no idea what happened really until they landed back on earth.  Which is why I didn’t enjoy it as much as I would have liked. As you can probably imagine.)

I love Pixar films.  They are not your typical animated movies.  They remind me of the movies Walt Disney did when he started back in the 1930’s and 1940’s.  Walt didn’t make his movies for children.  He was making films for adults.  Somehow, here in our country, we’ve relegated animation to the realm of Saturday mornings, appropriate for kids and nobody else.  As a result, most animated films, even recent ones from Disney (I’ll give you Brother Bear and Home on the Range or Chicken Little), but especially most of the Dreamworks movies (especially the later stuff, Madagascar, Shrek 2 or Shrek 3) and pretty much anything else, are geared for children or adults of average intelligence.  Great filmmaking doesn’t happen when one’s goal is to see how many pop culture references one can insert into a film.  Unfortunately, sarcasm and irony have become the norm in most animated movies, so we don’t get great stories.

Walt was all about the story.  If it didn’t advance the story or got in the way of it, it was out.  Even if it cost a lot of money in the long run.  Money wasn’t important.  Story was.  This is why those early Disney films are tight, deeply felt stories.  No extraneous characters, no laugh at the expense of the character’s story development.  The “Golden Age” films were amazing not just for what they were doing with animation, but for the stories being told–stories that nobody else in filmmaking was even trying to tell.  Snow White, Pinocchio, Bambi, Dubmo, and even Fantasia.  These movies were met with excitement by adults because they saw them as a whole new way of telling stories. 

We tend to forget that Walt was hailed as a genius after Snow White.  He was loved by film crictis, intellecutuals, artists, the avant garde.  He was considered ground-breaking and cutting edge.  Nobody said, “Oh, it’s a cartoon, that’s for kids.”

Fast forwad to 1995 and Toy Story.  Cutting edge technology, amazing animation, but all of it is about the story.  If you don’t care what happens to Woody and Buzz, it doesn’t matter when they get captured by Sid.  It doesn’t matter whether or not Buzz can see himself as having value after the poignant “I Will Sail No More” scene.  It doesn’t matter wether or not Woody will realize that his value comes not from his position, but from his relationships.  So Toy Story changed everything again.

Pixar has released only a handful of movies since 1995.  Every single one of them is technologically amazing, but even more, each one tells a compelling and powerful story about finding your place in the world–which is, after all, the story we are all trying to answer, isn’t it?

After Toy Story came A Bug’s Life, which suffered because of a clash of ego between Michael Eisner and his former employee and new Dreamworks founder Jefferey Katzenberg.  Dreamworks rushed the movie Antz (which is one of the ugliest animated films ever made) into production to ensure it was released before A Bug’s Life.  But the …Life is the better film.  A basic retelling of The Grasshopper and the Ants, it used wonderful characters, in a beautifullly realized setting, to help tell a story of value and belonging.

(And I will have to admit how much I love that Pixar doesn’t make a big deal about the voice actors (much like Disney did until The Jungle Book).  Who cares who voices a character?  The voice is only a part of the performance.  Without an amazing animator making the character live, you only have a voice.)

Toy Story 2 is the rare sequel that is even more powerful than the film it inspired.  To think a toy’s midlife crisis would speak so deeply to questions of our own ideas of value, of place.  And the interaction between Buzz and the “toy” Buzz raise great questions of identity.  Monsters, Inc. is one of my favorites, in part because of the strength of the characters, but also because of the strength of the design.  It’s a great experience with a dazzling technical display in the door sequence toward the end.  Finding Nemo is a beautiful tale (tail!) of filial love, of growing up, and the passage adults and children must take together toward growing up.  The Incredibles is probably the greatest superhero ever made.  Incredible acting, animation, design, music, etc.  It was probably the best film of the year it was released and speaks deeply to contemporary issues of family, of being alike vs. being equal.  Cars has its detractors, but as a celebration of the American southwest, the US car culture, and most of all, an appreciation of a past that is all too quickly slipping away in the name of speed, there are few better films.  Ratatouille was again, a story of family, belonging, and finding our place in the world–and it made cooking look better on film than any movie before or since.  Which brings us to Pixar’s most recent film, WALL*E.  Virtually dialogue free for the first hour, it takes two robots who can say little more than each other’s names and the word “Directive” and make us care about not only them, but the humans they encounter.  Sure, it may be a little too “PC” for some people in its anti-consumerism and ecological underpinings, but still…no cheap jokes, no catering to the lowest common denominator, and the only pop culture references are there for a purpose (the Hello, Dolly songs, for example).

Pixar has made exactly 10 movies in the past 13 years, and every single one of them stand today as works of art.  Not just because of great design, but because they tell great stories.  They don’t look at animation as something for kids only.  They make intellgient, brilliant movies, for adults and kids to enjoy together.  And they aren’t afraid of taking chances.  A story about toys coming to life, sure, that’s a gimmee.  A story about a fish looking for his son?  A rat who loves to cook?  A superhero going through a midlife crisis?  A robot who has outlived his purpose and falls in love?  None of these sound that good on paper…

But brought to life, well, it’s exactly what Walt was passionate about.  Getting that story told.

You can talk about Slumdog Millionaire or Benjamin Button, but they will not stand the test of time WALL*E will.  The best picture of the last year was about a little robot who helped us find our humanity again.  And I’m guessing that the best movie of this year will be about an old man, a boy scout, and thousands of balloons: their next film, simply titled Up.

Months of the Year: A Poem by Austen

Austen wrote this at school for fun last week.  Just because, and he received no help.  I’m pretty proud of it.

January is when winter comes.
February, oh yes!  Here come love!
March is a lucky day.
April is when you play in the rain.
May is when flowers shoot out.
June is when you dance all about.
July is when fireworks boom!
August is when fruits start to  bloom.
September is when school days start.
October is when you get candy and sweet-tarts.
November is when you get turkey.
December is when we open presents, you and me.

The End.

A Cornucopia of Creatures

I love animals.  Not like a crazy PETA member, but I love the cute little ones that God created for my pleasure.  I had a hamster as a kid (two, actually, both named Snowball–actually, named Snowball 1 and Snowball 2, respectively), we had two dogs and a cat in our family, and I always knew I’d want some pets when I had a family of my own.

We have a dog, a beagle named Elphaba (yes, that is a Wicked reference) who stirs up the highest levels of pet affection and pet annoyance on a pretty regular basis.  We also have a cat, Cece, who does nothing but eat and sleep and has the loudest and most annoying “meow” ever uttered by a feline.

So I love animals.  But I do not love them when they are interlopers…

Last spring we discovered some birds had found a small opening into the eaves above Audrey’s window.  We’d seen them flying around the house like crazy, past her window, and suddenly disappearing–but really didn’t know what they were up to until we heard the chirping of little babies.

Not wanting to be the daddy whose kids watched him kill some innocent birds, I decided to let it go and deal with it later.  Later turned out to be yesterday.

I was working in the office when Robyn called me.  “Honey,” she said, “what is this?”

I walked into Audrey and Autumn’s room and heard some scratching–which sounded like it was coming from the walls outside, as if something was trying to get in.  Now, this would not have really been a cause for concern if we hadn’t started getting hints of other visitors in the backyard.

We have a large rockwall along our backyard and over the past couple weeks, we’ve watched Elphie absolutely go nuts smelling around the nooks and crannies of the wall.  We figured it was something small, probably a mouse, especially since the neighbors at the other end of the block had been having a slight difficulty with getting their trash out on time.

So the other night the dog freaks out.  Jumping at the back door, barking, just going crazy.  We let her out and she goes right to the barbecue.  Smelling, sniffing, barking, whimpering–she’s just beside herself to get something out of there.  And suddenly, out of a crack in the lid, a mouse sticks out its head.  Robyn freaks out now and we’re both certain we will never leave the backdoor open for the dog again.

Many thoughts of how to stop the mice from getting any closer to the house (other than releasing Elphie to go rogue) fill our minds that night.  So when we hear the sounds on–or in–the walls the next day, we’re pretty sure it’s mice.  A whole slew of ’em in our walls.  And that would totally, completely, suck.

But then we remembered the birds that had been there in that crack above Audrey’s window, so I got the ladder and entered the really large crawl space above the bedrooms.  It took me several minutes–Robyn says ten, but I say it was more like 3–to get the nerve to climb in.  I kept picturing Tippi Hedren in The Birds, convinced they would descend on me en masse, ready to peck my eyes out.

In the dim light of the “attic,” I couldn’t see very much, and it didn’t help that Robyn was on the phone with her father, the former career Navy man, who said things like, “Birds aren’t scary.  Do you want me to come take care of it?”  Determined to prove to my wife that I could protect her in some neo-caveman way, I came down off the ladder and looked for a flashlight.  Couldn’t find one quickly, so I got a lamp–one of those ones you put behind a plant to shine in the corner–plugged it into the outlet, and grabbed a bunch of socks to stuff in whatever open holes I can find.

I hoisted myself into the attic and pushed the insulation, which looks like snow, out of the way so I didn’t end up pulling a Chevy Chase–you know, that scene in Christmas Vacation where he falls through the ceiling–and made my way across the trusses supporting the roof until I reached the corner where the birds entered the roof.  Sure enough, there was a huge nest and lots of feathers, so I covered my hands with the socks I’d stuffed into my sweater, and began pushing it all back out the hole the birds came in.  It was pretty nasty, and it felt kind of creepy, too.  And I know I looked just awesome.

Suddenly I heard a bunch of noises on the roof and I freaked out.  The birds were coming for me.  They knew I was hell bent on destroying their home.  Like a predatory lender, I was foreclosing on them–but they weren’t waiting on a bailout from anyone–they were coming after me.  I quickly plotted an escape route (the easiest would have been to just jump as hard as I could through the cieling and land on Audrey or Autumn’s bed–of course, they would have followed me and then the birds would have been in the house, and not just in the roof–but logic fails when you are terrified of tiny deadly birds of prey).  My screams of fear–I mean, my manly cries of “get out of here!”–must have frightened them off, for they never came in.

The hole was way too big to fill with some old dress socks, so I called to Robyn, who ended up bringing me an old polar fleece Christmas blanket.  I stuffed it into the hole, hoping I wasn’t pushing it too far, because I certainly didn’t want to go outside and see the nasty old blanket, which had been chewed up by Elphie, sticking out against the yellow siding of our house.  By this time the dust had gotten to me, and I was coughing, balancing on beams and trying not to step on an air vent.  I’m clearly the winner here, but it has been a hard fought battle.

Of course, I looked up then and saw Robyn with the video camera.  “What are you doing?” I asked.

“If you fall through the cieling, I thought we should get it on tape.”

For one of those video clip shows, I thought.

“So we can laugh at you later,” she said.

Lucky for me, the battery died before I had to humiliate myself by getting out of the crawl space, doing my best to get my feet on the top rung of the ladder (the one that says, “Danger!  Do not stand or sit!”).  I made my way outside, where the white insulation looked like a light dusting of snow, and a messy pile of twigs, weeds, and cigarette butts (?), were all that remained of our former tenants.  I watched out for them for awhile, but they did not return.  Perhaps the Christmas blanket scared them away.

I didn’t hurt any animals, only wounded my pride a little bit, and was glad to prove I could protect my home as well as any grunting cave-dweller.  Now, what to do about that mouse?  Perhaps if I it gets in the grill again, I’ll just turn on the gas and throw in a match…

No, probably not.  That would be mean and cruel, so I’ll have to think of a nicer way to get the little thing to move on.  Unfortunately, I’m out of Christmas blankets.

A Battle for Life

Originally posted as a note on my Facebook page.  Written on Sunday, September 14th.

It has been a whirlwind weekend. What was supposed to be an easy delivery turned into a night of fear and worry and a battle between life and death. Sounds melodramatic, but it’s not, because life is what we are always fighting for against the Evil One. He hates life and will do anything he can to snuff it out.

Some may call it just a delivery with complications, but I will truly forever remember the birth of my son August as a day when God confirmed for me that my children are a gift of life, precious beyond words, and each to be cherished and protected against the powers of the enemy.

We went in at 1:00 pm on Thursday, September 11, to be induced. The doctor was worried that August was going to be too big. That Robyn would have a difficult time delivering him if he went all the way to term.

We made arrangements for the older kids. Got to the hospital and were placed in a room with a great view of the outside–lush green trees and beautifully, unseasonably blue, Seattle skies. The process began, and within hours, the contractions were strong and things looked good.

But an alarming pattern started as well–with every strong contraction, August’s heart rate dropped. At first, it only dropped a few degrees, from a baseline of 145 to 120. But as the evening wore on, and the contractions got stronger, the more his heart rate fell. 90. 80. It would always go back up after, but the consistency was beginning to worry our doctor and nurse.

They decided to slow down the process. Austen had had a drop in heart rate during birth, but it had rectified itself. Perhaps the umbilical cord was in the wrong place, being squeezed too tightly? I went out to the family members who had been waiting and gave them an update. It wasn’t going to happen tonight. Go home, we’ll call you.

We said goodnight. It was around 10 pm.

Our doctor came to the room and would not leave. She stayed as Robyn received her epidural, holding her hand through the process. Now the pain was less–but the contractions, and August’s reactions–were getting worse. We signed a consent for a Cesarean, just in case.

Moving from past to present tense:

At 12:23 am, August’s heart rate drops to 60, fights its way back, and drops again. In an instant, what was routine becomes a battle for the life of my son.

Robyn is moved to a gurney. There is a rush of activity, nurses coming from nowhere, the rushed conversation of “there’s someone else scheduled–no, I’ve called it–we’re going first.” Robyn is being readied to leave the delivery room and head to the OR. I have time for three thoughts, all of them involve prayer.

I call my mother, who is watching Audrey and Austen. I quickly tell her that Robyn is on the way to the OR–please pray. I call my mother-in-law and tell her the same–and to come quickly, Robyn wants her there. I quickly compose a text message and send it to a random selection of friends and family. I ask them again to pray.

By 12:34 we are in the OR, I am putting on scrubs, a mask. I am terrified. Thoughts of loss and death overwhelm me. I am going to lose either my child or my wife. Life will lose tonight.

I enter the room and see my wife on a table. She is being covered, prepped. There are three doctors, several nurses, and the team from the Infant Intensive Care Unit awaits in case they need to revive my boy. I cannot hold back the tears. I weep.

Robyn sees me. “Don’t cry. I need you to be strong.” I tell her I am not crying and I manage to stop the tears–but I am still terrified. I can’t see straight–tubes, scrubs, machines, a sterile clang of instruments. The doctors begin working in hushed tones–I focus on Robyn and try to distract her from what is going on. She is awake, only slightly uncomfortable, and getting very tired.

The noises stop. The doctors do not move.

Robyn and I fear the worst. Then suddenly, a cry. I see my boy. He is screaming, angry, scared. But alive.

He is quickly wiped off and taken to the nurses who examine him and determine that whatever happened in the womb did not hurt him. He is beautiful, loud, and pink. A little dried blood is on his nose, but he stops crying when they hand him to me. I take him to Robyn and we both cry. Life has won.

Turns out that the umbilical cord was wrapped around one shoulder, through his legs, and over the other shoulder–almost like a harness. There was no way he was going to come out the natural way. But he is here, alive, and sleeping loudly in the room next door.

Life wins. The prayers of the faithful are answered, and a little boy whose name means “Revered and Exalted,” helps me do both to the very giver of Life. I revere Him for His power, His glory, and the fact that He reveals Himself to me. I exalt Him for His life, for His nature, and for His providence.

Sleep well, August. The battle for your life has just begun.