The Prodigal Father

Most of us are familiar with the parable of the Prodigal Son. I was introduced to it in a new way through the book Death on a Friday Afternoon. It struck me deep, and that at the risk of understatement quite frankly.

We know that the father saw the returning, humbled, repentant son and ran out to greet him while he was still far off. But did the father just happen to see the young man returning that day? Did he notice him as he passed an open window or while he toiled in his fields? No; he didn't stumble upon his son's return. He spent day after day standing on the portico of his home, scanning the horizon for the lad's return, hoping, wishing, pining for his son's safe and soon coming back home. It wasn't an accident. The father actively sought his progeny. 

Then he ran - ran - out to greet him. Dad didn't sit on a throne and demand the son slink all the way back to him, prostrate and ashamed (although the boy was surely properly ashamed) and beg for forgiveness (although the young man, properly as well, expected he should do that). The father saw his son, perhaps as a spot on the horizon which gradually took human, family form, and, recognizing him after all that time, ran out to him.

So God the Father will do for us. He won't demand you inch forward and beg. When he sees your repentance, He will run to you in welcome. Such is His love for us. He will look past all the terrible things we've done and throw His arms around us. We will have been found by the One who constantly scans the horizon for all of His lost sheep.

A Matter of Trust

Technology. It allows us to do many things quickly and efficiently. Still, I have trust issues with it. Or, rather, technology has given me trust issues with, uh, me.

At one time I would add up a list of numbers all on my own. No help from a calculator was necessary. Years ago a customer might come into the Shop and want 6, 7, 10 items, and I'd write out an invoice, add it all up, multiply the total for the sales tax, and Bob's yer uncle, land on a figure which I completely trusted. I completely trusted it because I could do basic math.

In my defense, I still can. Yet now that we have calculators everywhere, even on our cell phones, I have to pull the program up and do the math, well, I suppose mechanically. Hell, if it's one cutting tool I still get out the calculator to multiply the price by .06 for the tax.

I can still do the math. I'm still pretty good at it too. But I no longer trust me. I fear the mistake which might cost me or the customer money. Thanks, technology.

That's My Spot

Those familiar with the Big Bang Theory television show know that Sheldon has his place to sit in the apartment he shares with a roommate. If someone is in it he glares and says, "That's my spot," expecting them to vacate.

I always park my new old van on Forest Avenue alongside my house. It's directly under a streetlamp and right in line with the window on the staircase landing between the foyer and the second floor hall. I can walk out of the bedroom and look directly down the steps and see my van parked safely under the glow of the LED lights installed awhile back. 

Then came last night. Or, more correctly, very early this morning. As I returned from a curling match (a 7-6 win on something of a gift, an errant shot from the opposing skip, but I take what I can get) just after midnight, ready to leave the new old van safely under the window, I was shocked to see a white sport ute parked there. "That's my spot!" I actually exclaimed aloud.

Of course it's not 'my' spot. It's a public thoroughfare. Anyone can park there and I know it. But they don't. In fact, this guy could have parked anywhere twenty or thirty feet beyond where I do, as no one else was on the street. Yet there it was, smack dab where I typically park. Right where few if any others have before.

It caused a moment of panic when I was leaving for work today. As is my habit, I looked right down the stairs and my dear new old van was not there. It was a blank space as sport ute had moved overnight. "Why isn't my van in my spot?" I immediately worried. With a curse. New old van was actually in front on Avery, in unfamiliar territory.

So it goes. But some days I really get Sheldon.

Going to the Dogs

Wow. Just, wow. We live in a world which increasingly believes that there's nothing worth living for.

An otherwise healthy Dutch woman will die by assisted suicide because of the depression she suffers. Here's a New York Post article on the issue.

One in five Dutch now die by assisted suicide. Giving up seems to be the new form of honor in Holland. Their medical community is more than willing to help. In fact, they want euthanasia readily available for everyone over 75. It saves money on government health care. Yes, that's a snarky comment. But it's becoming the bottom line. Ask Canadians about MAID, Medical Assistance In Dying.

I am in no way, shape, or form saying that we shouldn't empathize with anyone suffering from any mental or physical illness. Of course we should. Yet part of that also surely means trying to help people see the inherent value of their lives no matter what their exact condition may be. 

Instead, we stroke their hand and gently affirm: well, sure, if that's what you want. It began as saying that to the seriously, physically ill. Now we say it to otherwise healthy young women. It's easier on the doctors and the bill payers that way. We can't help her (a questionable thought on its own) so let's kill her. It gets a case off the books.

And, slowly but certainly, the right to die becomes an obligation to die. It's best for you. It's best for all of us. 

Wow. Just, wow.

Zeke's Bad Day

Northwestern Highway is a road which runs at a northwesterly angle away from Detroit. How urban planners determine road names is amazing. 

Several years ago me Uncle John who me Pops called Zeke had a bad day on that road.

He was bringing one of me Grandpa Joe's welding machines back from a job, towing it behind a car. As he pulled away from a traffic light, he felt the sudden jump of his vehicle losing weight. It had indeed lost weight: the machine he was towing had slid off its trailer and was sitting serenely blocking the right lane on Northwestern. All 2,000 pounds of it just sat there, quietly unconcerned with the world around it, just not caring one blip about the trouble it had caused.

Unbeknownst to anyone, the bolts which held the welder to its trailer had weakened and broke. Yet all was well...several hours later, after involving a crane, many police officers, an uncountable number of irate commuters, and an Uncle John happy to actually get home before dark. It could have been worse, I suppose, but it was not a good day.

A bad pun

For about 45 years, my grandfather rented welding equipment. This included arc welders which had either 4 or 6 cylinder gasoline engines hooked onto generators to create the heat needed for making a weld. They were portable; they could be towed behind a car or truck from job to job on tires similar to what you find on cars and small trucks. You've probably seen them and mistaken them for air compressors.

One day my Uncle John was towing one of them back to grandpa's shop. He had just noticed a vibration when his pickup ground to a halt. A wheel bearing had gone bad and a tire came off the axle of the welder. This made the machine drop to one side and act as an anchor, which stopped the truck quickly and suddenly. Uncle John looked in the rear view mirror, helplessly watching the disconnected tire bounce across 4 lanes of traffic until it slammed against a parked car, severely damaging it. He knew he would have to go find the owner and do what he could to get the guy's car fixed.

About then the owner ran from his house waving his arms and vigorously exercising his vocal cords, obviously and understandably upset at the incident. But all Zeke could think was, "You picked a fine time to leave me loose wheel."

Good, huh?

Not Curling Too

It's a disappointing thing to talk about.

Charges of cheating were all over the curling world during the recent Winter Olympics. And, I will say, it began to sound a lot like a political discussion. He cheated! I didn't! Followed by a litany of yes he did and here's why along with no he didn't and here's why. At the end of the day I don't know whether he did or not. I could not find a definite answer, quite honestly, because every he did-he didn't seemed to have at least some justification. 

Now there's talk about hiring and training curling umpires. All over a sport which has always taken pride in self policing.

I don't like it. It mars a game I've always loved. Yet it's not the game it was thirty years ago, at least at the highest levels. It's more than the honor system of calling your own violations by the way. At one point anyone could put a team into world and Olympic playdowns to potentially represent your country on those large stages. Now you have to be pretty much a professional curler to qualify. They've even changed the rules to support that. What's the difference between now and then?

Money. Curling is a money game now. Money changes things.

That isn't necessarily bad. Nor is it necessarily good. Yet it's happened, and curling will never be the same. The Milan Olympics have pretty much set that in concrete.