No Stress Chess

P loves puzzles. Loves them. He's done one-hundred-piece ones by himself since he was three, and lately he's wanted to tackle a one-hundred-fifty-piece irregular puzzle (with a little help). Awhile back someone made the comment to me that kids who like puzzles tend to like chess. Well, Papa and I don't know how to play, so I wondered how we could gift him a chess board and not be able to explain the rules.

Enter No Stress Chess. I found the game on Amazon, with all the requisite instructions and all-important reviews. We gambled on it and gave it to P for Christmas. And we found that this really is a no stress chess game!

Hmmmm...

Basically, the first level of the game involves drawing cards that explain what the pieces are and where they can move. The chess game largely becomes, in effect, a game of luck--you move a specific piece based on the card you draw for each move. And over time, you learn what each piece can do. Bishops can move diagonally as far as you want to take them. Kings can move one space in any direction. Knights can jump two any direction and one space down (or up). I have actually learned this from playing with P this month.

Well, P quickly caught on, and now he loves chess. Loves it. He asks us at least three times a day, "Can you play chess with me?" He enjoys playing so much that S started sitting on our laps and learning, too, because that's P's game of choice any given day, and that's the way S could be involved. Yesterday, S started identifying the pieces before I could touch them: "Here's the Queen." Today, I caught P playing by himself. He was only playing the black pieces, but still.

We--especially Papa--have really enjoyed bonding with P over this game. P's learning good sportsmanship, strategy, and the thrills of learning something unfamiliar. And it's really relaxing to play: slow, thoughtful, methodical. (Papa and I like to do it as a break, so P usually doesn't have to beg too hard.) And educational! What's not to love? So kiss your stress goodbye--play some chess!

Hmmmm...

"How about this one, Daddy?"

"I think I'll move here."

Daddy explaining chess board consequences.

P: "Mom! Why don't you play?" Papa: I think I can checkmate...

Fashion Note to Self

I happened upon this kitschy-yet-adorable place over a year ago and kept meaning to visit the website after my brief but delighted browsing (since I wasn't going to be visiting the Mall of America again anytime soon). While some of the things here are a little much (in other words, if you really, really want to get a for-real poodle skirt with matchy-matchy sweater and bobby socks, look no further), some of their stuff is classy-meets-vintage-means-c-u-t-e. So note to self: try to find, and save up for, this dress someday.

Neither Hot Nor Cold

There's no such thing as lukewarmness in regards to faith in Christ as our Saviour (at least, not if you want to avoid some serious spitting.) I'm pretty sure distasteful lukewarmness also refers to refrigerators, which are beyond worthless when they're neither hot nor cold. We've been experiencing the wide variety between the two this week, as our thirteen-year-old fridge sputtered, lived a little longer (thanks to Papa), and finally went kaput in the last week. Now the empty, dead monolith sits ridiculously impotent in the middle of our kitchen while we wait for a new-to-us one to be delivered tomorrow. All I can say is that Minnesota winters in January will never qualify as lukewarm--and thank goodness for it.

Don't worry, guys--God has marked you as BLESSED.

A Star is Born

 We spend six weeks (at least) preparing for the first day of Christmas. All the decorating, baking, card-writing, buying, wrapping, tinsely-music-listening leads up to the One Big Night followed by the One Big Day, which trickles into a Few More Days until we run smack into New Year's. Then it's over. Completely over. Pack up the stockings, lights, and crumpled ribbon.


Papa and the kids and I made a Sioux Falls run last week, one day after New Year's Day. We needed an oil change and paper products and a few groceries and--of course--just a few organizing items for New Year reorganizing. The sky was a dull grey, the wind a hesitant spitter of occasional snowflakes, the slush on the roadsides ugly, the grime on the van even worse. And in every bright, orderly store, beyond the bargain bins and 70% off sections, we saw absolutely no signs of Christmas. Zip. Zero. Nada fa-la-la-la-la.

This doesn't surprise me. After all, we live in a commercial culture that literally survives on the Next Big Thing, largely hinged on days marked in grey on our calendars. (Of course, Valentine's Day stuff stood front and center in the stores we visited.) But it's disconcerting to Christians like us, who know that, on paper at least, there really are twelve days of Christmas that lead right into the Holy Feast day that used to crown the Church Year: Epiphany.

What? Epiphany is a big deal? For most people, including churchgoers who don't even attend an Epiphany service every year (when it doesn't fall on a Sunday), this sounds surprising, maybe even ridiculous. The Wise Men get a thirty-second inclusion in most Christmas pageants, a smack-together mish-mash of their long, arduous, miraculous journey that Matthew recounts. Why make a big deal out of guys  on camels? We don't even know how many of them came to visit Jesus. We don't, despite the popular notion, know any of their names.They showed up, dropped off, got out. Right?

Or maybe not.

I remember a picture I saw years ago of a Greek Orthodox priest reading the Bible. The caption said the priest was preparing for Christmas, which his church celebrated in January. At the time I thought, mistakenly, that the priest and his church just celebrated Christmas on Epiphany. The idea of people having to slog through rampant, commercialized Christmas weeks after the the rest of the world was completely beyond the holiday stuck with me. How, I wondered, did they cherish Christ's birthday in the midst of the long, long emphasis on December 25 everywhere else? My question now applies to Epiphany. How do we appreciate it when we're burnt out from six weeks of celebrating? Maybe we isolate themselves from our culture (not likely). Maybe we capitulate to all the stuff but exercise massive self-restraint and manage to wait for weeks (um, not likely). Or maybe we find some other reason for cherishing Epiphany.

This excerpt from an Epiphany sermon from St. John's in Wauwatosa helps us here:

We are told that the Wise Man came from the east, but exactly how far east we don’t know.  We aren’t sure who they were either, but we do know who they weren’t, and that is significant.  These men were not Jewish.  They were not among God’s chosen people.  They weren’t descendants of Abraham, and yet they were included in the promise God gave to Abraham: “All peoples on earth will be blessed through you” (Genesis 12:3).

God loved the Jewish people.  He gave them hope.  He gave them a home.  When they strayed, he warned them.  When they repented, he forgave them.  But God’s love is too big for just one race.  God loves all people.  He loves Jews and Gentiles.  He loves you and me.  And if you need proof of God’s grace, look no farther than the Epiphany gospel.

Somehow, some way, God’s promise of a Savior reached hundreds of miles beyond the borders of Israel.  And when God fulfilled his promise he gave the rest of the world a sign.  He gave us a star.  And through that star God gave the Wise Men the opportunity to meet their Savior face-to-face. ...

For Gentile Christians the difference between Christmas and Epiphany is sort of like the difference between being a guest at a party and being the guest of honor.  For the most part the Christmas story is a Jewish story.  Mary was Jewish.  Joseph was Jewish.  The shepherds were Jewish.  The rest of us stand on the sidelines.  We are allowed to observe everything that happens.  We can appreciate everything that happens, but we don’t really have an active role.

Epiphany is different.  This account wasn’t just written for us.  It was written about us.

Even our family, a pastor's family, struggles to honor Christmas all the way until January 6th. We want to move ahead and get on with the rest of the year (and our newly-inspired goals). I want to clean up and get the house "back to normal." But maybe in future years we'll put off putting up with Christmas during Advent (at least for so long). Maybe we'll enjoy the twelve days without rushing away from Christ's gifts. Maybe we'll remember and cherish that He came for us, yes, every one of us. Just as He came for every one of you.

Losing Fiction

Oh, how I've missed this.

I'm pragmatic. I love non-fiction texts--biographies, social analyses, theology (duh), political theory, all types of history. I think all people, particularly young people, should spend more time immersed in history. But this article raises the hackles on my knowledge-loving soul. In short, it reports that almost all states will require at least 70% of classroom texts to be non-fiction by 2014. Here's the terrifying ending quote from the article: "Supporters of the directive argue that it will help pupils to develop the ability to write concisely and factually, which will be more useful in the workplace than a knowledge of Shakespeare."

God help us all. Besides the fact that public education in our country is incontrovertibly failing (case in point: how many high school graduates do you know who can sit down and write "concisely and factually" about, say, how the printing press affected the Reformation or three causes of the American Civil War? Really, anything historically, politically, theologically significant that happened before 1990?), since when did usefulness in the workplace become the definitive educational purpose?  I know that liberal arts education has long been out of vogue, but I suppose I hoped most educators at least pretended to embrace knowledge for knowledge's sake, not just because they could draw a direct line from addition to clean accounting books.

Some years ago, Wendell Berry, the agrarian philosopher and author of some amazing novels, succinctly put our educational quandary this way:

The complexity of our present trouble suggests as never before that we need to change our present concept of education. Education is not properly an industry, and its proper use is not to serve industries, either by job-training or by industry-subsidized research. It's proper use is to enable citizens to live lives that are economically, politically, socially, and culturally responsible. This cannot be done by gathering or "accessing" what we now call "information" - which is to say facts without context and therefore without priority. A proper education enables young people to put their lives in order, which means knowing what things are more important than other things; it means putting first things first.

"First things first." And what are first things? Truth and that which sheds light on it: great art (and, I would argue, science can shed light on Truth, too). But if first things are passé at best and rejected outright at worst--and it would seem we're reaching for the worst--then we're all in serious trouble. For if usefulness in the workplace more than any other reason drives our education for our children, then they--and we--will lose a lot more than fiction. 

On the Ninth Postpartum Stable Day

Everyone knows "The Twelve Days of Christmas." And if you don't, then you've really missed out--on turtle doves, geese-a-laying, and lords-a-leaping. But seriously, I think we all miss out on the full twelve days of Christmas too, beyond the song that's kind of annoying (okay, really, depending on who's singing and how creative they get).


As we head full-boar into the New Year of 2013, though, I've been thinking about 2012. More accurately, I've been thinking about Christmas, and what we remember and commemorate that day, and what comes after. Namely cows.

Whoa. I mean, "Moo."

**

A few months ago, a church member invited us out to her farm. She and her husband have milked for years, and they were slowly selling off their cattle. She wondered if we'd want to come over and see how they milk the cows and how she bottle-fed the calves.


We drove east out of town around sunset one night. Gloria met us at her house and we drove about a quarter-mile south to the barn where the cows are milked.

A wind turbine we passed in the early twilight.

The kids were super excited and eager to get out. Once we went into the barn, they were a little--ahem--cowed by the size of the animals. And the sounds. And the smells. And the, erm, floor.

P is impressed.

Gloria and Mike's operation is like most small diary farmers in America, I'd guess--efficient and impressive. The machinery is amazing; I know mechanical milkers have been around for decades, but still. And the way the milk stays clean in the midst of the cows' regular digestive events (that's gotta be a new euphemism for, well, you know) is really amazing.

Then we watched Gloria mix up the formula for the calves. Our little C's formula seemed downright paltry in comparison; Gloria made a few five-gallon buckets of the stuff several times a day. Then she poured it into individual bottles for each calf.

Good thing calf formula isn't priced like Similac. Shudder.

Then we left the barn to go out to the little sheds where the calves lived. In the early November air, they needed some shelter from the coming winter freeze, Gloria explained, so they lived in the little huts until they were weaned. When they saw her coming with the bottles, they wiggled and groaned in excitement. They were adorable. And hungry.

Heading to the little calf sheds.

Smiley S, posing next to the busily eating little guy. Or gal. I couldn't tell.

 The final thrill was that Gloria's grandson, Austin, gave the boys a ride in a tractor. I couldn't get a picture of them, but they loved it (especially when S finally realized we weren't leaving him. Because parents abandon their kids by putting them in tractors). We shivered (well, more like tried not to freeze) as we watched the tractor lights glow and descend over the dusky winter fields. It was beautiful. 

**

Ever since our little visit, I've been thinking about Joseph and Mary and Jesus in the stable. All the pictures we see of the holy creche look cozy, even downright comfortable. But the real deal was--had to be--the pits. It's likely Joseph and Mary had been in the stable for days before Jesus' birth; there's no indication that Mary bore him immediately. And who's to say that they left the stable after the first twenty-four hours? If Bethlehem was bustling, even stuffed with people, all waiting to be counted and taxed, where else could they go? If no one had room for a woman on the brink of labor and delivery, who'd have room for a mother and a newborn?

So we're nine days into Christmas, and while much of the world has already packed away their Christmas trees and moved on, in their ninth day postpartum, Joseph and Mary and Jesus probably were living in the warmth and the hay and the refuse of the animals that witnessed the birth of our Lord. I can't quite wrap my mind around what that must have been like, let alone that the begotten Son of God likely spent his first days, even weeks, sharing space with livestock.

So let's all, ahem, chew on that for awhile, and merry Christmas.