Caleb gets stuck climbing

So Caleb got stuck climbing the other day; Halfway up his dresser. L heard this whimpering sound. She went in to investigate, and there he was. She apologizes for turning the Camera sideways. (Perhaps someone out there knows how to rotate videos?)

Caleb started climing with gusto a few weeks ago. He climbs on the table. He climbs chairs. He climbs the couch. He will even climb you, if you are sitting still and he gets it in his mind so to do.

left by love seat

It may have been the design show we were watching, but L. and I finally decided to toss the love seat. Oh, it has been broken for weeks--the demise begun seven years ago by sagging beam resulting finally in a full-on break. "But where will we sit?" asked L (I was sitting on said seat at the time). On the floor, I said. And there is quite a bit of floor there, now. As a matter of fact, after our initial cleanup, Kara, L., and I did a ceremonial barrel-role across it. Caleb instantly discovered he could get up a higher head of steam when rushing in to shoot up onto the couch.

In case you missed it, we finally took the plunge into Flickr over the weekend. I've been thinking about using a web-based photo sharing site like Flickr for years, but this sidebar badge hooked me in.

Tonight was the final night for the Lenten book-study Father Chris and I have been coteaching at St. Francis. It was a packed house. The group that was with us the first night and subsequently dwindled decided to make a final show of it. Wright's book, Evil and the Justice of God (IVP, 2006) wasn't the easiest book to teach. It is very abstract, and there is a quality to Wright's prose that is sometimes too prosaic. He did uncover some interesting nuggets of truth, however, and especially in seeing the biblical answer to the problem of evil in the context of God's meta-intervention in the world itself.

We are seriously considering finding Kara some kind of art class for the Summer. Her artistic interests are beyond question. She has an eye for color and design, and is always coloring, cutting, glueing, or drawing things.

weekend away with Wright part two

Before I get going on a sequel to yesterday's interrupted blogpost, I'd like to tell you that, it being Springtime, I have embarked on this year's weight loss program.

Now last year, if you recall, I made a bet with a few other coworkers to lose more than anyone else in three month's time. I lost. This year the goal is much more reasonable. I've decided to lose one pound. That's it. Just one pound. Not even worth noticing. Just cut back a little here, trim a little there, and one pound of me just slides off into--nevermind.

Questions at these conferences were handled in a slipshod manner. We were asked to write our questions on cards and give them to select individuals. At the larger event, these, at least, were reviewed by a panel who knew something about the subject. Saturday's talk was dominated by a young pastor type who read questions of his own choosing from his own personal scrap of paper. Instead of good theological questions, most of them were the standard pastoral bits: "What do you believe about hell?" "Where do you see things going for the Anglican communion?" "Should Christians swear off cremation?" This would have been intolerable had Wright himself not, as Dad said later, made much more of those questions than they deserved. Theology can begin anywhere and end up everywhere, and so Wright made you forget that the initial question was so trite by pulling nuggets of biblical insight from nowhere right before your very eyes. Second, Wright honestly spent loads of time personally with people. Though the line stretched out the door, he took each question seriously, and, indeed, pastorally. Pastors, not pastor types, but pastors do theology better than anyone because they have to. Real faces and situations dog their minds and their pens. They don't speak to their careers but to congregations. That is what makes Wright such a unique scholar. He does well enough to live and die an academic, but submits all of that to the task of Bishop. And that's why I called him "Bishop Wright" when I addressed him this Saturday. Bishop, properly used, is a far-higher standard than "Doctor." I took ten pages of notes, and will need to begin the process of typing them soon before I forget the context of everything.

Dad and I drove back Saturday afternoon. He went on to Chattanooga, while I stopped to see John and Tina, and get two sweet kisses from their darling little girl. One was for Kara, and I passed it on dutifully when I got home.

weekend away with Wright, part one

I went away this last weekend . . . did I mention that? My dad and I have really gotten into biblical theologian and British Bishop N. T. Wright over the last year. I downloaded some mp3 lectures on Jesus from ntwrightpage.com and passed them on. Next thing you know, we are looking up his worldwide itinerary in hopes that he might find himself, knowingly or unknowingly, on the east coast. To our boyish glee, he was. This past weekend. In Roanoke Virginia. For free.

Hearing that I was going to be out of town, L’s well-meaning parents extended the invitation to have L. and family stay at their house for the weekend. Kara was very excited about it, and L and I agreed that it was so nice of them to ask. But then, somehow, my brother and sister-in-law, with their dog, also showed up for the weekend. Recall, if you will, that opening nine-squared montage from the television show “The Brady Bunch”—that’s the image that came to my mind when L told me what was about to happen. And, the Wednesday or Thursday before, Caleb learned how to climb. On Friday morning when I headed for Virginia, I knew I had the better deal.

Dad and I met in Kingsport and drove the rest of the way to Roanoke, chatting about SharePoint, about corporate environments, about health care, my new boss, financial prudence, and the bathroom he and Karen are remodeling. Once you get above Bristol, I-81N enters kind of a middle earth. The hills and valleys stretch and roll away from you on either side, and farms and houses clump and spread out again with no visible pattern. What these people do. Why they elected to live here next to nothing, close to nothing, known by no-one, I do not know, but there are a good many of them. It is like leaving the grid itself in the forty miles or so divided by the Tennessee-Virginia border.

Roanoke exists because eventually some place has to get bigger than a farmyard. Pennsylvania shows up soon enough, so Virginia has to do something before someone driving through mistakes its own soil for that of its even-larger next-in-line. All the usual chain stores and restaurants that make up the faux culture of these United States are represented, and there are lots of churches. Thanks to its being the only town around, Roanoke has a number of hotels too. And Roanoke College is there. A Lutheran institution (though, really, what does that mean these days?) We parked and followed tons of mostly elderly people into a crowded auditorium. Dad and I scored some nice bleacher seats, and had an uninterrupted audience with the right reverend for about two hours. Wright, a genuinely swell chap, shook hands and signed books afterward. His eyes said jet lag, but he smiled and tried his best. He genuinely brightened when I said I’d seen him before at Harvard (years go now), and Dad and I bought a few books from the “we didn’t mark this down a whit” book table. The next day would be even better.

The next day, Wright spoke at brick-and-glass Episcopal church which sat atop a hill overlooking the valley and, beyond that, a giant block of a mountainside. Getting there, the roads were so winding and narrow. Finding a world-class theologian in a place like this, I said, is simply incredible. And getting seats as we did, front row right in front of the podium, was just as incredible. Wright seemed better rested. He answered questions and signed books. This time, I got a smile and an enthusiastic explanation from him when I asked him about the doctrine of theosis. If I’m every trapped in an elevator or sharing a taxi with him, I think we should pick up the conversation, because he seemed pleased I’d asked, but had to address the zillion people in line behind me.

Ooops. I’ve run out of time. Going to have to finish this tomorrow.

Kara’s tap shoes are still in the hall

I stay up too late. That’s the truth. 11:26 p.m. at the end of a day that began with no sleep and I’m up and awake again. And why? I don’t really know. I try to write, and little gets said. I try to read and just fall asleep. I update my computer, check out friends’ blogs, and maybe even their friends’ blogs—revisit in Real Audio a story I caught the end of on NPR during the day’s commute. Tonight, for example, I’m listening to some tracks from Winton Marsalis’s latest release “From the Planatation to the Penitentiary.” Its dissonant title track, mixed straight up against the absolute monochrome vocals of Jennifer Sanon, is perfect.

Tomorrow is a two-and-a-half-hour discussion at work on “the publication process.” A glance a the syllabus says it is to be a team exercise, followed up by a five-minute presentation. And after that: a meeting with my acquisition editors to discuss that curious little borderland between science and faith. Work is a kind of life. It is never your own voice, but God made us social beings. I think we need to work with others, just biologically, and as people mildly acquainted with the Kingdom of God, we want to see human freedom maximized in our working structures.

Yesterday, L and I attended the third installment of a book discussion of N. T. Wright’s book Evil and the Justice of God. Chapter three: the crucified God. My priest, Fr. Chris, is always amazingly patient with me—as L. said later, “When you speak, you always have three points. They are good points, but you never make just one.” We talk for an hour-and-a-half about choice, motivation, and the slippery origin of that kink in each one of us and in the patterns, actions, and templates of life.

I catch myself sleeping in front of something on the Food channel. Have you caught any of those shows about cake decorating. It is crazy what you can do with sugar and a blowtorch! Or, I realize I’m reading cnn.com just to be reading. Kara’s tap shoes are still in the hall. That blown light needs replacing. Windows takes forever to shut down. Dark, I slide into bed. The ceiling creaks from our upstairs neighbors. A car drives by.