The Running of the Bulls

The Running of the Bulls, part of the San Fermin Festival in Pamplona in the North of Spain, made famous by Ernest Hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises," is underway.  It is held annually from July 6th to the 12th when enormous bulls chase revelers wearing all white except for a red sash and beret, through the barricaded streets of the old city into the ancient bullring.  

About 14 people have been killed since the turn of the century and many more seriously hurt.  

This festival marks the one time that I was grateful for paternalism.  

I was 18 and visiting the festival with my brother and a group of friends.  We found out that women were not allowed to run.  (That rule has changed, but it is still mainly men who take the challenge.  Feminine wisdom and self-preservation winning out over machismo perhaps...?) 

I pretended that I was furious!  That I had thoroughly intended to run!  That I was deeply upset that I would not be able to hurtle myself through the streets hotly pursued by a herd of prime young, half-ton bulls, with the only way of escape being to make it to the bullring before they did, or attempt to leap over the barricades lining the route in a dizzying display of athleticism.... 

On the surface I was devastated by the "archaic rule", inside I was deeply relieved!  Gymnastics and track were never my strong suit.  I might have been pounded to a pulp in the streets of Pamplona.  Squashed by stampeding steers.  Bloodied by bucking bovines.  All these decades later I am so relieved that the venerable Pamplona City Fathers put their foot down!  

I am so grateful I lived to tell the tale!

Oops!

Last night Rick and I went out to  eat and then saw the movie Lilo and Stitch. One of my now-granddaughters loves Stitch, I'd never heard of him before and wanted the cultural literacy.

Rick bought the tickets before the meal. The only ones he could get that late at night was for the VIP section of the theatre with fully reclining cushy seats, free sodas, icees, and popcorn.

We arrived just before the movie started. As we entered the empty VIP lounge a lovely young man asked if we wanted popcorn and came back with two bags full. He motioned towards the drinks machine, said to help ourselves, and motioned to a separate machine and said "water."

I don't drink soda so I got one of the huge drink cups, put in ice, and wandered over to the water machine. The water came out in a slow but persistent stream. It seemed to be taking a ridiculously long time to fill up the cup. I waited, noticing how the pale yellow of the cup was reflected in the water now just rising above the level of the ice. 

Out of the  corner of my eye I saw that the young helper had come out of the service area, paused briefly, and then walked on. My mind was off and away in dream-land anticipating the coming movie. 

Then I thought, I can't wait for this cup to fill up, lifted my finger off the lever and took a deep swig. 

It was warm. It was thick. 

It was revolting!

Ugh! 

Double and triple ugh!

That's when I noticed the young man's horrified face. "It's butter!"he said. "Butter for the popcorn!"

Obviously I had misheard him when I thought he told me it it was the water spigot.

The young man said he thought it was unusual when he saw me pouring butter into a cup. But he said he thought I would then empty it into my bag of popcorn. He couldn't believe his eyes when he saw me drink the glutinous stuff.

As I got  real water and ice and walked into the cinema, I observed, to Rick's handsome grinning face, that I'll never be sophisticated. And that at least we gave the lovely young man a story. 

And yes. The movie was great. 

Dinner, new story, and movie. A delightful, thoroughly enjoyable trio!

A Father’s Day Thought

A Grateful Thought for Father's Day

When I worked as the Protestant Chaplain in the largest men's prison in Maryland I was pleased, and quietly moved, to discover that greeting card companies would regularly send an abundance of assorted cards into the prison. This was so that inmates could keep a connection with their beyond-the-walls family and friends. 

Despite there being 2,700 men behind that particular razor wire, there was enough for each man to have five cards a month, if they so wished. They just had to put a request slip in to come to the chaplain's office and the chapel clerk would help them get their cards.

Before Mother's Day we were besieged. It seemed like the majority of men in that place wanted cards for their mothers, grandmothers, wives, and baby mommas. 

Before Father's Day, however, there was hardly a ripple. We had Father's Day cards but they were rarely requested.

I often wondered if the lack of interest in that particular day's cards had a direct correlation to bad or absent fathering, and if that was the bedrock reason for many of the men being incarcerated in that bleak place. 

So on this Father's Day I want to thank all men who have been solid rocks for their own offspring. I count my husband among them. He is a wonderful father to his two adult children, and the loveliest Opa to six beloved grandchildren. Indeed he is a child-whisperer. 

Children, all children, rightfully adore him.

Then I want to thank all those men who have fathered other people's kids, emotionally, financially, spiritually, or all of the above. Thank you for caring for step-children, lonely kids, students, kids in theater productions, or on sports teams. Thank you for being an example, a beacon of hope, a safe place. 

And perhaps a reason some of them stay on the right side of the bars.

Thank you to all the dads who do the best they can despite the life-cards they've been handed.

Thank you for making a difference.

And whether you get a card or not - to all the dads out there - Happy Father's Day!

A Christmas Encounter

Besides a church service a week ago on a walker, last night was my first jaunt out of the house, leaning on a stick, since my hip replacement on December 11th. And what a wonderful evening it was. Rick, my beloved,  and I went to "A Celtic Christmas" at the Weinberg Theatre in Frederick, MD. 

The superbly energetic Irish dancing, singing, fiddling, and glorious atmosphere of frolicking love and mirth were palpable and infectious. The audience were captivated and enthralled. 

It was a glorious evening. 

However, something else stands out to me now as I think about yesterday evening's  adventure. It is a long-ago memory provoked by the meal we grabbed before getting to the Weinberg. 

Time was a little tight so we decided to dash into a Middle Eastern mainly take out joint that had a few inside tables. We chose to eat in. As we were scarfing down delicious spicy sustenance I glanced up and saw there was a young Middle Eastern couple with a beatific baby in a pram eating at a table across from us. They were a perfect reminder of the Middle Eastern Holy Family of so long ago - the family we were just about to celebrate Celtic-style. 

The lady and I smiled at each other - and suddenly I was in a time warp - whisked back through the decades to London, England, a few days before Christmas 1991. 

At the time I was one of 16 pastors at the largest church in England, an international Charismatic church in Notting Hill Gate. I was the recently-appointed first Director of Creative Ministries, setting up a new department that,  before I left and came to America, had developed and launched an award-winning magazine, a creative school and a theatre. 

I was in that London church that pre-Christmas day so long ago- when I saw a despondent man and a woman huddled in one of the back rows surrounded by a few old, battered suitcases. It turned out that they were from Belgium. The man had been promised an almost-too-good-to believe job in England. He was told he just had to get himself and his wife (no baby) to London and everything would be provided and he could start work straight away. 

The man thought this was a brilliant opportunity. Sold everything to have enough money for the journey and arrived, with his wife with just a few pounds between them. He explained that he couldn't get hold of the would-be-employer.  The employer was not answering his phone or taking messages. The traveler didn't have an address. He had spent almost their last money on accommodation the night before.  They had used their last money on a sandwich meal. 

After many more phone calls he realized he had been hoodwinked. There was no job, no accommodation, no money forthcoming. And they were stuck in London, far from home, with rudimentary English, days before Christmas, destitute. 

I phoned all the local shelters. They were full to overflowing. It was a bitterly cold winter and there was no room in any of them - with a long waiting list beside. 

I thought about my office setup. The church had run out of office space so they had housed me in a downstairs room of a building they owned next door. Three students lived in rooms on the top floors, I was in a back downstairs room next to the small shared kitchen, and there was a living room next to my office that was mostly unused. 

I trotted off to the senior pastor, an ex-professional ballet dancer, and explained the dilemma of our two visitors. I assured him that I had a good feeling about these two people, that they were not dangerous, but just had stumbled into an untenable position. Hesitant at first, he finally agreed that for that night they could sleep in the living room next to my office. It  had two sofas, and I told the pastor that  I would make it cosy with blankets and pillows. 

I got the travelers supper and they settled in for the night. The man was going to make a last desperate phone call to his would-be employer the next morning. 

The next day after another failed call, the couple realized for the last time that the promised employment door really was locked and bolted. 

They wanted to get home. If they could just get to their town in Belgium, they said, friends and family would look after them until they were on their feet again. But the had no money. No credit cards. 

They were babes in the vast metropolitan London woods. 

I went back to the senior pastor. By now it was Christmas Eve Day. He agreed that the church would pay for their rather-expensive bus ticket back to Belgium and  that the couple would reimburse the church when they were able to do so. 

The couple were delighted! They gave me their driving licenses as a good faith gesture so I could photocopy them and have a way of contacting them in the New Year if need be. 

I bought picnic supplies for their long journey. Then I drove them to the huge London International coach station, bought tickets on behalf of the church, got them on the coach, and waved goodbye to them as they finally  pulled out of the station, homeward bound. 

When I got back to my office I got out the photocopies of their driving licenses to file them. I hadn't looked closely at them before as getting the travelers ready to depart had been done in a flurry of hurry.

 

I stared at the licenses and did a double take. Then I  checked again, hardly believing  what my eyes had just seen. 

Of course I had heard the couple's first names, but I had no way of knowing their middle names until I saw their licenses. 

They were Joseph and Mary. 

They had sheltered with us at the church as there was no room at the Inn - or rather the homeless shelters. 

And they had been sent on a long journey to safety. 

The senior pastor was, to put it accurately although indelicately, gobsmacked when I told him. His eyes did the osculatory equivalent of a pirouette around the room. 

He preached about it in his Christmas sermon the next day. 

And no, we never got, or asked for, the money for the bus tickets. 

After all, it is not often that Joseph and Mary come to your door needing help at Christmas. 

Looking at the young couple in that Middle Eastern takeout last night swept me back into a time vortex. 

I hadn't thought about that couple in the church for years. 

I loved every moment of the Celtic Christmas with its exuberance, incredible talent, and festively dressed audience. But it is always good to remember the true meaning of Christmas. And recall the fear, uncertainty, and gratefully accepted meager accommodation of that night. 

So in these days before Christmas, whether you are living delightfully high on the warm family, festive hog, or alone, wrapped in sadness due to death, illness, or another sorrow - know that this is a season of miracles both domestic and dramatic. May those miracles flood into your life in unexpected, heart-warming ways bringing you unexpected nuggets of joy. 

Amen. 

Thank you Lord.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I am so grateful to live in a nation that understands the power of giving thanks. A day when all Americans in this tensely divided time, no matter what creed, color, or proclivities, are united in thankfulness, bonhomie, and, usually, feasting. 

I have always believed that one of the reasons that America is great is because of this day set apart for giving thanks. 

So thank you Lord for my family and friends. Thank you for the opportunities you have put before me, the adventures you have given me, and the usually self-inflicted disasters you have rescued me from. But most of all thank you for your unfailing, all-encompassing love. With all my heart - thank you. 

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! Whether you wil be surrounded by loved ones, or on your own wrapped in memories, may it be surprisingly delightful and love filled.

Amen