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One of my joys in life is going camping a couple of weekends a year. Even though my trips are relegated to Scout camps these days, being in the Great Outdoors charges my batteries. My father once said that those who hunt and those who fish are really doing the same thing - getting out into the quiet of nature. On my camping trips, I usually take a long walk, by myself, to soak in the beauty of the Creation.
On the vacation trip I mentioned in a previous message, we made a trip to Muir Woods, north of San Francisco. It is simply a stunningly beautiful place, filled with California redwoods and other gorgeous sights. It is on the list for us to make a return visit when we can spend the entire day there. Around every bend, there is yet another "Oh, wow!" experience. We stopped for a while at one place where we waited for a forest ranger to come give a talk about the trees and plants. We noticed a woman standing off to one side just facing the woods. She looked Native American. It did not take long before we noticed that she was not just standing; she was doing what looked like a liturgical dance. She was in deep meditation, praying to the forest. It seemed almost intrusive to me for others to be walking by and talking as this prayer was in progress. She stayed there for a long time until a young person, probably her grandson, came to get her. She understood what so many casual visitors to places like Muir Woods miss. The Great Spirit has a Sanctuary that is vast, if we only slow down long enough to enjoy and appreciate it.
Bruce Lafitte
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Never Too Old for Pink Roses
By Sibley Fleming
I was admiring the stand of long-stemmed pink roses on the altar this morning. At my age, I should be ashamed of being so fond of pink roses and I felt this acutely as I drank in the perfect pink buds against the white wall, sitting on the shelf behind and to the right of the lectern. The passion for pink roses is of course understandable in a little girl – even a tomboy will succumb to the enchantment of a tea set – there’s just something about a miniature white china pot and shot glass-size tea cups with dainty pink rose buds melted into the surface.
When I was 12, I learned to embroider on pink roses, which were printed on white linen dresser runners. I stitched like crazy and invented a Pink Rose Tea Club, a ruse that I used in order to be able to make fudge. “Have a club meeting this weekend. I probably need to make some fudge to offer my guests.” Though guests were seldom actually plural. Four years later, I was thrilled to receive a pink rose bush on my 16th birthday, it had small blossoms like baby’s breath and I have no idea what variety it was.
But I ramble. The point is that when you’re 45, you should be graduated to more mature tastes in rose colors, like deep velvet red or King’s Ransom yellow. I’m sorry to say these thoughts kept creeping through my mind as I listened to Patricia talking about the host being substantial, something to eat and chew and digest in a very human way—the sermon. She was making the important point about the connection of the spiritual life to the physical life. Sort of like the physical pink roses being on the altar to see with your eyes, but the absolute pleasure and gratitude that you feel by seeing a thing that fills the senses with joy being maybe something more spiritual.
And of course, the Eucharist was so like that this morning as the eight or so of us gathered at the altar for communion—the bread was thick and dense so that it required we chew hard, chomp down and intensely experience the flesh.
There was a cool nip in the morning air and it seemed we all rose from our pews, sort of just happy to be there, ready for the fall to kick in. As I gathered my things chatting with Nancy Dillon about the newly ended summer, I glanced over to see Dottie Albright walking toward us, a single pink rose stem in each hand. Everyone received the gift of a long-stemmed, beautifully formed pink rose. Now I am home and my rose is sitting here on my desk, in water, in an old clear glass bottle. And I chuckle a bit at a quote I heard a little while ago on NPR—Only God can make a tree because the bark is so hard to put on—perhaps that’s a reference to the physical.
I was admiring the stand of long-stemmed pink roses on the altar this morning. At my age, I should be ashamed of being so fond of pink roses and I felt this acutely as I drank in the perfect pink buds against the white wall, sitting on the shelf behind and to the right of the lectern. The passion for pink roses is of course understandable in a little girl – even a tomboy will succumb to the enchantment of a tea set – there’s just something about a miniature white china pot and shot glass-size tea cups with dainty pink rose buds melted into the surface.
When I was 12, I learned to embroider on pink roses, which were printed on white linen dresser runners. I stitched like crazy and invented a Pink Rose Tea Club, a ruse that I used in order to be able to make fudge. “Have a club meeting this weekend. I probably need to make some fudge to offer my guests.” Though guests were seldom actually plural. Four years later, I was thrilled to receive a pink rose bush on my 16th birthday, it had small blossoms like baby’s breath and I have no idea what variety it was.
But I ramble. The point is that when you’re 45, you should be graduated to more mature tastes in rose colors, like deep velvet red or King’s Ransom yellow. I’m sorry to say these thoughts kept creeping through my mind as I listened to Patricia talking about the host being substantial, something to eat and chew and digest in a very human way—the sermon. She was making the important point about the connection of the spiritual life to the physical life. Sort of like the physical pink roses being on the altar to see with your eyes, but the absolute pleasure and gratitude that you feel by seeing a thing that fills the senses with joy being maybe something more spiritual.
And of course, the Eucharist was so like that this morning as the eight or so of us gathered at the altar for communion—the bread was thick and dense so that it required we chew hard, chomp down and intensely experience the flesh.
There was a cool nip in the morning air and it seemed we all rose from our pews, sort of just happy to be there, ready for the fall to kick in. As I gathered my things chatting with Nancy Dillon about the newly ended summer, I glanced over to see Dottie Albright walking toward us, a single pink rose stem in each hand. Everyone received the gift of a long-stemmed, beautifully formed pink rose. Now I am home and my rose is sitting here on my desk, in water, in an old clear glass bottle. And I chuckle a bit at a quote I heard a little while ago on NPR—Only God can make a tree because the bark is so hard to put on—perhaps that’s a reference to the physical.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
The Clairvoyant In the Casino
By Rev. LTC Peter E. Bauer MS USAR
Recently, my wife Kate and I spent our twenty-fourth wedding anniversary out in Las Vegas, NV. We stayed at the Las Vegas Hilton because my wife wanted to see Barry Manilow.
The Southwest flight from San Antonio, TX was interesting. I got bumped due to over-booking, received a two hundred dollar travel voucher, and took the later flight which arrived first to Phoenix, AZ before proceeding onto Las Vegas. I looked out of the plane window as we were landing in Phoenix. I saw hundreds of people crammed into a big municipal swimming pool, which from ten thousand feet up looked like so many flies scurrying on the surface of the water while the temperature was 108 degrees.
We finally landed in Las Vegas and I took the shuttle to the hotel. We passed the Hard Rock Café and the Joint, passed the Mirage and the Palazzo and Caesar’s Palace, with architecture that mimicked Roman palace facades. When I arrived at our room at the Las Vegas Hilton, I looked out of the window at the rugged craggy brown mountains overlooking the desert valley floor and wondered; what was it like for those pioneers, before there were Hondas and BMWS and Mercedes- Benz with air conditioning?
Walking through the Las Vegas Hilton and Casino on a Tuesday was like a ghost town. Where are all of the people? Is this another sign of the bad economy? At one point I walked into an alcove area with slot machines that had a décor of what I would describe as Star Wars from hell with no one there. I found myself asking Am I in a scene from the Twilight Zone?
I finally got my answer to why there were so few people. Thursday afternoon, my wife and I took a cab over to the Bellagio to see the art exhibit of Roy Lichtenstein and Andy Warhol. The female cab driver observed “I don’t know how people work in Las Vegas Monday through Wednesday; there are no people here then. The people really arrive from Thursday to Sunday.” She was right, as I noticed a definite surge of people in the hotel on Thursday morning.
Meanwhile back at the casino my wife and I played the two penny slots. You put in twenty dollar bill and you play. We started pulling the slots and started to win several rounds. We even started to speak our dog’s names before we would pull the slot. Willard, pull the slot, and then ding, ding, ding, ding. Watson, pull the slot and then ding, ding, ding, and ding. I mentioned to Kate, “You know I really think there is something with evoking the dog muse.” But unfortunately, we couldn’t seem to break the ceiling of the four dollar profit. I kept trudging over to the cashier’s window thinking that the teller is going to be so impressed that I am cashiering a receipt for twenty-four dollars.
I was beginning to think that the Las Vegas economy was so bad that the casinos were definitively limiting how much money they would pay out to being paltry sums. I even noticed that there weren’t even any coffee makers in the hotel rooms. Another interesting economic indicator for Summer 2009.
But the most telling indicator was when we were walking down the hallway to the hotel elevators and we saw the sign announcing the engagement of Lisa Williams, well known clairvoyant featured on Lifetime and on other television networks. I then thought “Well why not, a clairvoyant in the casino might have some real possibilities.” What might the next world think of this world of the casino?
It’s an interesting question. So much of what we experience in life can be unknown. Sometimes events happen with random luck much like hitting all three cherries on the pull of a slot machine. Where is God for us in those moments? How does the love of Christ made manifest in human form come to be known to us?
For the two days we were in Las Vegas, there was the glitz of the Barry Manilow show, there was the art of Roy Lichenstein and Andy Warhol, the flowers of the Bellagio, and the waitress who served us our meals in the Paradise Café. She was a constant, always cheerful, always had a kind serene smile, always very thoughtful and generous in telling us what activities were going on at the hotel and in Las Vegas. For me, she became a compassionate God presence amidst an environment that at times was both unpredictable and comical.
Do we need a clairvoyant in the casino? Do we need a guide to the next world who can help us make sense of this world? I don’t know if we will ever get a clear answer to that question.
I do know that if I ever have a clairvoyant with me in a casino, I hope he or she will help me break the four dollar ceiling for winnings on the slot machine.
Recently, my wife Kate and I spent our twenty-fourth wedding anniversary out in Las Vegas, NV. We stayed at the Las Vegas Hilton because my wife wanted to see Barry Manilow.
The Southwest flight from San Antonio, TX was interesting. I got bumped due to over-booking, received a two hundred dollar travel voucher, and took the later flight which arrived first to Phoenix, AZ before proceeding onto Las Vegas. I looked out of the plane window as we were landing in Phoenix. I saw hundreds of people crammed into a big municipal swimming pool, which from ten thousand feet up looked like so many flies scurrying on the surface of the water while the temperature was 108 degrees.
We finally landed in Las Vegas and I took the shuttle to the hotel. We passed the Hard Rock Café and the Joint, passed the Mirage and the Palazzo and Caesar’s Palace, with architecture that mimicked Roman palace facades. When I arrived at our room at the Las Vegas Hilton, I looked out of the window at the rugged craggy brown mountains overlooking the desert valley floor and wondered; what was it like for those pioneers, before there were Hondas and BMWS and Mercedes- Benz with air conditioning?
Walking through the Las Vegas Hilton and Casino on a Tuesday was like a ghost town. Where are all of the people? Is this another sign of the bad economy? At one point I walked into an alcove area with slot machines that had a décor of what I would describe as Star Wars from hell with no one there. I found myself asking Am I in a scene from the Twilight Zone?
I finally got my answer to why there were so few people. Thursday afternoon, my wife and I took a cab over to the Bellagio to see the art exhibit of Roy Lichtenstein and Andy Warhol. The female cab driver observed “I don’t know how people work in Las Vegas Monday through Wednesday; there are no people here then. The people really arrive from Thursday to Sunday.” She was right, as I noticed a definite surge of people in the hotel on Thursday morning.
Meanwhile back at the casino my wife and I played the two penny slots. You put in twenty dollar bill and you play. We started pulling the slots and started to win several rounds. We even started to speak our dog’s names before we would pull the slot. Willard, pull the slot, and then ding, ding, ding, ding. Watson, pull the slot and then ding, ding, ding, and ding. I mentioned to Kate, “You know I really think there is something with evoking the dog muse.” But unfortunately, we couldn’t seem to break the ceiling of the four dollar profit. I kept trudging over to the cashier’s window thinking that the teller is going to be so impressed that I am cashiering a receipt for twenty-four dollars.
I was beginning to think that the Las Vegas economy was so bad that the casinos were definitively limiting how much money they would pay out to being paltry sums. I even noticed that there weren’t even any coffee makers in the hotel rooms. Another interesting economic indicator for Summer 2009.
But the most telling indicator was when we were walking down the hallway to the hotel elevators and we saw the sign announcing the engagement of Lisa Williams, well known clairvoyant featured on Lifetime and on other television networks. I then thought “Well why not, a clairvoyant in the casino might have some real possibilities.” What might the next world think of this world of the casino?
It’s an interesting question. So much of what we experience in life can be unknown. Sometimes events happen with random luck much like hitting all three cherries on the pull of a slot machine. Where is God for us in those moments? How does the love of Christ made manifest in human form come to be known to us?
For the two days we were in Las Vegas, there was the glitz of the Barry Manilow show, there was the art of Roy Lichenstein and Andy Warhol, the flowers of the Bellagio, and the waitress who served us our meals in the Paradise Café. She was a constant, always cheerful, always had a kind serene smile, always very thoughtful and generous in telling us what activities were going on at the hotel and in Las Vegas. For me, she became a compassionate God presence amidst an environment that at times was both unpredictable and comical.
Do we need a clairvoyant in the casino? Do we need a guide to the next world who can help us make sense of this world? I don’t know if we will ever get a clear answer to that question.
I do know that if I ever have a clairvoyant with me in a casino, I hope he or she will help me break the four dollar ceiling for winnings on the slot machine.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
A Tribute to Our Patron Saint
By Bruce Lafitte
Last week, Daria and I went on a vacation out West with her sister, three of their cousins, spouses, and various offspring. It was a family reunion of sorts. One of our stops along the way was Sterling Vineyards in the Napa Valley. The grounds and buildings there are just beautiful. I was especially intrigued by their bell tower, located in the St. Dunstan's Room. Here is a description of the bells from their website:
The winery’s towers house eight bells from London’s Church of St. Dunstans-in-the-East, originally founded in the 10th century. The church was destroyed by fire in 1666, rebuilt, then destroyed again during the bombing of WWII. Each time, new bells were recast from the old metal to give them superior tonal quality. The rich tolling of these ancient bells sounds down through the valley on the quarter hour.
We heard the bells ring just as we reached the winery on the hill after riding the cable car. Their beautiful sound made me appreciate our Patron Saint and bell maker, St. Dunstan of Glastonbury.
Last week, Daria and I went on a vacation out West with her sister, three of their cousins, spouses, and various offspring. It was a family reunion of sorts. One of our stops along the way was Sterling Vineyards in the Napa Valley. The grounds and buildings there are just beautiful. I was especially intrigued by their bell tower, located in the St. Dunstan's Room. Here is a description of the bells from their website:
The winery’s towers house eight bells from London’s Church of St. Dunstans-in-the-East, originally founded in the 10th century. The church was destroyed by fire in 1666, rebuilt, then destroyed again during the bombing of WWII. Each time, new bells were recast from the old metal to give them superior tonal quality. The rich tolling of these ancient bells sounds down through the valley on the quarter hour.
We heard the bells ring just as we reached the winery on the hill after riding the cable car. Their beautiful sound made me appreciate our Patron Saint and bell maker, St. Dunstan of Glastonbury.
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