Monday, July 27, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Cross 365/163 - #163- standing on the cross
Compilation Sunday: (that special time of week when picture and prose become as one)There’s somewhat of a common theme in the various mix of Sunday Compilations on fullcirclebc.blogspot.com. For those not in the know, Carla and I usually alternate taking the lead for our weekend collaboration. One Sunday I’ll tell her what I’m going to write about, and she needs to come up with a photo to go with it. The next Sunday she’ll give me a photo, and I need to provide the text to make that photo come to life. Often what happens is that when it’s her pick, she’ll give me something whimsical, lighthearted and carefree, such as a teddy bear. On the contrary, when I get to do the choosing, I tend to pick broad, philosophical themes. “Carla, this Sunday I’m going to write about sanctification. Please take a photo that captures the essence of it.” The challenge of living with a husband who loves to think deeply about the nature of things can be daunting indeed.
For this particular Compilation Sunday Carla simply served me up a delectably juicy morsel of a picture, just the way I like it, ripe with opportunity to wax philosophical about the deeper things in life. Thanks, Sweetheart.
As I looked at this photo, I tried to not think quite so seriously. I really did, but, well, there are some photos that simply evoke certain strains of thought.
I love my daughter Kenna. She is a spirited, passionate, emotional child. Notice that all three of those adjectives can be easily used in either a positive or somewhat negative way. And thus, when I think about my beloved middle daughter, there are times when her spirit, passion and emotion are not always used for good but for evil. I suppose that’s the case for every child. And like every child raised by parents who fear the Lord and seek to raise their children well, I want, more than anything else, for her to truly stand on the cross.
The words of the verse in III John say it all. “I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth.” With Kenna officially starting school in another three weeks, she’s taking the first steps into a world of constant interaction with her peers. As she meets new kids and starts forming friendships and bonds with classmates, I pray she stands on the cross.
In just 21 days time, Kenna will be spending a large chunk of her time with a gifted, compassionate teacher with a heart for kids. Daily Kenna will have a choice to bless her teacher with words of joy and love or drain her with words of selfishness. In how she interacts with all the different teachers she encounters in her years of school, I pray she stands on the cross.
As she matures and grows, she’s going to learn to develop and use the varied and wonderful talents that God’s blessed her with. Along that road of growth and development, she’s going to face one choice after another, from what outfit to wear to whether she really wants to develop a relationship with that boy. In all the choices that she makes, from the seemingly insignificant to the ones that have life or death consequences, I pray that she stands on the cross.
In short, I simply pray for her that this picture may come to be very telling of her heart in the years to come. No matter if stands in a crowd or in the minority or, like here, she stands alone, I pray that she stands on the cross.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Feeding Ducks 365/161
Don't bite the hand that feeds you. Someone should have told the ducks that before Kenna fed them today. Although this isn't Kenna's hand pictured here one could almost see it happen.
Sweetness Eating Sweetness 365/159
If one looked closely at the stream of pictures of late, one would notice that Avery has something sweet in her hand in most of the pictures. I'm sure glad they worked off that sugar at the beach.
U-pick 365/157
We picked raspberries and peaches. We may have a lot of under ripe peaches and over ripe raspberries but it was fun. Avery broke her shoe in the raspberry patch. We had to buy a pair of shoes today. Ironically, the pair she broke today was the pair that replaced her previous pair that landed in the ocean off the pier at the beginning of this summer. Hmmm... I could use a new pair of shoes...
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Path 365/152
Alas, this is the path we take back into the world of normalcy. What a wonderful time to get away and escape many realities (bills, responsibilities, children, heat, oh yeah, did I mention the heat?) but it sure is equally great to come home and have 4 children really excited to see their parents again. Lots of blessings here, even in the inferno we call home.
Tea 365/151
This is a special thanks to my husband: Thanks for accompanying me to high tea. I know many husbands might not be so willing. What a fun experience.
Starbuck on Grouse 365/149 - #149- starbuck-ian economic theory
Commercialism is hard to hide from, especially in the name of Starbucks. In the background is Grouse Mountain and in the foreground is our mocha on ice, so I guess we didn't work REAL hard to avoid it either.
Compilation Sunday- (that special time of week when picture and prose become as one
When leaving the friendly confines of the good ol’ US of A, there are a certain amount of differences one can expect to encounter. In the Great White North, people like to add an extra syllable that rhymes with “day” onto the end of many of their words and phrases. The daily forecast has much less variance with a low of 14 and a high of 17 or 18. Dollar bills are much scarcer in lieu of the prevalent one-dollar and two-dollar coins. And there are many other differences I could relate, especially the friendly factor that’s palpable in the heart of a big city. I’m not a native New Yorker, but everyone getting off the bus and saying “thank you” to the driver is not exactly standard for residents of the Big Apple. But no matter the differences that a international traveler might encounter, it sure is nice to realize the blessings of home that seem to travel along with a person, such as the Starbucks on every corner of every place we visited. Commercial America is alive and well in the land flowing with Molson and Canadian bacon.
Let me start by saying that I’m not a Starbucks addict, especially not in the same way that some of my enlightened colleagues worship the grounds that they froth on in this chain coffee place. In fact, when Carla and I first started dating and making weekly pilgrimages for decaf mochas to unique local coffee houses with color, we eschewed the sterile, chain feeling of Starbucks, being unwilling to support the corporate establishment. We instead preferred the artsy, eccentric coffee houses, the ones with poetry readings or other cultural fare, where an honest mocha was made with care. Eventually we relented from our boycott and have even come to enjoy the occasional iced mocha from Starbucks, but still we’d choose an independent haus over the national chain. However when we get a flock of gift cards from students every Christmas, it is pretty hard to not patronize Starbucks.
Seeing the Starbucks at seemingly every intersection in Canada made me reflect a little bit on the business that is big business at a place like this. Every Friday morning my men’s accountability group meets at Starbucks where occasionally I purchase a grande decaf mocha. The total rings up to the tune of $3.50 at the register. If I were feeling especially fat and sassy (that is, if it’s socially acceptable for a virile, distinguished male to feel such a way) I might even go venti (which, I’m told means “super macho” in Italian) and have to dole out $3.80 to my favorite local barista. Now, for myself, this is an occasional treat, when I feel like breaking free from a simple cup of coffee and spoiling myself, because, well, I deserve it (or so Madison Avenue wants me to believe). For others though, a trip to Starbucks for a specialty coffee is a normal part of the everyday routine. For those folks, I like to give a little primer in Starbuck-ian economic theory.
Forking over the $3.80 for a venti mocha won’t exactly break the bank until the days on the calendar start getting blended together like a frappuccino. For the daily businessman whose day really doesn’t get started until he drives through the drive-thru, he’s ringing up a $19.00 weekly tab. That’s not exactly enough to declare bankruptcy, but it would mostly like feed and clothe a third world child for a month. If the same suit hits Starbucks every workday for a month for his gotta-have-it vanilla latte, he’ll be forking over about $87.00 of his monthly salary just to feed his java addiction. Now we’re getting a little more serious. This amount of cash could pay a monthly electric bill or even approximately 1/3 of a cell phone bill for a family with 3 teenage girls. Should Mr. Wall Street continue on this present course of making Starbucks a member of his extended family for a full 12 months, he’s chalking up a yearly bill of $1048.80. Hello, Mortgage Payment. What’s up, Family Vacation? Now all of a sudden the discussion gets quiet and serious.
When the numbers get added up, the results are a little sobering. Perhaps if you know someone who’s a Starbucks groupie, it’s time for an intervention. If not for them, then for their kids. I hear that college costs money these days. )
Compilation Sunday- (that special time of week when picture and prose become as one
When leaving the friendly confines of the good ol’ US of A, there are a certain amount of differences one can expect to encounter. In the Great White North, people like to add an extra syllable that rhymes with “day” onto the end of many of their words and phrases. The daily forecast has much less variance with a low of 14 and a high of 17 or 18. Dollar bills are much scarcer in lieu of the prevalent one-dollar and two-dollar coins. And there are many other differences I could relate, especially the friendly factor that’s palpable in the heart of a big city. I’m not a native New Yorker, but everyone getting off the bus and saying “thank you” to the driver is not exactly standard for residents of the Big Apple. But no matter the differences that a international traveler might encounter, it sure is nice to realize the blessings of home that seem to travel along with a person, such as the Starbucks on every corner of every place we visited. Commercial America is alive and well in the land flowing with Molson and Canadian bacon.
Let me start by saying that I’m not a Starbucks addict, especially not in the same way that some of my enlightened colleagues worship the grounds that they froth on in this chain coffee place. In fact, when Carla and I first started dating and making weekly pilgrimages for decaf mochas to unique local coffee houses with color, we eschewed the sterile, chain feeling of Starbucks, being unwilling to support the corporate establishment. We instead preferred the artsy, eccentric coffee houses, the ones with poetry readings or other cultural fare, where an honest mocha was made with care. Eventually we relented from our boycott and have even come to enjoy the occasional iced mocha from Starbucks, but still we’d choose an independent haus over the national chain. However when we get a flock of gift cards from students every Christmas, it is pretty hard to not patronize Starbucks.
Seeing the Starbucks at seemingly every intersection in Canada made me reflect a little bit on the business that is big business at a place like this. Every Friday morning my men’s accountability group meets at Starbucks where occasionally I purchase a grande decaf mocha. The total rings up to the tune of $3.50 at the register. If I were feeling especially fat and sassy (that is, if it’s socially acceptable for a virile, distinguished male to feel such a way) I might even go venti (which, I’m told means “super macho” in Italian) and have to dole out $3.80 to my favorite local barista. Now, for myself, this is an occasional treat, when I feel like breaking free from a simple cup of coffee and spoiling myself, because, well, I deserve it (or so Madison Avenue wants me to believe). For others though, a trip to Starbucks for a specialty coffee is a normal part of the everyday routine. For those folks, I like to give a little primer in Starbuck-ian economic theory.
Forking over the $3.80 for a venti mocha won’t exactly break the bank until the days on the calendar start getting blended together like a frappuccino. For the daily businessman whose day really doesn’t get started until he drives through the drive-thru, he’s ringing up a $19.00 weekly tab. That’s not exactly enough to declare bankruptcy, but it would mostly like feed and clothe a third world child for a month. If the same suit hits Starbucks every workday for a month for his gotta-have-it vanilla latte, he’ll be forking over about $87.00 of his monthly salary just to feed his java addiction. Now we’re getting a little more serious. This amount of cash could pay a monthly electric bill or even approximately 1/3 of a cell phone bill for a family with 3 teenage girls. Should Mr. Wall Street continue on this present course of making Starbucks a member of his extended family for a full 12 months, he’s chalking up a yearly bill of $1048.80. Hello, Mortgage Payment. What’s up, Family Vacation? Now all of a sudden the discussion gets quiet and serious.
When the numbers get added up, the results are a little sobering. Perhaps if you know someone who’s a Starbucks groupie, it’s time for an intervention. If not for them, then for their kids. I hear that college costs money these days. )
Whistler 365/147
The following day we took a bus to Whistler. What awesome sights God has put on display for us to see. The pictures you see here are atop Whistler Peak but down at the base it's warm and your avid dirt-biker extraordinaire was making good use of the rocky terrain and the chair lifts which now were devoid of many skiers. Though there were a couple die-hards out there skiing beyond Whistler and Blackcomb, most of the chairlifts were clad with mountain voyeurs and many skinned up thrill-seekers.Capilano 365/146
We rode the ferry over to North Vancouver to walk on Capilano Suspension Bridge. It's 230 feet above a canyon and 450 feet long. Once we crossed the bridge we walked on elevated boardwalks connecting us from one tree to another as much as 10 stories high. It was quite the fun treetop experience. After lunch we toured a fish hatchery. If anyone has been on the Hana Highway one would be able to relate to the leery feeling of whether you're actually on the right path. Several times we wondered whether our hiking would actually lead us anywhere. It proved to be well-worth the trek. Walking a kilometer surrounded by flora and fauna and being sheltered by a canopy of trees is a very wonderful time.
Granville Island Market 365/145
After many hours on the train, which by the way, is an awesome way to travel, we arrived in Vancouver around 1am the following day. We took a 2-minute ferry ride to Granville Island where the average "foodie" can feast their eyes on many delectable sights. We also toured the Emily Carr Art Institute Gallery and walked around the island. It's hard to limit just one picture to capture our day. 
Dedication 365/144
"Dedication" that's one word I would use to describe Blake, beit work, wife or blog, this guy is dedicated. Waiting in the train station he made sure he continued writing for all his fans.
Capilano Time 365/142 - #142- time traveling
Compilation Sunday: (that special time of week when picture and prose become as one.)
The average, ignorant (and I do mean “ignorant” in the nicest, most flattering way possible) person reading this blog might not realize the ironic nature of the title for this post. It’s ironic because the fantasy-inspired idea of time travel doesn’t mix with my disinterest in all things science fiction and other-wordly. I’m not exactly a devotee of the fantasy genre. I prefer to remain in the real world devoid of ghost, goblins, hobbits,magic and general space travel. I don’t even like animated movies. I know. It’s sounds cruel, harsh and somewhat unpatriotic perhaps, but as far as I’m concerned, Nemo, as cute and adorable as he might be to the average person, can just keep on swimming into the underwater sunset.
The reason for the subject of “time traveling” is that is just what I did the other day . . . by looking through a flock of old church pictorial directories. It was quite the entertaining journey. Should the photography business ever become obsolete, it’s nice to know that Olan Mills can venture into extortion and blackmail and still turn quite the handsome profit. While walking through the 70’s, I half-expected to hear the page shout out, “Come here, Starsky, I need you.” There was lots of brown leather and hair. I don’t remember all of my history lessons from the decade, but perhaps I’m just forgetting that along with the energy crisis of Carter’s administration, there was also a serious shortage of usable razors and an unfortunate and prolonged barber’s strike. Moving into the 80’s, I noticed how the funky sweater industry must have blossomed as well as the aerosol hair spray business.
In all seriousness, it was quite interesting to look at a single church through the pages of twenty years worth of pictorial directories. It was a like a living travelogue of stills from history. Families both grew and shrank, with some clans being more fertile than rabbits, or so it seemed. It was quite fun to notice the single adults who got their own, enjoyable solo shots in one edition and then, in the subsequent years until the next edition, found each and then shared the same square the next time around. Through it all, the faithfulness of God seemingly seeped through each page, the generations of faith simply morphing into one another through the visual passage of time.
It also inspired me to do some more time traveling on my own. This afternoon as we prepared for a little family ice cream outing, I threw on a t-shirt and got ready to go. It happened to be a t-shirt from the late 90’s XXL phase that I went through. With my new slimmed-down body, it swallowed my slender frame and provided room for a few more patrons as well inside the fabric. Thus, Carla wanted me to put on something a little more form-fitting. As chance would have it, I happened (courtesy of my sister Sara) to have in my dresser a Boston Celtics tank top from my days in junior high, and, as further luck would have it, it still fit perfectly, nice and snug, just like a cocoon might feel to a caterpillar.
We ventured out and, apparently, time travelers are quite the object of curiosity. In the grocery store a couple of shoppers gave me a puzzled look and a bit of a laugh. I’m not sure of the reason. Perhaps they are not Celtics fans or perhaps my Kelly green tank didn’t match my brown shorts or perhaps my farmer’s tan hurt their eyes. Of course, there is the distinct though remote possibility that I have a tad bit more chest hair than I did in junior high and the low-cut tank made the salt and pepper tufts of chesty follicles protrude over the neck line like Don King peeking over a fence. Like I said, the possibility is remote but indeed possible.
And thus, my adventure in time traveling was brief but enjoyable. Next time though I think I’ll do my decade hopping by watching an old rerun of The White Shadow or Little House on the Prairie or some other non-animated film.
The average, ignorant (and I do mean “ignorant” in the nicest, most flattering way possible) person reading this blog might not realize the ironic nature of the title for this post. It’s ironic because the fantasy-inspired idea of time travel doesn’t mix with my disinterest in all things science fiction and other-wordly. I’m not exactly a devotee of the fantasy genre. I prefer to remain in the real world devoid of ghost, goblins, hobbits,magic and general space travel. I don’t even like animated movies. I know. It’s sounds cruel, harsh and somewhat unpatriotic perhaps, but as far as I’m concerned, Nemo, as cute and adorable as he might be to the average person, can just keep on swimming into the underwater sunset.
The reason for the subject of “time traveling” is that is just what I did the other day . . . by looking through a flock of old church pictorial directories. It was quite the entertaining journey. Should the photography business ever become obsolete, it’s nice to know that Olan Mills can venture into extortion and blackmail and still turn quite the handsome profit. While walking through the 70’s, I half-expected to hear the page shout out, “Come here, Starsky, I need you.” There was lots of brown leather and hair. I don’t remember all of my history lessons from the decade, but perhaps I’m just forgetting that along with the energy crisis of Carter’s administration, there was also a serious shortage of usable razors and an unfortunate and prolonged barber’s strike. Moving into the 80’s, I noticed how the funky sweater industry must have blossomed as well as the aerosol hair spray business.
In all seriousness, it was quite interesting to look at a single church through the pages of twenty years worth of pictorial directories. It was a like a living travelogue of stills from history. Families both grew and shrank, with some clans being more fertile than rabbits, or so it seemed. It was quite fun to notice the single adults who got their own, enjoyable solo shots in one edition and then, in the subsequent years until the next edition, found each and then shared the same square the next time around. Through it all, the faithfulness of God seemingly seeped through each page, the generations of faith simply morphing into one another through the visual passage of time.
It also inspired me to do some more time traveling on my own. This afternoon as we prepared for a little family ice cream outing, I threw on a t-shirt and got ready to go. It happened to be a t-shirt from the late 90’s XXL phase that I went through. With my new slimmed-down body, it swallowed my slender frame and provided room for a few more patrons as well inside the fabric. Thus, Carla wanted me to put on something a little more form-fitting. As chance would have it, I happened (courtesy of my sister Sara) to have in my dresser a Boston Celtics tank top from my days in junior high, and, as further luck would have it, it still fit perfectly, nice and snug, just like a cocoon might feel to a caterpillar.
We ventured out and, apparently, time travelers are quite the object of curiosity. In the grocery store a couple of shoppers gave me a puzzled look and a bit of a laugh. I’m not sure of the reason. Perhaps they are not Celtics fans or perhaps my Kelly green tank didn’t match my brown shorts or perhaps my farmer’s tan hurt their eyes. Of course, there is the distinct though remote possibility that I have a tad bit more chest hair than I did in junior high and the low-cut tank made the salt and pepper tufts of chesty follicles protrude over the neck line like Don King peeking over a fence. Like I said, the possibility is remote but indeed possible.
And thus, my adventure in time traveling was brief but enjoyable. Next time though I think I’ll do my decade hopping by watching an old rerun of The White Shadow or Little House on the Prairie or some other non-animated film.
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