That's almost four decades

This summer I will attend a reunion of my high school class of 1973. Yes, this is the 40th anniversary of our graduation. Some people who will be there I haven't seen for 30 years (the last reunion I attended); others not for 40. I am curious, and eager.

But there's another anniversary that I haven't missed, for almost four decades. The first year anniversary was complicated by a music composition class and a tennis shoe shopping trip that went badly. The most recent one was celebrated by a week away on a beautiful lake in northern Michigan. Yes, I'm talking about our wedding anniversary.

This year, our 38th, like the previous two came during a week at a friend's home on Torch Lake. Years ago, when our children were all still at home, we had the privilege of spending a week there together. Two years ago we got "on the list" again, and our friends have been kind to keep us in the loop each summer. It's a great place to get away to, not too far but far enough to feel one has got away, close enough to the things we'd like to do but remote enough to not have good access to phone service. Pretty ideal!

Oh, and to top it off - excellent country roads for cycling!

(The Cherry Capital Cycling Club has an excellent regional map.)

Days pretty much consist of being woken by the sun, having a leisurely start reading before breakfast together (we almost never eat breakfast together unless we have company or are on vacation), then deciding what we'll do. For me, it is usually a binary but complicated decision: read, or ride? I manage to do both. For my Karen it is easier: read until she has to set her hand to some project. Our children will see the fruit of their Mom's project. My class reunion will see the fruit of mine - a scanner-to-slideshow affair. Evenings above the 45th Parallel are long and leisurely.

While it all seems rather sedate (we don't even take the boat out) it suits us perfectly. Asparagus is fresh from a local farmer; strawberries are in season; antiquing is accessible; Charlevoix is just up the road; Traverse City down. But it's a notch on the timeline of our marriage. Which is itself an adventure. Thirty-eight years is not long enough to be married, so I hope this adventure is just getting started!

A Sunday Ride

For three decades I have worked Sundays. For sixteen summers, as I drove out of my neighborhood at 7am on the way to church, I have often seen a cycling group heading west down Geneva Rd. Golly, that looked like fun, and I have to confess it made me a little jealous. Oh, to have a free Sunday morning, and a group to ride with.

(Never mind that nearly every Saturday for almost a decade of summers, I have had an excellent group ride with friends. Sunday is another day, and I wasn't riding!)

Then there are the organized rides. Like marathons, always on Sundays. Kind of rules out participation when one works Sundays.

So as this last weekend rolled around, and my Saturday morning guys were deciding to do an organized ride on Sunday, my Karen said, "Well, of course you should go. Who knows how many free Sundays you'll have with your next job?" OK, then! I was in.

The Udder Century has been running for 30 years. It is sponsored by the McHenry County Bike Club, in northern Illinois. The route goes by a lot of farms. The event is very well organized, lots of cheerful volunteers, and there had to be a couple thousand riders involved. Being farm country, in the Midwest, there were lots of loops providing options for distances: 32, 50, 62 (a "metric century"), 75, and 100 mile rides were on offer. The Saturday gang opted for the 75 mile route at a casual pace.

It was overcast, in the mid-50s, with a fair W/NW wind. Good group riding conditions, and surprisingly (to me) we did keep a fairly casual pace throughout. Also surprisingly, the 75-mile route turned out to be 80 miles. It was a kind terrain, except for that one big bump about a mile before the end. Ouch.

Here is the route. The metrics (speed, heart rate) are Jon B's.

So, 80 of my 330 total miles, on one ride. By this time of the year, I'm usually on my second thousand seasonal miles. But this year has to be different, and I'm glad to get out when I can. And on this occasion, especially glad to ride with friends, finish well, and enjoy a rare Sunday getaway on a bike!

Monday night ride

Monday nights, an excellent bike club, ABD, sets out on a delightful "recovery ride." It is a recovery in the sense that many of the riders are likely to have raced over the weekend. Probably on Sunday. The ride is supposed to be moderately paced (16-18mph). It usually has a dozen riders, more or less.

I have missed this ride all season. Various reasons, most of them academic. Literally, academic. This week I finally felt my way clear to consider it. And when my Karen asked me if I was planning on it, that settled it. Karen is a big fan of me getting out on my bike. I mean that it in the best possible way, for all the right reasons. And she has a way of asking if I'm going to ride that really means she hopes I will. This is the woman who bought me my two good bikes.

Monday was hot here, and it still was at 6:20 when we rolled out for our 6:15 ride. But it wasn't long before the wind, the lowering sun, and the long stretches of shade on the roads turned this into the ideal evening ride. Golly, I've missed it. There were only 6 of us riding, which no matter how nice people are - and they almost all always are - it is more fun with a dozen or more. I've been out when we've numbered two dozen, and that's a blast.

The ride snakes through parts of Winfield, West Chicago, Wayne, and Bartlett in a big loop at the end of a long string. (Think of a balloon.) For me, with my ride to and from the start point, it is a round 24 miles, just under 90 minutes, usually averaging just over 16mph.

And now, "I'm back!" My miles are pitifully low this season. This 24 mile ride amounts to about 20% of my total miles. Do the math. By this date I'm usually approaching my annual goal of 1000 by the end of May. Well, that ain't gonna happen, probably not even by July 4. And that's OK. But this ride? Yes, see you again next Monday.

Weekend Breaks

Last week I began writing my thesis. After the first day, with its hard-won 80 words - yes, that is eighty words - I assumed most days would be more productive, but I wondered how many words a day I need on average to complete what I think will be a 40,000 word thesis. If I have 75 weekdays this summer, that amounts to roughly 600 words a day, Monday through Friday.

If I rode my bike 20 miles a day, on the other hand, that would be 1500 miles. Pretty doable. (In fact, if I could just get out of bed early enough, there's no reason I couldn't do both the riding and the writing!)

But the weekends belong to my Karen. Thankfully this one was sunny, warm, and productive. The yard looks great, the fence staining job is complete, the house is clean. Took at Prairie Path ride with son Pat, enjoyed a visit with Pat and his girl, got to a Pentecost Sunday service, and I got in a visit with my sister Bonnie and most of her family. I read Dorothy Sayers' The Zeal of Thy House. I'm ready to get back to the study, and see how many words are in me this week.

And thinking that that road bike sure looks lonely.

Surrounded by Books

There is no adventure like it . . . a book can take you anywhere.

These days many of mine call me to my basement study, but they take me to 18th century Germany.

Just because I said I would, here are a  couple of pictures from my study. This is my thesis space:

That's my space. To the right, below the calendar is where by thesis books have been collecting. For fun, I wanted to see how tall an order this thesis is. Unfortunately I had already returned 3 of the books that I've used.

Those 2 slim volumes on top are the musical scores of cantatas I'll be studying for the thesis.


The fun is just beginning . . .

My 3 Rs

It's April, and I just got in from my first group ride of the season. Being a full-time student, I've found, has not left a lot of time for some of the more ambitious exercise I enjoy. That, I believe, is about to change. Thanks to the 3 "Rs" that will shape my summer:

Reading
Riding
Running

READING This week I received approval to write a thesis for the M.A. in Historical Theology. Already my stack of books for that work is impressive. I'll have to post it before some go back to the library.

RIDING Cycling is my body's love language. So, many people have assumed that my academic hiatus (my self-funded sabbatical, my season of unemployment) has meant lots of riding. Not so! But now that my semester is winding down (two more days of classes; one essay due; one independent study paper due; one final exam) I can see where the bike fits back into my life.

RUNNING I started running four years ago, made a little splash in a local 5k event that I admire so much (the only organized 5k I've run; and I commend it!), and completed two marathons. Well, technically one marathon in two successive years. For two years my "running calendar" has been empty; I've casually kept up the exercise but intentionally kept down the distance. But now I am registered for my first event in two years, which is also my first trail run.

Why these 3 Rs? Well, for the 3 Ws, of course!

Reading is the prelude to Writing. Over the next four months I'll be working on my thesis. If you are a glutton for punishment, or just want to feel superior about the way you live your life, you can track that at my other blog: Te decet hymnus. I love to write, and a thesis (I didn't know it would be this thesis) is why I returned to grad school in the first place.

Running is the means of my Weight control. Especially in these rather full days of reading and writing, a 30-minute run is an easy, quick break, and a much more effective calorie burn than cycling. I've had to watch my weight all my adult life (and should have earlier!) so it's nice to have something I enjoy that has such a direct impact on that.

But Riding is the key to my Well-being. I experienced it again this morning. After weeks of being off the bike - I took it off the trainer, put it in the garage, then got busy with other things - I felt what I feel every year: "This is where I belong." It's uncanny, really. You may know the line from "Chariot's of Fire," where Eric Liddel tells his father, "When I run, I feel the pleasure of God." Well, I won't claim to feel the pleasure of God, but I do feel that he built me for this particular pleasure. Man, I love to be on a bike!

In fact, it is not far-fetched to say that Riding will be the carrot for my Writing this summer, the reward I give myself for hitting certain daily goals. If I see you on the roads, think twice before asking me about my thesis . . . unless we're on a really long ride.

Five

Last Sunday, March 3, marked 5 months of my self-funded sabbatical. I last wrote about it here. Interesting, but not surprising - the two months' lacuna corresponds to the first half of another semester of graduate study. So, anyway, 5 months of Sundays away from the work that I do reasonably well, that has shaped my adult life, and that I hope, Deo volente, to return to in some capacity.

Surprises
* It's harder to take time for exercise than I thought it would be.
* I spend less time making music here at home than I want to.
* I dream about footnotes and formatting.
* Study and writing really can feel like work.

Delights
* Evenings with Karen. Like, every evening with my Karen.
(I should admit, this may be a delight that is not shared. One night during our 2004 sabbatical, Karen said to me,
"you need a hobby."
"I already have a hobby - you!"
"You need another hobby.")
* Sunday mornings in church together. We drive together, sit together, leave together.
* Study. This really is a delight. And it is a privilege. Yes, it can feel like work (see above), but just like the work of my vocation - I may complain about it, but I wouldn't want to do without it.

Annoyances
* So many books, so little time.
* Finding myself so out of my element in a high-achieving graduate program.
* 24-hour days. Seriously, even 28 hours a day would help. 32 would be ideal.

Discoveries
* I really miss making music. I miss conducting a choir. I miss the chancel choir at College Church.
* My opinions about the Pietists keeps changing. I can't either dismiss nor embrace these people, who factor pretty importantly into my thesis. Why do they have to be so . . . human, ergo complicated?
* It's both easier and harder than I thought it would be to work at home. It's amazing how many times the phone rings - and how often the calls are not welcome. (i.e., they are not personal calls; if you are a friend trying to reach us, please do!)

Convictions
* I am more convinced about my vocation: planning and leading gathered worship.
* I am less convinced about the viability of the noun "evangelical," and while my theological commitments are the same I wonder about carrying that tag except as an adjective.
* Whatever is next, it will be with wonder and joy, and Karen and I will be surprised and delighted by it.

But now it is spring break, and our delight will be enhanced by a trip to San Francisco (courtesy one of our parting gifts from College Church) where we now have two grown children. Adventures await!

The really great outdoors

I'm back outside. After an autumn pretty much off the bike and the running shoes "hung up" since September, January has got off to a nice start.

Not because it started warm. Last winter was the mildest I can remember, and I squandered it, "exercise-wise-speaking" ( can you identify the source of that construction?).  I wasn't training for a spring marathon, and yet I also did not take advantage of the warmth to be out on my bike.

January 1, 2013 was different. And not because of some lame resolution. No, because the Saturday morning ride guys were called to the challenge by the quiet "heart" of our group - Jim H. One year ago, Jim was fresh out of liver transplant surgery. The initial prognosis was positive, but so much was up in the air. In subsequent weeks, he went from managing, to doing well, to very positive, and ultimately this summer to being basically "back on the bike."

Which is a nice metaphor, and in Jim's case, also very literal.

So, when Jim proposed the New Year's Day ride to Caribou - regardless of temperature - there was almost nothing would have kept me from it. And while I've missed many a Saturday ride, I managed this one.

Bundling up to ride in 10-degree Fahrenheit is always a challenge. Last year my Karen bought me a big box of "hotties" - hand warming pouches to slip into gloves - which I never opened until this ride. Bonus! The box had a few packets also of foot warmers. I was in business. Layered up, covered up, and heated up.

But, golly, 10 degrees IS cold!

We took a reasonably direct route from Winfield to Geneva, and at our Caribou there (this is often the first hour mark on a Saturday morning road ride - a quick 18 miles to get things started . . . and then about 20 minutes to sit and shoot the breeze while we decide where and how far to go from there.). There we met 2 other riding pals who had driven out. No shame there. Perhaps the better part of wisdom. And to be honest, the three of us who rode seriously considered whether the two drivers might be able to haul us back!

A nice 22 miles, all told, and by the time I got home it was a balmy 14 degrees. Cycling season? Well, I have my first road miles for the year. Meanwhile, my road bike is on a trainer in the basement, and I'm on it a few days each week.

Then, yesterday, after a hiatus of uncertain duration, I hit the streets in my running shoes again. It was just laps in my neighborhood, and only 2.5 miles. But it was sunny, "warmish" at about 35 degrees, and while it will take a while to get that running feeling back, it was good to be out.

My only goals for the winter are to be on my cycling trainer more days than not each week, and to rebuild running road miles. And to do it all out in the pretty great outdoors.

Twelve

. . . being a bi-weekly report on self-imposed unemployment, scholarship, and vocational exploration . . .

Twelve weeks, but not three months. One week shy of a quarter. But with this bi-weekly, I draw these reports to a close. Yesterday, December 30, was a milestone on several levels, and tomorrow begins a new year. The adventure continues!

The past two weeks have been mostly free of academic engagement. I sat for a final exam on the 18th, attended a final class session on the 19th, and that afternoon tidied up and organized my newly set up study area. Notes organized and put away for easy retrieval, book shelves restocked, and the extra computer monitor turned so I can watch videos from my winter bicycle trainer!

Then it was all Christmas all the time. A couple of social engagements, grown kids returning home, and all the comfortable aspects of a King family Christmas. (And no, we are not that King family. While growing up, that was a common joke question. And a fair one, given the roster in my childhood home.)

The bike went up on the trainer the day I took my exam. I am back on the bike. Over the past few weeks in various conversations I was asked if I was riding and running a lot, since - you know, I'm not working. My reply - that no, in fact, I haven't been on the bike at all to speak of, and the running has also stopped - each time evoked a physical response of surprise. Interesting. Peoples' mouths have gone agape (this really happens; it's unexpected, like when someone is literally stopped in their tracks), a couple of people flinched. A few found words to probe. This was all instructive to me, and I finally had to admit that all things considered, the dropping of my best "hobby" was probably a function of some low-grade depression. So . . . back on the bike, albeit indoors, and with a winter goal to hit. I also have a running goal, which of course as always will properly take a second place to the bike. But there we are. Balance, we are about to be restored.

Grown children come with their own sense of adventure, and they increase the awesomeness of our adventure. Sometimes scary, sometimes hilarious, and often just nice. We had a long Christmas weekend with all but our Army Captain with us. And he joined us on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning via Skype. Nice technology, that. On Christmas morning we had him on with us for nearly three hours, "in the circle" and taking his turns giving and receiving gifts. He had sent everyone's to our home, and we had all sent his to him. As a way to celebrate a family Christmas, it was a distant second to having him home. But he could not get leave because he had to "hold down the fort" while the soldiers going back to A'stan got leave. OK, well, given the alternative - that is, since this means he won't be going back - we were content. Karen and I got down to see him this past weekend, thankful for a posting that is within a day's drive.

As my Christmas break continues for a couple of weeks, I will be finalizing the description of my thesis, and expect to submit the formal proposal in January. There are also a couple of writing projects that I need to set my hand to. A recent flap in the Chicago Tribune, where the movie critic dared to pan "Les Miz" on cinematographic grounds, highlighted the whack aesthetic of popular culture. In short, the complaints to and about the critic amount to this: "How could you pan this movie? It made me cry, and at the end people stood up and cheered." Well, my friend, if you don't think this mindset is troubling church life and liturgy and music, stay tuned . . .

Meanwhile, life returns to "normal" for me and my Karen. I'll be looking for some part time work to help pay the bills during my last 6 months of studies, and we'll also be asking in earnest: "So, God, what is next, anyway?"

Ten weeks

. . . being a bi-weekly report on self-imposed unemployment, scholarship, and vocational exploration . . .

Here I sit, in a study space that finally came together hours after I handed in the project that concluded one of my courses. Oh well, it has proved to be an effective space in which to prepare for the final exam in my other course.

We ordered the bookcases online to complete my study area. The desk is a huge bit of quarter-sawn oak that we found for an amazing low price when we lived in Minnesota. It was too large a desk for that house and it is too large for our present house. We often wonder if we shouldn't get rid of it, but just can't bring ourselves to let it go. When this current adventure began, it was fairly obvious that finally this expansive surface would be the place for me to study, and (God willing) to write a thesis.

We ordered the pine bookshelves from an outfit out East, then waited. And waited. And got the credit card bill, but still waited. We called and waited. The semester plodded along. The desk was set up for a work space, with boxes of shelf-destined books stacked to approximate the final project. At some point, it was apparent that the new ideal delivery date had to be after my term paper was completed. That day, last Tuesday, I said to Karen on her way to work, "In my dreams, I come home from classes today, find the shelves delivered, and get them set up before supper." Well, that didn't happen.

Instead, they arrived before I left for class. I dragged them indoors, finished printing the paper and dressing for my class presentation, and left with a shot of adrenaline that I badly needed to make a public presentation on less than 4 hours of sleep. (And yes, I am too old for that.)

I'm not great with my hands. I'm not even good with my hands. Building things is not something I do. Wood and I tend not to get along. So I wasn't as excited as I might otherwise have been, to take delivery of these boxes and realize that their proportions had to mean that these shelves were going to have to be put together. Well, to my very great pleasure, this turned out to be the best "kit" project of all time for me. It went together fairly easily, with good directions and extremely well made materials. The first unit took just under 1.5 hours, and the second in just over 30 minutes. By the time Karen got home from work on Tuesday, the shelves were up on a bare desk, and they met with approval. And mmm . . . they smelled good too! Fresh pine, unstained and unpainted. Love that.

The next day I unpacked the books that have been waiting to go on shelves, and there it was - a semester late, but with plenty more time ahead to enjoy it. I am now diligently using it to prepare for a final I will take in this space, online, Tuesday morning. Onward!

I still have not been on my bike or out for a run. But I have a plan, see, and this mild Chicago December makes it seem realistic. Studying is my job right now, and the exercise I miss will have to kick in during the semester break. But in such a way that I can keep it up when school begins again. One piece of that is definitely having my road bike on a trainer, just to the right of my desk. Yeah, like that won't be distracting. 

Hurtling through Two Months

. . . being a bi-weekly report on self-imposed unemployment, scholarship, and vocational exploration . . .

Eight weeks. The first Sunday of December marks two full months of the adventure of uncertainty. Only it doesn't exactly feel like uncertainty, and if I was looking for adventure, this was a poor plan to find it.

As for "uncertainty," my day-to-day is filled with plenty of immediate and significant things to be done: reading, writing, practicing, and the normal stuff of being a homeowner and a husband. I have concrete deadlines for school, personal goals for music, and a commitment to not be preoccupied with either when Karen gets home from work.

And adventure? Funny thing. This adventure feels a lot like working, a little like worrying, and almost nothing like - oh, say, a bike trip!

Students are hurtling toward the end of the fall semester. As I round that corner, I have only two grades outstanding: a final paper in one course, and a final exam in the other. And yes, each will account for 40% of my final course grades. I like to think I know how this is all going to come together. If I'm right, I will find that I can make some progress on other important matters that should be settled before Christmas. If I've misjudged how these next two weeks will work, then I may get that scary sense of "adventure" after all.

One nice coincidence in the past couple of weeks: earlier this month I was given for my birthday the excellent recording (CD and DVD) of Osvaldo Golijov "La Pasion segun San Marcos." Try to hear it if you can. Hey, try to see it if you can. Picture the baroque passion tradition, reworked in 21st century Latin America. Can't do it, can you? Then check this out.

Well, I also was tapped to make a presentation on liberation theology and the Trinity. It provided my first opportunity to do a little cross-discipline, multi-media presentation in the context of my theology studies. So, that was fun. And pretty well received, as things turned out.

Karen and I decided to be wild, crazy, and irresponsible this weekend. We drove to Minnesota to attend the St. Olaf College Christmas Festival. This century-long tradition is something we have long held as the standard of Christmas programming for the church or the academy. What a joy to get there for this, our 4th or 5th experience of the Festival in situ. Need some rich sacred music in your Christmas? Count on St. Olaf! (And consider streaming the rebroadcast from Minnesota Public Radio.)

This quick round trip was made all it should be, by providing visits with some of our Minnesota friends. And we look forward to more of the season enriched by our Wheaton friends. Adventually.

Almost like a kid

Yesterday I hopped on my bike, and took an easy ride to nowhere.

I didn't change into cycling clothes. I didn't take my asthmatic precaution. I wasn't trying to get anywhere in particular, or by a certain time, or to reach a self-imposed goal. And when I got home I didn't write the ride down in  a cycling log.

It wasn't as much fun as when I was in school, before I got my license, and rode from town out to friends in the country. I'd go out to Jeff's place after school to ride horses and shoot squirrels. Then I'd ride home before supper. Those were the days. And I'm pretty sure that's where my love for cycling began (though as an obsession it lay dormant for a couple of decades).

Reflecting recently on my current relationship with exercise, I realized that a big part of my avoidance of the bike (yes, I'll stick with that word, avoidance) was partly wrapped up in the mechanics of preparing for a ride. Without going into a lot of detail (actually, a post in itself sometime if I don't mind revealing my compulsions), I'll just say that I just loved getting on a bike and riding. Without folderol.

My friend Neal and I don't get together nearly often enough. When we do, we often swap cycling books. We both love travel writing, and both love to ride, so we usually have some book that takes in one or both, usually both. My latest on loan from Neal is Just Ride: A radically practical guide to riding your bicycle. It is by Grant Peterson, the founder of Rivendell bikes. (It says so, right on the cover!) Peterson's main point - his only point, really, illustrated in dozens of ways - is that most of us aren't professional cyclists, or even racers, so why do we think we have to conform to the racing bike-style?

Freeing. Absolutely freeing. Now, I enjoy vigorous, challenging, fast group riding. And I'm not going to give that up. (If I did, I'd pretty much have to go back to riding solo all the time.) But yesterday's ride was a direct purposeful response to this common sense wisdom . .  and it also met my need to just get out and ride, for cryin' out loud.

Fortified Fortnight

. . . being a bi-weekly report on self-imposed unemployment, scholarship, and vocational exploration . . .

Yesterday marked another fortnight on the precipice. Winter's coming - though the warmth of this Thanksgiving week in the Midwest makes that a little hard to believe - and with it a run of special services that I am going to miss being a part of. I mean, of course, Advent and Christmas. I have to admit that I felt I was getting away with something this weekend, having breakfast with my brother, Ron, on Saturday while the choir (I can no longer say "my choir" - more on that another time) had a rehearsal for seasonal music. Getting away with something . . . and missing something. That is going to mark this season, I know.

The past two weeks have been packed with school work. For the most part, I am settling into the reading, the assignments, the long-range planning required to succeed as a student. I am engaging a bit more in class discussions (without feeling like a total doofus). I've been really jazzed finding resources for a research paper in the Trinity course. This weekend I charted out the days from now till that paper is due. Then, I tried not to freak out.

A friend offered me a little musical gig, playing congas for one item in his choir's Christmas concert. When my Karen and I talked about this, she said, "Gee, if we'd known you'd get the random monthly gig we could have made this change years ago." She can be so sardonic. Still, she has always supported the pent-up percussionist in me, and I think she is secretly delighted. Or maybe she is just happy to have me out of the house and earning something!

We've been confronted in multiple ways, these past 2 weeks, with the realities of a limited income. Yes, we counted the cost, and yes, I've known all along that after the fall weeks, I'll need to take some kind of part-time job. But it's in the spontaneous, in the unexpected, that the reality of our belt-tightening hits us. Son Andrew will not make it home for Christmas - he will be tied to his post (oh, now that's a funny double meaning!). Instinct: "Let's rent a vacation home and move our Christmas to Kentucky." Reality: Oh, right, that's what the discretionary part of our income used to do for us. Which presses the point: discretionary spending aside, I really need to earn some income during my next semester.

I've been indolent in the exercise arena, and reflected on that. Why am I "OK" with not cycling or running these days? Am I just super engaged with creative studies, or am I in a funk? Good questions. And characteristically, I won't take time now to sort that out.

We're still here on the precipice, and winter is coming. Thankfully that means that Thanksgiving is upon us, and with it a long weekend with our grown kids. Andrew won't be with us on the day (that post he's tied to) but we'll drive to see him and spend some time after Thursday. Karen and I will get to St. Olaf College for their iconic Christmas Festival. (We can, you see, find a reason to spend some "discretionary" money!) Andrew will get home for a few days of leave. And I'll write a long term paper. Then, before we know it, it will be Christmas. And after that, a new year.

We are eager to see what that new year will bring.

Unemployed in exercise

Two funny comments people have made, hearing about this stage of my life:
"What is it like to be retired?"
"Will you get a lot more time for cycling now?"

Don't even get me started on the retirement question. Either people have a really outrageous idea of how much church workers make, or they think I'm a lot older than I am. (My gray hair notwithstanding.)

The second question at least has the prospect of reality in it. It does make sense that, having cast off the daily office routine and getting "weekends" in my life, I would find time for more cycling.

When asked about that on my way out the church door, I would say that my recent sabbatical demonstrated that being a full-time student is every bit as time-consuming as the job I had. However, I did manage to train for and run a marathon during that sabbatical, so maybe it was a reasonable question. Would I ride and/or run more, in this period of life?

And the answer it: "no." For reasons which are different and similar to my work life, and certainly because this is unfolding in the autumn months, I haven't been cycling at all and my running has pretty much wound down to nothing. Having a cold recently didn't help the running. And today, when I had planned all day to get in a short, 3 mile run, when it came down to it I couldn't bring myself to "suit up" for it, and treated myself to a power walk instead.

While out, I reflected on this. Nothing new here - I have to admit that the running, at least, and probably the obsession with cycling too, has been a form of compensation for a work life in which I was less challenged/engaged/empowered, or whatever. The exercise was one way to keep me pressing on in one arena - to push myself to accomplishments I could record and look back on with some pride.

Don't get me wrong. There is a lot of that satisfaction in the work I've done and hope to do again. This is just a slice of reflection here, not the whole picture.

Not to mention, that this kind of exercise is kind of essential for keeping my weight down. (Some readers know that I was . . . let us say, plump, until my senior year of college, and have fought weight issues since then.

Now I am busy with school, and when I do have time I feel I must give it to the details of home ownership. And then when we're both home, trying to be a good husband. So the running and cycling? If they're on the back burner, there's barely a flame under them. And the surprising thing is, that I'm OK with that. I'm just busy enough to keep my weight where it should be. (And I'm trying to eat according to my reduced exercise, too. That's the part I miss :~) And I'm more than engaged enough in creative and challenging studies to keep my mind otherwise occupied.

Having said that, this weekend I will bring my road bike into the basement, and put it on the trainer for the winter. Because, after all, this is my physical thing, and spring will return, and when it does I want to be ready for it.

Following Fortnight of Folly

. . . being a bi-weekly report on self-imposed unemployment, scholarship, and vocational exploration . . .

 Four weeks ago today was my final Sunday as pastor for worship and music at College Church in Wheaton. The first two weeks away were marked by travel, some school-related panic, and something that tasted a little like grief. These past two have brought a more realistic sense of what we may expect of this transitional phase.

We're calling it a "transitional phase." I think of it as a "self-funded sabbatical." My Karen's take is more like "unemployment." I have to take her appraisal very, very seriously. We did the math before stepping into the abyss. We know how to live in want, and we well remember from the lean years that just because a budget doesn't work on paper, doesn't mean our needs won't be met. So far, so good. How we feel about that in January will tell the real story. Paul Simon's song, "Getting Ready for Christmas Day," has a little bit of edge to it for me this year:
From early in November till the last day of December,
I've got money matters weighing me down . . . 
I know Santa Claus is coming to town.

These past couple of weeks have brought me into the last half of the fall semester. In Wheaton's odd pattern, that has meant a course change in my Historical Theology sequence, but the continuation of my Trinity course. I've got by OK in both, but this past week I had to admit that in spite of what I have tried to tell myself, grades really do matter to me! More to the point, I'm concerned that "decent" grades might be a reflection that I lack "originality" or that academic  je ne sais quois. I guess that is OK so long as I don't have doctoral aspirations.

I don't.

Reading has been exciting. I can't get enough of it. Nothing new there. It is a love for reading that created a "pastor's bookcase" that is now jockeying for space in our home. 27 years of keeping a personal library in church offices, come home to roost. Literally. Karen has made one really creative alteration to accommodate about 18 linear feet of shelves, under our sun-porch window sills. They can double as seating, and a week ago we had a group in and proved that it works. We are waiting on another simple bookcase that will serve as a desktop bookcase. I really hope this will meet our needs. I don't like Karen giving up more space or repurposing one more piece of furniture to accommodate this "transition." Happily, yesterday I was able to put most of my deep storage books away without requiring more work or ingenuity on Karen's part.

One week ago, I had the pleasure of being a substitute director at a friend's church. It was a joy to walk in, work someone else's plan, conduct choir and brass, and get a feel for a different church. I don't know whether or how much this could happen in the coming weeks or months, but that was a gift. It was our first Sunday in town since October 7. Today we drove into Chicago to attend an historic church where (due to the obvious conflict) we had never been for services. Interesting experience at every level, and it has me thinking again about "what I want to do next." I wrote a little  about that earlier this week. I have to say, from both of these church experiences: I really value good preaching. I refuse to concede that a church has to have either good music or good preaching.

Oops, but now I've slipped over into the work of my other blog: Te decet hymnus.

My journal has been a good resource, but not something I am hung up on writing in daily. But now as we head toward Thanksgiving, along with my grown children I've committed myself to naming, listing, writing each day about Three Things for which I am Thankful. Thankfulness, too, is an adventure. And it is coloring this one.

Eye Heart San Francisco

How does an unemployed graduate student score a weekend in San Francisco?

First, he has to have been employed, and in that state gotten used to some flexibility and freedom to travel. Then, he has to have some kind of relationship to an airline; something that will provide him with travel funds. Importantly, he will need a wife who is a whiz at tracking said funds, organizing life, and a fun travel companion. Oh, and it also helps to have a free place to stay, and a child with a car.

All that came together for my Karen and me when, the first weekend of my unemployment-for-studies, we headed off to San Francisco. Since my work for 3 decades has involved Sundays, we haven't exactly had the freedom to take weekend trips. But over the years we have enjoyed some of the perks of Southwest Airline; notably, for this trip, their policy of letting customers cancel a flight without penalty, and holding those funds for use at a later date. That date was to expire this month, and here we were with an open weekend which to go away for did not require making substitute arrangements for Sunday morning. Off we went!

Son Chris planned a delightful two days for us. We landed mid-evening Friday and settled in at his condo, anticipating a full Saturday in the sun. That included a leisurely stroll at Coyote Point Park, along the Bay, lunch with niece Jennifer Dew, Jose de Castro, Isadora and her friend Sweden. (Yes, a California teenager named Sweden.) This was my first Indian meal since India, and it was nostalgic to slowly work the excellent buffet table.

Jennifer recommended a visit to Fitzgerald Marine Reserve, at Moss Beach, on the ocean side of the peninsula. We thought we'd get that in after a hike along the peninsular ridge. Traffic on the beautiful windy road across was bumper-to-bumper, and it soon became apparent that we wouldn't have time for the hike and the tidal pools, so we just pressed on.

Many people know Half Moon Bay by name, if not by reputation. It is a destination along the coast. We almost always just drive through it on our way to someplace else. It turns out the traffic jam that turned a 20-minute drive into 2-hours wasn't traffic or construction related, just people getting to HMB for the pumpkin festival. Man, that was kind of annoying. But - wow - were there a lot of pumpkins in town! We just kept rolling, now north along Hwy 1 to Moss Beach.

Sunday found us at our go-to church when we are in the Bay: City Church San Francisco. (more on this at Te decet hymnus) Chris had arranged for us to take an architectural walking tour in the afternoon. We had some time between church and the tour, so we did some walking on our own, with the kind of people-watching that one gets so well in San Francisco.

The tour was fantastic, and deserving of its own post. Here I'll just give a shout-out to guide Rick at San Francisco Architecture Walking Tour. And um, Rick is that organization. Excellent and most highly recommended. Not to mention that we had a picture perfect afternoon for our leisurely, artistic, informative walk in the financial district.

It's hard to get enough of San Francisco on foot, so we walked even more - along the Embarcadero and through the Ferry Building - before catching BART to head home. It was two beautiful days in a place that is not Chicago but could be home. If only.

First Fortnight of Folly

. . . beginning a bi-weekly report on self-imposed unemployment, scholarship, and vocational exploration . . .

Two weeks ago was my last day as pastor for worship and music at College Church in Wheaton. The morning service plan was not out of the ordinary for the church, but the services were fraught with significance for me, my Karen, and not a few of the musicians. Quite unexpectedly, and spontaneously, this video was made. I am proud of it not for its recognition of me (not to say I don't appreciate it - I do!), but for the beautiful singing of the choir.

Karen, for her part, noted wryly that the last word she sang in the choir at College Church was: “death.”

And these weeks have been a kind of death. Not to be melodramatic about it. This morning, walking on the Atlantic beach before “tuning in” our church on the internet, our conversation turned to reflection not unlike the “what ifs” that accompany one of the stages of grief. Grief. It’s not an inappropriate term for it.

We’ve had a couple of busy weeks since the congregation bid us a warm and thankful good-by in the evening service and reception. At that point, I was 6 weeks into the fall semester, and already behind by one week in a course I added the day after I submitted my resignation. I had a lot of catching up to do. We took a hastily planned weekend trip to visit son Chris in San Francisco; which was necessary and right in every respect, but which also put me two days behind in my studies. I returned to a week with 3 short papers due, and at the end of which I would take a 2-hour final exam online. That test was at the end of our first day of a long-planned vacation to Florida. (“Fall break” is after all a perquisite of being a student again!)

And after that exam, I was at the same time relieved at having survived the week, and confronted with the reality that here I sit unemployed, with a rightfully and reasonably concerned wife, facing months of un- or under-employment, and no known prospect of full time vocational work to follow this potentially hare-brained  educational scheme.

I began a journal today.

Down the road we go

Look at that
Look at this
Drop a stone in the abyss
Then walk away and know that anything can happen
Just like that
Just like this

My Karen and I have been standing with our toes at the edge of a precipice for weeks now. And prior to that, edging toward this place. Today we have finally dropped the stone into the abyss. Anything can happen.

This adventure begins on a path that is pretty clearly marked: finish my theology degree. But then it sort of peters out. At the moment there's no clear map, and while I have a compass it can only tell me where true north is. As there is no specific destination, I guess we're just going north for now.

Ask somebody to love you, takes a lot of nerve. 

No way I'd take this first step without my Karen. Just to be clear, she's the one with nerve.

Come awake, come alive
Common sense, we survive
Then hey, hey, down the road we go
You might learn something
Yeah, you never know
But anyway, you’ve got to go

Thankful today for being awake, being alive with this girl at this time of life. And it's true, we might learn something, you never know. But in any case we're not alone, here on the road or standing at the abyss.

Jesus, still lead on, till our rest is won,
Heavenly leader, still direct us,
Still support, console, protect us,
Till we safely land in our fatherland.


"Look at That" by Paul Simon, (c) 1999
"Jesus Still Lead On" by Nicholas L. von Zinzendorf (1721)

An awesome, adventuresome team

Well, there's so much more I could write about India. The "program" still runs in the background, and bumping the mouse or hitting just the right combination of keystrokes makes India pop up on my screen. Probably more posts will surface, but this will be the last in the series processing this most amazing trip.

And it is way past time to identify the "we" of this trip.

"We" were 8 high school students from a church in the west suburbs of Chicago, plus 3 adults. More than 60 other students from our church were also involved in overseas trips, also connecting with Christian workers, in the Caribbean, Central America, and Europe. I am not selling those other teams and trips short when I say that our students had the most Awesome Adventure of all of them. And it goes without saying that they were the most awesomely adventuresome.

Aged 16 - 18 years old, only two of the eight had graduated from high school. They were 5 young women and 3 young men. Because they are in the same youth group, and most of them have been in this church from the nursery on, they were not "strangers." Nor, by and large, were they a close-knit group of friends signing up for this trip. They each had their own interest in the challenge, and they committed to a 6-month preparation period. During that preparation we could see them become closer.

We studied things together - about cultures, about traveling cross-culturally, language, handling stress, how to talk about faith. The students paired up to design and make games, crafts, or projects to help out with the health and hygiene clinic we presented at an Indian school in Varanasi. We raised funds to make this expensive trip. We wrote lots of letters to people who were eager to see the team succeed. This was definitely not a pleasure trip, and the students took all that preparation seriously. When they arrived at their baggage weigh-in 2 days before departure, they were as ready as we could all be.

And it was fun, in transit, to see how much this group had bonded in 6 months. Adults? What adults? I think these kids could have managed this trip alone! They were confident in airports, unflappable in the streets, cheerful at the breakfast table, and thoughtful in our evening study and debrief times. Inquisitive, humorous, thoughtful . . . you may think I am exaggerating, but I could go on. What a team!

• There is the young woman who, our 3rd night in India, our 1st in Varanasi, asked, "Did the church know this trip would be so dangerous?" but who the next morning was as eager for the day as anyone else.
• There is the young man who, 5 or 6 days into the trip, became seriously ill (and missed much of what the team did for a few days), and patiently bore with the less-than-ideal en suite room he shared with the other guys.
• There is the young man who recognized, as I think few 17 year old guys would, that the women were oppressed by their vulnerability in that culture, and made sure that we did all we could to help them feel secure and safe.
• There is the young woman who absorbed as much Hindi language as people would share with her, and kept asking for more.
• The young woman who left the U.S. eager for India and only became more and more smitten with this extraordinary country and culture.
• The young woman who patiently bore with her nausea while stuck in a 4-hour traffic jam.
• The other who patiently sat in the shade, ill and getting iller, while the rest of the team walked through the Taj.
• The quiet young man who often had profound insight in our study time, and who often made us laugh by his unexpected humor.

Travel and service bind people in special ways. This group of young people will always be uniquely friends with each other - through service and travel, with the special context of the challenges and glories of India.

Anxiety

I like to travel. And I'd like to think I'm kind of adventurous. I tried to pick up a little French when I went there, and Italian for Italy. And having learned a little, I like to try to use it. Anywhere I have gone, English has been in fairly common use, so I've never had to rely solely on what I can learn of the host language. Shame on me.

So, finally, a little late in the game, it dawned on me that I had done almost nothing to prepare for the trip to India. Hardly any reading, and no language study on my own. Dr. Laurel gave us language and culture lessons during our 6-months of preparation - and these came in quite handy. But just weeks before our July departure, I finally got my hands on the Pimsleur introduction to Hindi.

Pimspleur is a system of learning strictly by sound (nothing in print), and is designed for conversation especially around travel matters. (Directions, meals, etc.Maybe they advance to more sophisticated conversation and I just haven't stuck with it long enough. But it's been enough for my short trips.) Surprisingly, neither my excellent local library, nor the College library had Hindi language learning on CD. Audio tapes? Who learns a language on audio tape anymore? So for the first time I bought my Pimsleur guide, and charged through 10 introductory 30-minute lessons before our July 9 departure. It was nearly enough to start getting some of the sounds in my ears. And boy, was I wrong about what I thought I knew.

But thas wasn't the source of my highest anxiety in India. Not knowing Hindi was the heart of it. But I never expected to actually need the language. We would be with 3 - 5 Hindi speakers at any given time throughout the 2 weeks. And as we began to navigate Varanasi, in multiple auto rickshaws or walking groups, it was a rule: each group must have a Hindi speaker and an adult male. There were enough of each to go around.

On our Saturday night in Varanasi, we headed out to the apartment of our host, James, for pizza (Domino's! Goat meat!) and a movie (Bollywood! "Three Idiots!"). We piled into 3 rickshaws - each with an adult male and a Hindi speaker - and just before roaring off, Jane (the bilingual in my rickshaw) was moved to another vehicle. This left me in front with the driver, and 3 American teenaged girls in the back. Annoying, but not  yet anxiety producing.

We were the 3rd of the rickshaws, and the one in front of us had a distinctive marking. It was easy to track in the complicated, fast traffic. I saw it go around a traffic circle, then continue straight on in the same direction. Our driver, however, was clearly not going to complete the circle, but turned left out of it. I pointed and waved, "to that way," but he waved me off and stayed left. Well, I thought, presumably all the drivers have the address, and he knows another way.

This fantasy lasted a while, until I realized that the streets had fewer and fewer rickshaws, that I was seeing traffic signs that were not in English, that the streets were less well lit. I started to scan the streets for sign of policemen. I wondered whether I should tell the girls, "I think this guy is lost - or worse? Pray!" I racked my brain for the little bit of Hindi I tried to learn to see if we could make any sense of each other.

Finally, I asked - I'm sure in very poor Hindi - Do you speak English? Well, no, not so much. He knew enough English to tell me that he doesnt' know much English. We were equally matched; that was pretty much all I knew of Hindi.

Eventually, asked the driver to take us back to Assi Ghat. This is a place close enough to our guest house that  I knew how to get back there. I reasoned - if we're really separated from the rest of the group, at least we'll be safe at the guest house. And the others would be able to find us there.

Did I mention that we didn't have a phone with us? That's another story.

Anyway, when I asked him to take us back, our driver stopped. At a poorly lit intersection. In a very lonely street. He got on his phone, and talked to who knows whom? One of the girls asked, "why are we stopped?" I explained that I was pretty sure our driver was lost. And that I didn't know who he was talking to. And that now would be an excellent time to pray.

The driver took off again, and within a couple of minutes, I saw we were being waved into an even smaller alley. OK, I thought, this is not good. But as we made the turn, there was another of our team's rickshaws, with people just piling out. Whew! And - Thank you, Lord!

The other vehicles had gotten bogged down in one of the pilgrim parades that went through Varanasi every night. They had no idea that ours was on a completely different route. They confirmed that no, the driver did not have the address to where we were headed. And - may I say, this was annoying - no one seemed to udnerstand why I was so upset! "Don't you ever let that happen again! Every group must have a Hindi speaker!"

In the end I calmed down enough to eat goat meat pizza (ha!) and enjoy a Bollywood movie. The poor driver was paid 50 rupees less because he "scared his passengers." And/But we never had another Hindi-free small group!

I've been out on my own in cities in other countries. I've had the occasion to try out German, French, and Italian in places where it may or may not have been needed. But this trip to India proved that I am not the adventurous traveler I like to think I am. Something about the very foreign language. About Asia. Or maybe it was just about being an adult with responsibility for students. Whatever it was, my high anxiety was highly informative.