It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…
                                                                                         - Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
                                                                
Preparations for a mid-day meeting delayed my morning walk.  By the time the meeting ended and I was free, rush hour had begun.  As I stepped onto the shared-use path a cold wind whipped my face and stung my eyes. The whoosh of speeding cars, the squealing tires and the blaring horns were added blows to my bleeding senses.  My spirit deflated like a punctured lung.  I thought of turning around for home, but then I stopped, closed my eyes, and took a moment to center myself and reclaim my purpose and my enthusiasm.  When I opened my eyes what I saw was a brilliant blue sky and puffy white clouds surrounded by haloes of gold from the setting sun.  Crisp red and orange leaves skipped across the path in front of me, and I thought to myself, it is true:  the best and the worst, they can both be present at the same time and in the same place. 

The daily news can be as jarring as the cold wind that whipped my face.  Somedays it is easy to believe that the bad news is all the news there is, that it is indeed the worst of times in a Tale of Two Countries, but then something happens that expands my focus and restores my faith.  Two such stories recently reached me. 

With all the worries about loss of essential benefits such as SNAP and healthcare amidst an affordable housing crisis and rising grocery costs, a friend sent me this story about a restaurant in Marion, Ohio where a few afternoons a week the restaurant offers free pasta dinners to families with the tag line, “Your children don’t need to know.”  Quoting the article and Bucci’s Facebook post:  Bucci’s said, “We love this community, and we’re thankful to be in a position to do something small that might make things a little easier for someone else. We can’t get through this without each other. Love you all.”

A few days later, I saw another story about a man and his two young sons who live in Whitehall, Pennsylvania.  They started a small food pantry on their front porch and received a nice donation from an anonymous donor.  The Whitehall dad said, “Making a food pantry is no different than me inviting you over to my house for dinner. Come grab a meal. Come grab a drink. Come grab what you need. I’m happy to have you.”

These stories were the medicine I needed, medicine that did not just restore my faith but invigorated it.  I was reminded that God created man and placed that man in a garden.  God saw that the man was lonely, and God created a companion for him.  God never intended for us to face life alone even in paradise.  Life was meant to be served up family style.

I want to hold onto these stories whenever I am inclined to become a doubting Thomas.  Just because there is a moment of darkness, I do not want to doubt that there is light ahead.  I am a believer, and this is the hard work of faith:  to keep believing even in the darkness, to trust in goodness even when the bad guys seem to be winning, and to act with conviction by committing ourselves to loving others with joy and enthusiasm.

There is a story in the Book of Matthew about the apostles out at night on a stormy sea.  They were far from  shore and whipped by wind and waves.  Exhausted, they looked into the darkness and they saw Jesus walking toward them on the water.   Jesus said, “Take courage. Don’t be afraid.”  I am thinking there are some folks in Marion, Ohio and Whitehall, Pennsylvania who have heard these same words from people they believe walk on water.
 

Well, we are deep in football season. College games occupy our Saturdays, NFL games our Sundays and our Monday nights.  Game 1 of baseball’s World Series is behind us and the NBA season is before us. Our great leader, #47, is still teeing off on the weekends. Everywhere I turn it’s all about balls.

My mind might be fertile ground or just a trash mountain, but as you know, I like to ponder life’s big questions, and so the steady roll of balls leaves me pondering another one of life’s mysteries:  What is our societal fascination with balls? I would Google it, but I fear the pop-up ads that would follow, and I don’t want my children to visit and turn on my YouTube TV to find a menu of X-rated videos.

How did this dedication to the spherical life get started? As they scavenged for food, were cavemen fascinated by the roundest rocks? Did some caveman encounter a rolling stone and take off in hot pursuit…something else in the wild to be tamed and brought under man’s control?  Or did he see a smooth round rock rolling down hill and say to himself, “Hey, that stone is not gathering any moss, I think I will chase it, and when I catch it, I am going to kick it into my enemy’s cave.  Maybe he will kick it back to me.” Or, “I think I will hit this stone with a stick and then run home as fast as I can.”  Maybe cavemen had a lot of time on their hands when they weren’t hunting or fleeing for their lives.

I am not sure which of our early ancestors passed the ball, but sports metaphors aren’t just for fun and games.  They entered the business world a long time ago, and they appear to be a requirement for business and motivation.    We are advised to get the ball rolling and keep our eye on the ball.  We go to bat or carry the ball. Sometimes we have a lot of balls to juggle. We cover the bases.  Sometimes we drop the ball or wait while the ball is in the air.  Occasionally, we slam dunk.  On the downside, we might drop the ball or get behind the eight ball.  Under pressure we might make a Hail Mary pass (and you don’t even have to be Catholic to do so).  Other times, the ball’s in their court and all we can do is wait-- unless we are off base entirely.

High profile male ball handlers are the most well-known of celebrities.  A person might win a Nobel Prize and save millions of lives with their discoveries, and no one knows their name, but hit a ball out of the park or score a touchdown and your name is a household word more familiar than that simple, old-fashioned word: eggs.  Everyone will be wearing your image or number on their t-shirt.  And people will pay a pretty penny for the winning game ball.

It has been harder for women to get in the game.  People just don’t seem willing to pay to watch women carry the balls.  I did a quick, informal survey about why this is so.  What I learned is that the women’s game lacks the level of “explosiveness” and “aggression” seen in the men’s games.

Perhaps testosterone explains it or maybe men have just had more time on their hands to develop these game-playing qualities.  Who knows what those cavemen were really doing when they went off to hunt.  Women were having babies, nursing babies, hauling water, tending fires, gathering food, and cooking and cleaning all while chasing off the occasional predator; never a moment to spare.  And the early beauty regimen might have been time-consuming with no quick showers or hair dryers.  Let’s face it:  women have always been overextended and tired.

In our current spheres of influence, all you need is to have been a once-famous male athlete.  The doors blow open for you.  Having played a ball game qualifies aging former players to be owners, coaches, commentators, broadcasters, senators, governors, motivational speakers, and general experts on everything.  Who needs an education and specialized knowledge and experience when you are a modern day Zeus?

And so we roll along with no job too big for a former ball handler.

Seems nuts to me.
 
 
 

        
When people ask me: “Where are you from?” I find it hard to answer.

My home is not so much a place as it is something that grew inside of me, or as James Baldwin would say, my home is “an irrevocable condition,” a condition I acquired in the “way back” of a Rambler station wagon in the time before seatbelts and the interstate highway system, in the time when families were large, children were the cargo, and luggage went on the roof.

It was not the houses or the bicycles or the toys that we were leaving behind that spoke to me of home, but rather, it was the landscape that faded into the distance as the miles added up on our journey to somewhere else.  Eventually, the years added up alongside the miles, and even after I took the wheel, it was the landscape and the roots of the people it sprouted that let me know when I was home.

Necessity not wanderlust led me to spend so much time moving from place to place.  My father was a Master Sergeant in the United States Air Force. My early childhood was marked by frequent moves across the country as my father was deployed or re-assigned in the service of his country.  By the time we finally landed in suburbia, it was too late—my condition was chronic and could not be undone. I had the stubborn awareness that all places are not the same.  Though most of my life has been spent in the city, I know that the city is not my home. Urban living serves practical needs like higher education, employment, and access to state-of-the-art health care, but my home is in small towns and wide open spaces, places that serve my soul: 

     My home is where laundry flaps on a clothesline and cows graze in the pasture.

     My home is where the air smells of rain, wet dirt, and new grass.

     My home is where Amish buggies and giant combines slow the few cars trailing behind them.

     My home is on dusty dirt roads where indigenous people sell their colorful handicrafts from makeshift           stands against a backdrop of majestic mountains and prickly cacti.

     My home is in small villages where people know your name and generations of your family. 

     My home is where people give directions to strangers using fence posts, barns, and disabled tractors as         landmarks.

     My home is where there are old cisterns in the yard and Seckel pears falling from trees that shade the             porch.

     My home is where children swim in the creek, race frogs, pick wild berries, and wear necklaces woven           from dandelions.

     My home is where the sheriff might also be a volunteer fireman and a farmer might drive the ambulance. 

     My home is where a big night out is a trip to the local custard stand—the only establishment for miles             around.

     My home is where the blast of a locomotive’s air horn and the rumble of coal cars say it is time for dinner.

     My home is where a trip to the city is a big deal but coming home is better.

     My home is where a person’s reputation is known and it matters, where hard work and resourcefulness          are The Designer’s brand.

     My home is where a man can have a doctorate in chemistry and still farm the land, where he has the               know-how to make everything from fudge to a barn and repair anything from a leaky faucet to a truck’s         torn upholstery.

     My home is where business establishments still close on Sundays.

     My home is where productive labor is a joy and people join hands with God to raise a crop or expand a           herd, places where people turn trees into furniture and fruit into jelly.
 
People ask me: “Where are you from?”

Where am I from?

I dwell in the city but my roots are in the dust of the earth and in the soil of country landscapes; my heart belongs to stalwart and generous neighbors who care for the earth and for each other; and my soul rests in the wisdom of The One who planted a garden in Eden and put there the man and woman he had made.