Metropolis (Kid Stuff)

Treasure hunting is a lonely business.  At least as I practice it.  Hardly a day goes by that I don’t think that it would be nice to have a partner, even a team of people working with me.  The encouragement, the camaraderie, the give-and-take would all be valued blessings.    But from the very first days, I knew that I would have to go alone if I ever were to move into that age when a boy becomes a man.  That, and the stark fact that friends with the interest didn’t have the time and friends with the time didn’t have the interest.  All of which may be for the best because at the end of day “The Chase” is all about pursuing theories.  And a rational person may well label many of my theories as suspect, some might say crazy.  So be it.  Let me share one of my favorite examples.

Metropolis is a ghost town in the Northeast corner of Nevada.  Established in 1910 as an agricultural community it never quite managed to live up to its name.  While initially favorable rains allowed the population to peak at about 700 hearty souls, the community’s fate was given a mortal blow when water rights could not be obtained.  Nevertheless, Metropolis soldiered on for a number of years through a typhoid epidemic, an inundation of jackrabbits, an infestation of Mormon Crickets, and the incineration of its landmark hotel.  Each blow took its toll.  And by 1950, Metropolis had abandoned its position to the sage.

It was June of 2014, and I had driven most of the morning through a summer snow storm - big wet crystals easily the size of pillow feathers that made visibility a challenge.  I was fearful that the chase would have to be called on account of weather.  But thankfully, the flakes slushed immediately upon contact with the ground and after a couple false starts the most recognizable feature remaining in Metropolis, remnants of Lincoln School building, came into view far off in the scrub.

Covering the last few hundred yards on foot I tried to imagine Metropolis as it had been in its heyday but without much luck.  Skeletons of concrete structures, a rusted out car picked clean to the bone, graffiti, bullet holes, and a cemetery were all that remained.  Nary a single echo of good times past.  Lonesome.

Now the conjecture that a single location would reveal the treasure was relinquished long ago.  Central to my quest is the theory that there are many paths or threads.  And each thread will ultimately lead to a piece of the puzzle which in turn may someday come together as a whole with the help of some luck, ingenuity, perseverance, luck, and…….wa-lah!  But understand, that’s just me.

And so it was this day.  A number of “clues” within a single thread brought me to the remains of the Lincoln School building because no amount of online research could tell me what was under the main floor of the school.  Specifically, I was interested in the stairs down to the lower level of the school.  Well, once I saw the condition of the structure I had visions of floors collapsing and rattlesnakes slithering.  But with the temperature in the high 30’s, any snake worth his rattles was underground.  Nonetheless, I tread lightly.  Upon entering the “basement”, the number of classrooms was somewhat discouraging.  And the amount of graffiti was downright depressing – if Forrest left some sort of coded message painted on a wall it truly was a needle in a haystack.  The shear volume of possibilities made me lose focus.  Nonetheless, I took pictures of what seemed to be possible “clues”, packed up my disappointment, and headed off to the next destination along a different thread.

A few weeks later, I was home looking through the pictures and trying to rethink the “Metropolis” thread.  But no matter how hard I tried, back came the stair cases.  So, once again for the third or fourth time, this photo was enlarged and this time……there it was.

Do you see it?

The wee tiny peace-sign written on the vertical support.  And then the midden below – home of the ever so humble yet industrious pack rat.  And with some research, more “clues” followed in line and……..wa-lah, a “puzzle piece” was pulled from the hat. Now forgive me.  Discretion coupled with a dose of paranoia prevents me from saying what I think that “piece” is or how it might fit overall.  This is a treasure hunt after all.

And you say “That’s crazy.”  I hear ya.  Treasure hunting is a lonely business.    

Rascal (God Moments)

The seeds for this God Moment were sewn nearly fifty years earlier and a few seasons of life removed.

Link:  Flopper (Kid Stuff)

Rascal became a part of our family as an orphan.  His former family had become too large and Rascal was odd-dog-out.  Now, personally, I never would have named him Rascal because the name simply didn’t fit with his personality and character.  But he seemed to be fine with it, so who was I to argue.

From day one, we bonded.  And for 9 years he was my constant companion. I was telecommuting during this juncture of life so much our relationship would be defined as routine.  Rascal loved his food (a trait we shared) but always waited patiently for the “OK” and then attacked his bowl with ravenous gulps.   The word “work” and he bolted upstairs to be at my desk waiting.  Then he would curl up at my feet and hardly move until the end of the day.  “Walk” and he was at the back door.  We both looked forward to jogging and if he fell a wee bit behind I think it was deliberate just so he could give me a good-natured mocking as he raced past.  Car rides were a source of joy.  Never one to stick his head out the window or put his nose on the glass, instead he would sit in the passenger seat and view the passing scenery with the air of a prince surveying his kingdom.  That always made me laugh.  But our best-loved activity was beachcombing.  His treasure was tennis balls while I was working on a buoy collection.  Whenever I’d peer into a crevice between the driftwood, more often than not, Rascal had his head in there as well.  I’m sure he wanted to make sure I was doing it right.  Finally, night would fall and he would jump into his bed with the same enthusiasm that had defined his breakfast meal.  We competed to see which of us would be snoring first.  Poor Jamie.  And so it went for a number of years.  Those were good days.

But life deals out trials as well.  There came a day when my services were no longer required at my place of employment.  Now that messed with my self-worth and both our routines.    But Rascal adjusted long before I could even begin to cope.  And while the fallout of the layoff rained down on my psyche, brachytherapy began.  Rascal would lie by my side and throughout the day he would occasionally give me one of his deep, questioning looks which asked “Is everything alright?”   And if I sent the wrong non-verbal signals he would nuzzle my leg as if to say “You can do it.  You’re loved.”  

But I still didn’t get it.

Then one post-recovery day, while exploring this beautiful place that we call home, Rascal at my side, something triggered a synapse and I "flashed back" to Flopper.  It struck me that in Rascal, our great and mighty God had truly granted me a "desire of my heart" - a desire that had laid dormant for all those many years and I wasn't even aware of until that moment.

God's goodness and timing are amazing.  Through Rascal, God not only gave me great joy but He also taught me life lessons about unconditional love, faithfulness, loyalty, unbridled joy, patience, and perseverance.  Lessons that would have been lost on my seven year old mind so many years earlier.  But hopefully, in this time and in this place, have made an impact on the man God wants me to be.

Well, life has a way of moving forward.  Rascal’s hind legs began giving way to old age.  Our jogs became walks.  And our walks became slower and shorter and before long there was nothing left save for the undefeated look in his eye that said “Lets go!” 

Finally, the decision was made to put Rascal down.  For the whole of that day I believe that Rascal "knew" that something wasn't quite right.  He could feel my anxiety.  And true to his nature, I don't think he was the least bit concerned about his own physical pain.  He wanted to help me instead.  A final lesson, taught by a selfless friend, and orchestrated by a truly awesome God.   

I still beach comb occasionally.  And if there should be a tennis ball amongst the drift, I smile and leave its fate to the tides.

Flopper (Kid Stuff)

When I was a boy of about seven years old, we lived in Bremerton, Washington.  Our neighborhood was what I would describe as semi-suburbia - blocks of houses interspersed with heavily wooded areas.

It was gentler time – or maybe just more naïve.  We could roam for hours – especially during the summer months.  I’m sure Mom laid down rules but only one comes to mind and it was absolute – “Come a runnin’ when you here me whistle”.  And boy could she whistle.  Never once was I able to pull out the excuse that I couldn’t hear it.  Because I could – even when I tried not to.  It was always a huge inconvenience to be called in for supper.

If there was a ball to be found, we would chase.  Baseball, basketball, and football – never mind the season.  And some games that we invented on the fly.  “Battle Ball” was one of my favorites.  A combination of hide-and-seek, dodge-ball, tackle-football, and capture-the-flag.  Chaotic?  Perhaps – but too many rules spoiled the sport and no one ever wanted to referee anyway.  Memory can be fallible, but in this case I find it to be wonderfully convenient.  I could run like the wind, greyhound-like, with never a need to breathe.  And I refuse to let the grown-up in me question any part of that reality.

Another one of my favorite activities was "exploring" those wooded areas with my friends.  Always hopeful of finding that perfect spot for a secluded fort, impenetrable to passing marauders.  Ever on the lookout for that ultimate tree with just the right forks to build a camp.  And with a brief minute of logistics, construction would begin with a flair for the creative that any architect would envy and the workmanship that would confound any foreman.  Once built, our “secret-where” became the command center for bold conquests, the base camp for explorations into the unknown, and a stronghold for our ever-growing treasure trove.  A discarded bottle found along the road could be redeemed for a penny or two at the corner Mom and Pop grocery in those days.

During one of our many adventures, a stray German Shepherd joined us seemingly out of nowhere.  We called him Flopper because he had floppy ears.  For about a week, Flopper never left our sides and true to his breed, shepherd our small "band of brothers" wherever we went.  He was simply one of us.

“Can I keep him Mom?  Dad?  I’ll take care of him.  I promise.  I promise I will.  Please?!?!?”

Something almost instinctual told me that the answer would be “no”, so I dropped the matter without too much fuss.  At least I hope I did.  Because there lingers a fuzzy image of my parents faces, the look in their eyes – concern, sadness, something else?  Anyway, it made me uneasy.  So, that was that.  Besides, Flopper was staying with my buddy’s family that night.   

And then during one of our forays into the unknown, Flopper disappeared as quickly as he had come.  Boy, that hurt for days.

With the wisdom of years past, I wonder if my parents didn’t have some sort of instinctual understanding as well.  A comprehension that went beyond the budget of one more mouth to feed.  An appreciation for the deep impression that Flopper imprinted on my mind and the void in my heart that he briefly filled.  A notion of God moments. 

Link:  Rascal (God Moments)   

Mort (Kid Stuff)

One of my earliest memories dances over my mind as Dad comes home from work.  For a period of time, I would hear the car coming into the driveway and hide behind the front door.  Even now I can feel my eyebrows narrow, waiting and waiting for the door to open.  And when it did, I would spring with all my might and grab Dad just above the knee in a giant bear hug.  And just like clockwork, he would feign surprise, look around, and say:

“Is that you Mort?”

I’d giggle and say “no”.

“It must be Gus then.”

“Uuh, uuh.”

“OK then.  Well it must be Cecil!”

“No Dad!  It’s me.  Doug!”

And he’d smile, give the top of my noggin a gentle noogie, and off we went.

Now, I think my Dad understood the essence of a good name.  For his given name was Chester.  But down deep I don’t think he ever fully came to terms with that moniker.  He went by Chet and always seemed somewhat chagrined when labeled Chester.  He told of a much earlier time when his brother Wally, in a typical sibling spat, had called him out – “You’re just a dumb ol’ chestnut”.  And with some degree of pride, Dad related how he shot back - “Yeah, well you’re just a dumb ol’ walnut”.   So much of our identity, our self, is tied up into one or two syllables.    

It’s not uncommon at our family gatherings for someone to reminisce about my Great Grandfather.  He came from Sweden and his surname was Peterson.  He traveled by steamship from across the water with any number of other Scandinavians.  And upon arriving in America he became aware of the cultural differences with immigrants of other nationalities already here. One sticking point seemed to be his name.  He was one of many, many son’s”, i.e. Anderson, Nelson, Swanson, Larson, Hanson, etc.  So, he and his closest friend decided to change their names.  As they came west, they drew straws at the top of a mountain pass (the name of the pass changes with every telling).  And from that moment forward, the friend was transformed into a Weston.  And Great Grandpa Peterson would forever be known as Easton – and all to follow.  And at this point of the story, someone at our get-together will inevitably ask with a tinge of exasperation, “Why would he do that?  Peterson is a great name!”   Of course, there is no answer to that other than tradition holds that they thought the new names sounded more “American”.  But I’ve always had a different take – I think they were running from the law.

So, given that genetic background, it comes as no surprise that “Doug” never quite lived up to my image of myself.  Or perhaps my image never lived up to the name.  Regardless, there was a disconnect.  And somewhere before that age when a boy becomes a man, I briefly considered changing my name to something that would eliminate that disconnect.  Perhaps Chester Peterson or Peter Chesterson would do the trick.  Boy, I do like those names.  But upon closer inspection it became apparent that my problem wasn’t with the name.  My problem was with the image of the man.  And that was messy.

But as time progressed, I began to realize that the man, or the image thereof, that guy that never quite lived up to expectations – that same man had been saved by a loving God.  So, perhaps I needed to forgive myself as well and come to peace with the man that God had designed and created.  But let me tell ya – that was a process, make that a battle, and it continues to this day.

Nonetheless, I take great comfort in the thought that I am identified in the Book of Life.  For I believe that my name is written within.  Yes, even a wretch like me among the saints.

Now, in fact, I have no idea of what heaven will look like or how it will be.  My mind cannot fathom.  But this much I believe with all my heart.  I will be with my Savior.  He will know me and call me by name.

“Doug” will be glory.

But “Mort” might make me giggle with glee.

Link:  Names (Psalms and Prayers)

Names (Psalms and Prayers)

Emmanuel, thank you for being with me in this hour.

You are indeed the King of kings and Lord of lords.  You are indeed the Almighty, Jehovah God.  You are indeed the Christ and Messiah - oh, anointed one of God.  In the Beginning, You were the Word.  And in the End, You are the Amen.   Yes, the Alpha and the Omega.  The First and the Last.

Yet, You come to me, a sinner, as my Savior and Redeemer – the Ransom and Sacrifice for my sin.  And as if that weren’t enough, when I am hungry, You are my Bread.  When I am thirsty, You are my Fountain.  When the darkness overtakes me, You are my Light.  When I need healing, You are my Physician.  When I am hurting, You are my Comforter.  When I need shelter, You are my Refuge.  When I need support, You are my Advocate.  When I need wisdom, You are my Shepherd, Guide, Teacher, and Rabbi. Oh, what a Wonderful Counselor!

Son of the Most High, Son of David, Son of Man……..I tremble when I think that I can call You my Friend!

And so my Master, great Lion of Judah and Lamb of God, I sing with the angels - blessings unending be Yours forever and forever.

Thank you Jesus.

Amen.

Emmanuel - Matthew 1:23, King of Kings - 1 Timothy 6:15, Lord of Lords -  Revelation 19:16, Almighty - Revelation 1:8, Jehovah - Psalm 83:18, God - John 1:1,  Christ – Matthew 16:16, Messiah – Daniel 9:25, Beginning - Revelation 21:6, Word – John 1:1, End - Revelation 21:6, Amen - Revelation 3:14, Alpha - Revelation 1:8, Omega - Revelation 1:8, First - Revelation 22:13, Last - Revelation 22:13, Savior - Luke 1:47, Redeemer - Isaiah 41:14, Ransom - 1 Timothy 2:6, Sacrifice - Ephesians 5:2, Bread - John 6:35,48, Fountain - Zechariah 13:1, Light - John 8:12, Physician - Matthew 9:12, Comforter - Jeremiah 8:18, Refuge - Isaiah 25:4, Advocate - 1 John 2:1, Shepherd - 1 Peter 2:25, Guide - Psalm 48:14, Teacher - Matthew 26:18, Rabbi - John 1:49, Wonderful Counselor - Isaiah 9:6, Son of the Most High - Luke 1:32, Son of David – Matthew 15:22, Son of Man – John 5:27, Friend - Matthew 11:19, Master - Matthew 23:8, Lion of Judah - Revelation 5:5, Lamb of God - John 1:29, Jesus – Matthew 1:21

Revelation 7:11-12        “And all the angels…….saying:  Amen!  Blessing and glory and wisdom, thanksgiving and honor and power and might, be to our God forever and ever.  Amen. ”