So Far So Good

I've managed to migrate the style (including the awesome photo of the rocks on the bottom of Mullett Lake that my brother photo-shopped so that it repeated without sharp edges (he rocks!)) to the new host.  

Next steps:

1) Can I move all my old posts into this new site's archives?

2) Install a link to get you from the blog back to my main website.

3) Point my main website to this for the blog instead of the old one.

Testing 1-2-3

Trying to create a more user-friendly blog while maintaining some of the design integrity of my old one without very much programming know-how is kind of a b----.

Why I Love Pikachu

Gesundheit!

No. It's not a sneeze or a baby game (it rhymes with "Peek-a-boo"). Pikachu is a Pokemon.  If you have no idea what a Pokemon is, you probably don't have kids between six and sixteen. Pokemon is a popular cartoon (Japanese animation or "anime") about kids who train little creatures with special powers to compete in what amount to sort-of science fiction cock fights. Sound awful? Well, YEAH, when you put it that way!

But anime has a way of making the most ridiculous nonsense seem reasonable. Even endearing. And Pokemon is chock full of messages about love, loyalty and perseverance.

Anime is no novelty to me. I cut my teeth on G-Force, Voltron and then Robo-tech and my husband on Speed Racer and Star Blazers before me. So I don't question the characters' huge, moist eyes and jagged hair in an array of dayglo colors. I may roll my eyes a bit at the little Pokemon creatures whose entire vocabulary consists of their own name: "Pika…CHU!" "Turtwig!" "Roserade!" "Timmy!"---No, wait. That's South Park.

Can I explain the massive appeal of this essentially silly show? No. But I don't have to. I just LOVE Pikachu.

Why?

Sure, he's adorable. But that's not it.

You see, my son, Gavin, has recently become obsessed with the little rosy-cheeked guy. And while it's disconcerting to ask him a question and receive only "Peekah-peekah!" as an answer, he seems to have learned a few positive things from the lightning-bolt-slinging furball.

Gavin is now in second grade and the spelling tests have begun. During his first practice test at home, my little perfectionist couldn't remember how to spell "this" and the result was a howl of frustrated rage. We were teetering on the brink of a meltdown on par with the effects of firing the Yamamoto's Main Gun. I felt myself begin to panic as I envisioned a whole year of battles over this simple process.

Then inspiration hit me like... well... a lightning bolt.

"Does Pikachu win every battle he's in?" I asked suddenly.

This brought Gavin up short. He eyed me suspiciously, but there was something like hope in his huge, moist eyes.

"No," he conceded.

"Does he give up?" I asked.

"No," he said again.

"When Pikachu loses a battle, Ash just helps him train more so he can do better next time, right?"

If words could only convey the radiance of that boy's smile when he made the connection. It was okay to fail! Pikachu did it and he was still the greatest thing going!

"Peeee-kaaaaaah!" Gavin said joyfully and picked up his pencil again.

The next day, he brought home his first spelling test with twelve out of fifteen right. "Not bad for a beginner," he said, philosophically.

That's probably a line from the show.

Subtlety Thy Name Is God--NOT!

I recently e-mailed my pastor, lamenting my feelings of directionlessness and how they fly in the face of my strong sense of being called in some way. We enjoyed a candid exchange on faith, ministry and mission, service and purpose in life. I wondered if I shouldn't be attending seminary all the while suspecting that ordained ministry isn't where I'm called. Pastor Rob verbalized my misgivings, lovingly cautioning that seminary isn't necessarily "the answer." Finally, I wrote, "Maybe I just need a reading list."

After hitting "Send" I turned my attention to a new e-mail from my best friend, Susan, who lives a thousand miles away from me in Maryland. It was a forwarded message from her sister-in-law's pastor and it contained--wait for it--a reading list.

On that list was Walking On Water by Madeleine L'Engle, a work about faith and art. The description spoke to me. Still reeling from the "coincidence" of receiving this email, I buzzed out to my local library's web site wondering if the system had a copy and how long it would take to get it if I reserved it today.

There were at least a dozen copies in the Hennepin County Library system and my local library had one. Checked in. Right now.

I noted the Dewey Decimal number and hopped into my car. Upon arrival at the library, I bee-lined for the proper section, found the general area and looked down. The book fairly jumped off the shelf at me. I am dead serious. It was smaller, thicker and more colorful than any of the books around it and it was literally the first one I focused on. For good measure, I perused the rest of the section to see if anything else was screaming to be picked up. Nothing. I was home fifteen minutes after I'd left.

I am halfway through the book. My conviction that creativity is a divine call has been reinforced. My faith in fiction as an acceptable Christian discipline has been restored. My reading list is suddenly longer than I can possibly imagine, yet I am excited to tackle it.

One unexpected side effect of this everyday miracle is a feeling of bereavement. I deeply regret than unlike my mother or my best friend, Susan, I will never have the opportunity to meet and speak with Madeleine L'Engle in the flesh. I recall my casual reaction to her dying as just "one of those things" and now I fervently wish I could write her a letter, send her an e-mail, somehow physically acknowledge this profound connection to her I suddenly feel.

If nothing else, I can write. And likely, she will know it.