Moving Over

If this condo is the last place that I live in this old world, I don’t think I will be missing out on anything. That’s how sucky I think moving is at this point in my life.

When I was born among the dinosaurs back in 1970, my parents brought me home to a tiny rental house on West Mueller Street, which also served as my port of departure when I packed a happening yellow beige Pontiac 6000 and drove away to college in 1988. In the thirty-five-plus years since, it feels like all I have done is move.

Just in college, I lived in one dorm, two houses, and four apartments, followed by yet another apartment upon my return from college. Next comes marriage, and in our thirty years together we have lived in sixteen “homes” in five states. Our longevity record for a single address is five-and-a-half years, and that was the house that was destroyed by a hurricane, which at the time seemed a possible sign that we should keep moving to avoid being smacked by the universe.

Thus, I repeat: If I never move again, it seems that I have enjoyed just about all that there is to be enjoyed about the experience.

We returned to California last summer, which actually turned out to be a unique move for us. We moved to a tiny apartment, really a hotel room, expecting to move back to one of our old neighborhoods at some point in the year ahead; so, for the first time we rented a PODS container to ship most of our stuff directly to a storage facility in California. About six months later, a.k.a. a few weeks ago, we moved to our new condo and had the PODS container delivered where we fully reacquainted ourselves with the joys of moving: cardboard; hand trucks; cardboard; assembling beds; more cardboard; furniture movers and navigating stairs; so much cardboard.

My wife and I came to the same independent conclusion: Moving ever again sounds like a terrible idea.

Our situation is interesting: If we ever retire from our jobs at Pepperdine, we are required to sell our condo and move somewhere else again, which means, if you’re playing along at home with me, that our future offers two real scenarios—we can die, or we can move again. I’m just saying, here among the cardboard, that dying does not sound like such a terrible choice.

Oh, I know that I’m just getting old. And that I have a faulty memory, which I understand will not necessarily improve with more aging. There will be a point, I’m sure, when I forget what seems clear right now, and moving yet again is not completely out of the question. But my goodness the list of things I would rather do than move just grew exponentially.

Um, so you are planning to move again? Oh. Congratulations. Well, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about.

Rain or Shine

I remember that it was a driving rain, not the occasional sprinkle that SoCal folks like to call rain. It was the sort of rain that I normally wouldn’t run in, but I did that day simply because it was my last chance and others expected me there. What I did not know was that my regular running buddies had invited others, just for me, and it warmed my heart when ten friends showed up to run “The Strand” with me in the driving rain.

I discovered The Strand way back in 2010 when I resumed running after a twenty-plus year rest stop. Back then, I wanted to move beyond running circles on a track but needed somewhere flat, which wasn’t too easy to find around Malibu, and a friend told me about a special place where she did her marathon training. I checked it out and fell in love instantly. In the early days I ran alone, but eventually my friend, Jeff, tagged in, and before long we had a beautiful variety of folks along for the run, and I loved it. That final run in early 2019 was special to me, posing for a picture with ten great friends, all smiling and soaked to the bone, there as a sweet gift to me.

I suppose that I thought I might run it again someday. We left a daughter in California in 2019, so I knew that we would visit, and I probably thought that I would have a chance to run it again. But I could not have anticipated the curves in the road of life over the past five years, and by the time we made the surprising decision to move back in early 2023, due to back trouble, I wasn’t sure that I would even run again, much less on The Strand.

But today, I did. Six glorious miles, nearly five years later. Maybe Mother Nature is nostalgic because it almost rained me out, but the sun popped out like a giant surprise just as I took off, and I dodged the flooded parts of the path as I ran down memory lane.

To be candid, I had decided that it would be okay if I never ran again, including The Strand. Aging and injuries help readjust your expectations of life. But I felt wistful every time I drove by and kept the goal in mind, and I am glad that I had a chance to do something that was special to me—again. I know enough now to admit that I might run it hundreds more times, or never again, and either way is okay. But I guarantee you that I will appreciate each opportunity, should they arise.

As I ran, I remembered a lovely poem from a dark poet, Raymond Carver, who expressed his desire to go down to the ocean and see the sights one more time, at least. He wrote:

I hate to seem greedy—I have so much
to be thankful for already.
But I want to get up early one more morning, at least.

And go to my place with some coffee and wait.
Just wait, to see what’s going to happen.

Exactly. I hate to seem greedy, too, but my posture will also be facing forward, hoping for the chance to go to my favorite running place one more time, at least – rain or shine.

2023 List of Books

I don’t remember why I started counting how many books I read each year (narcissistic tendencies?), but for whatever reason, this is my seventh consecutive year to keep track. I wish I could declare a “book of the year,” but I am proud of the diversity represented in this year’s booklist, and there are just so many that are so good in so many different ways. Suffice it to say that in the past year, thanks to the authors below, I have traveled through time and space, experienced deep pain and silly laughter, learned new lessons and remembered old ones, and encountered both desperation and inspiration. I’m grateful for it all.

FICTION

  1. The Color Purple by Alice Walker
  2. Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach
  3. The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho
  4. The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
  5. Annie John by Jamaica Kincaid
  6. Something to Do with Paying Attention by David Foster Wallace
  7. Oblivion: Stories by David Foster Wallace
  8. Jazz by Toni Morrison
  9. Later by Stephen King
  10. The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton
  11. Box Socials by W.P. Kinsella
  12. Cost of Arrogance by H. Mitchell Caldwell
  13. Morgan’s Passing by Anne Tyler
  14. Cost of Deceit by H. Mitchell Caldwell
  15. Democracy by Joan Didion
  16. Let Us Descend by Jesmyn Ward
  17. A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle

NONFICTION

  1. The Little Book of Restorative Justice for Colleges & Universities by David Karp
  2. Basketball (and Other Things) by Shea Serrano
  3. Free Cyntoia by Cyntoia Brown-Long
  4. The Terrible and Wonderful Reasons Why I Run Long Distances by The Oatmeal
  5. Telling the Truth by Frederick Buechner
  6. Father Flanagan of Boys Town: A Man of Vision by Huge Reilly and Kevin Warneke
  7. The Other Wes Moore by Wes Moore
  8. God, Human, Animal, Machine by Meghan O’Gieblyn
  9. Bettyville by George Hodgman
  10. Why Won’t You Apologize? by Harriet Lerner
  11. Liturgy of the Ordinary by Tish Warren
  12. Life Worth Living by Miroslav Volf, Matthew Croasmun, and Ryan McAnnally-Linz
  13. Dusk, Night, Dawn by Anne Lamott
  14. Failures of Forgiveness by Myisha Cherry
  15. A People’s History of American Higher Education by Philo A. Hutcheson
  16. The Grace of Troublesome Questions by Richard T. Hughes
  17. The Second Mountain by David Brooks

POETRY

  1. Good Poems: American Places by Garrison Keillor

Merry Christmas, Generally

I like Christmas, generally.

Some friends dread each Christmas, not in a mean-spirited Grinchy-Scroogey way, but more from the awful feeling of deep grief or loss. I can feel their sadness and always hope that their Christmases pass quickly.

Other friends are just too jolly for my bowl full of jelly. They find Christmas the hap-happiest season of all, and I don’t begrudge their happiness. I’m happy for them like I hope they’re happy for me after I get all giddy about something they don’t understand, like going for a long run.

Some friends celebrate other holidays, or no holiday at all, and I honor and respect all of their traditions and choices. It’s important to me that they know that I do.

Me, I celebrate Christmas, and I like it, generally.

It’s a season of giving, and I like that, but it’s also a season of getting, while what many end up getting is left out. Sort of a good-news, bad-news type of deal I guess.

And Jesus’s PR team is predictably active this time of year, which is maybe cool seeing that I could not be more in on Jesus, but truth be told, given some of the messaging, I sometimes wonder if Jesus missed the strategy sessions.

And I like that a lot of folks get a nice break for the holidays around Christmas time, but I recognize that many others are expected to work more than ever.

So I guess I am a little conflicted around this time of year. But all in all, I like it, generally speaking.

I like all the sparkling lights shining in the darkness, and the hot cocoa to bring warmth in a season of cold.

I like hearing someone with a musical gift perform O Holy Night and how i involuntarily close my eyes and feel my heart flutter.

I like the unexpected memories of what it’s like to be a child, and how that takes me back to a time when my parents were alive and well.

I like that my grown up, adult, independent daughters still come home for Christmas, get up on Christmas morning in their pajamas and gather with their parents as our little family of four, somehow still happening after all these years.

Yes, those are the gifts that I really, really like about Christmas, the gifts that outweigh all the other stuff.

So whatever holiday you celebrate this time of year, if any, please know that I wish you light, warmth, peace, hope, joy, and love—all the sentiments found on all the holiday cards. As for me, I will celebrate Christmas, and if you ever wonder, you can rest assured that it’s something that I like, generally.

The (Temporary) Beach Life

Life can be strange sometimes, and for me at least, oftentimes. Case in point: I grew up in a blue-collar household and may have a tiny issue with being around great wealth (that I’ve been working on for several decades now), so of course I have now lived in Malibu not once but twice. This time, just for pure comedy it seems, Jody and I had the opportunity for the past five months to rent a studio apartment on Broad Beach Road, a mile-long road with homes that realtors describe as “some of the most exclusive and expensive in all of Malibu.” Our Mazda vehicles blended in perfectly.

I confess a little online stalking where I learned that our neighbors included celebrities like Valerie Bertinelli, Dustin Hoffman, Ray Romano, Pierce Brosnan, and Mindy Kaling (and from days gone by, De Niro; Spielberg; Ol’ Blue Eyes; Matthau; McQueen; Goldie & Kurt; Devito & Perlman; and Archie Bunker, just to name a few). And then there are the rich people. So, you get it: for the past few months Broad Beach residents included the uber-wealthy, the celebrities, and the Sturgeons. As Sesame Street taught us, one of these things is not like the other. We tried to organize a neighborhood quilting group but had trouble tracking down good email addresses.

What a cool adventure it has been. That’s what I kept telling myself, and it was true. I am so grateful to have had this opportunity, but not in the wow-we-finally-hit-the-jackpot sort of way; instead, it has been a remarkable opportunity to have an actual mailing address in a neighborhood that few have the opportunity to experience. That distinction may not make sense to you, but it does to me.

We are moving into our new campus condominium at Pepperdine today, which was the plan all along, and we are happy to get settled. We are especially happy to have an actual kitchen, not to mention rooms with bona fide doors just in case we need a little privacy from one another from time to time. (Yes, the studio apartment on Broad Beach was a teensy-bit small.) But we are grateful for our life experience down on the beach.

Will we miss it? It’s a good question. One would think we would miss the sound of the waves crashing all night the most, or possibly the breathtaking views, and maybe one of those will turn out to be true, but on one hand I have chalked the entire adventure up as just that, an adventure, so I intend to be thankful for the adventure and not waste time looking in the rearview mirror; but on the other hand, if I was to miss something, I think I know what it would be instead.

One morning, on the beach at sunrise, I took possibly the best picture I will ever take in my life (pictured above, thanks iPhone). Both sunrise and sunset can be spectacular in these parts, especially during what SoCal tries to call winter, but what is more remarkable than the view and the picture it produced is that often, at sunrise, I would walk down to the beach and look to my left and then to my right before coming to the stunning conclusion that I was the only person around. That feeling, my friends, was a gift that I don’t have words to describe.

If I will miss anything, that will be it. But when you get a gift like that, how could you be anything but grateful?  

Be a Tourist Wherever You Are

Be a tourist wherever you are.

Walk around smiling in wonder at your surroundings,
As if for the first time.

Take way too many pictures. Don’t be ashamed.
Be on the lookout for all the beautiful things
you hope never to forget.

Drive slowly, and take in the sights.
You will piss off people who are in a hurry,
but that’s okay. Because you are a tourist,
enamored with your great privilege.

After all, and anyway, we are all just tourists
on this floating bed and breakfast we call
Planet Earth.

Live gratefully.
Today.

Be a tourist wherever you are.

Warming Up for Thanksgiving. Or, Things I Am Grateful for That Get Less Attention.

  • The Sunday paper.
  • An all-day breakfast menu.
  • Real books.
  • Salted peanut butter gelato.
  • Learning something new.
  • Remembering something special.
  • Forgetting something harmful.
  • Comfortable conversations.
  • Public parks.
  • Private restrooms.
  • A well-executed sacrifice bunt.
  • Gluten-free, double-stuf Oreo’s.
  • The first sight of a loved one arriving at the airport.
  • Watching others spot loved ones arriving at the airport.
  • Traveling somewhere new.
  • Then, coming home.
  • Trees changing colors.
  • Snow falling.
  • The sound of the ocean.
  • Light rain, and a picture window.
  • Ample parking.
  • Sweatshirt weather.
  • The price of bananas.
  • The word, simplify.
  • The fist bump phenomenon.
  • Making eye contact.
  • Holding hands.
  • Huggers.
  • Electric toothbrushes.
  • Backup cameras.
  • The Notes app.
  • Birthdays on Facebook.
  • Adult children.
  • Losing to my wife at cards.
  • Unexpected messages from an old friend, just because.
  • Dreams where I see my mom and dad again.
  • Maya Angelou speaking.
  • Bono singing.
  • Children playing.
  • Contemplating confusing art.
  • Standing desks.
  • Well-run meetings.
  • Handwritten, generally speaking.
  • Politics. (Ha! Just checking to see if you’re paying attention.)
  • Discovering a writer who thinks like you do.
  • Meeting someone different from you.
  • Getting your picture taken with friends (not alone).
  • Solitude, not loneliness.
  • Dad jokes.
  • Being bald (surprisingly).
  • Making the bed (after).
  • No alarm clock mornings.
  • Morning runs at sunrise.
  • Walking in the woods on a crisp day.
  • Comfortable shoes that still look good.
  • Looking at the horizon, both literally and conceptually.
  • A sense of wonder.
  • A sense of purpose.
  • A sense of accomplishment.
  • Genuine smiles, given and received.

West on “the West”

My friend, Lane, sends occasional texts with links to cool things, and the latest was an episode of the Joe Rogan podcast. Lane shared his caveat on Rogan himself but called this particular interviewee “fascinating,” so you can imagine my surprise when discovering that it was my favorite professor way back in 1990 at the University of Arkansas!

Dr. Elliott West is a retired history professor and is 78 years old now, which meant that he must have been around 45 when I sat mesmerized by his lectures in a course titled, History of the American Indian. I have told three Dr. West stories many times since: First, he would interject ridiculous things in his lectures to make sure we were paying attention but said that he stopped doing that with freshmen the day he was going on about how President Lincoln would wear a negligee in public, waiting for someone to interrupt, when one freshman finally raised his hand and asked, “How do you spell negligee?” Second, the day he brought the wrong lecture notes to class, shrugged his shoulders, then proceeded to deliver a seamless, fascinating lecture without missing a beat, which had quite an impact on a future educator. And, finally, and most memorably, the time I arrived to class to discover a note on the door that class was canceled that day—and was disappointed—which immediately signaled that to disappoint a 20-year-old by canceling a history lecture is the sign of an uncommon professor.

I spent two hours last Thursday evening listening to Joe Rogan interview Dr. West, and it was a beautiful trip down memory lane. Dr. West is known as one of the greatest historians of the American West and has recently published a 700+ page book titled, Continental Reckoning (that I will be purchasing and devouring), so you can imagine that there was plenty of interview material. I’ll just touch on one part toward the end—the movies known as “the Westerns.”

Dr. West explained to Rogan that Westerns aren’t really about the West: instead, much like what you see on the movie screen is actually something that is projected from a contraption behind you, the Westerns as we came to know them are projections, too—much more an idea than a reality. When you think in simple North-South-East-West terms from the perspective of the United States as it existed at the time of westward expansion, North-South were areas engaged in terrible conflict, the East represented where the young nation had been, so the West became a unifying and romanticized idea as to where the nation might could go. It became both an exciting, dramatic, hope-filled idea and, tragically, an opportunity to create a shared villain in the native inhabitants. The Western on the big screen projected all that and more.

On Saturday morning, Jody and I spent a few hours hiking in Wildwood Regional Park in Thousand Oaks, where many classic movies and television shows were filmed, including a crazy number of Westerns such as The Rifleman, Gunsmoke, Bonanza, and The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, just to name a few. Well, maybe I’ll name one more just for the name: the epic movie titled, How the West Was Won. As we hiked the hills, picturing stagecoach robbery scenes, I kept hearing Dr. West’s voice explaining what the West was really like, and “how the West was (really) won,” and remembering how fortunate I was to have had the chance to learn directly from him. I’m glad that he is still teaching, and I’m glad that others have the opportunity to listen.

Me at Wildwood Regional Park in Thousand Oaks (PC: My sweet wife)

On All Saints Day

Today is All Saints Day, and as I reflected on this special day on the Christian calendar, I came across a prayer inspired by Oscar Romero. Romero, as you may remember, was an El Salvadoran priest who stood in solidarity with the poor and was assassinated in 1980 just after delivering a sermon in a church-run hospital that cared for the terminally ill. This prayer was not written or spoken by Romero but is inspired by his words and composed in honor of his life and teaching. I think it is beautiful and appropriate for any day, but maybe especially today, on All Saints Day.

A Prayer of Oscar Romero

It helps, now and then, to step back and take a long view.
The Kingdom is not only beyond our efforts,
it is even beyond our vision.
We accomplish in our lifetime only a tiny fraction
of the magnificent enterprise that is God’s work.
Nothing we do is complete,
which is a way of saying that the Kingdom always lies beyond us.
No statement says all that could be said.
No prayer fully expresses our faith.
No confession brings perfection.
No pastoral visit brings wholeness.
No program accomplishes the Church’s mission.
No set of goals and objectives includes everything.
This is what we are about.
We plant the seeds that one day will grow.
We water seeds already planted,
knowing that they hold future promise.
We lay foundations that will need further development.
We provide yeast that produces effects far beyond our capabilities.
We cannot do everything,
and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that.
This enables us to do something,
and to do it very well.
It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning, a step along the way,
an opportunity for the Lord’s grace to enter and do the rest.
We may never see the end results,
but that is the difference between the master builder and the worker.
We are workers, not master builders;
ministers, not messiahs.
We are prophets of a future that is not our own.

Amen.

The Answer, My Friend

The stunning natural beauty of Southern California is no secret, providing compelling reasons for the ridiculous housing prices in the form of abundant sunshine, glistening beaches, mild temperatures, ocean breezes, and rugged mountains all together in one spectacular package. Likewise, the opposing natural forces are equally well known, i.e., terrifying earthquakes, dangerous mudslides, and raging wildfires, but there is one negative that comes to mind less readily if you do not live here: Santa Ana winds.

If the popular SoCal picture is driving down PCH with the top down, a gentle breeze caressing your face, then the Santa Ana wind experience is more like having your face used for a punching bag by someone wearing clothes irons instead of boxing gloves. Seriously, imagine howling, constant, hot, dry winds, with frequent hurricane-force gusts, and you’ll get the picture.

The Santa Anas heighten wildfire fears for good reason, and they are even thought to affect the mood of the entire region. In 1938, Raymond Chandler wrote the following passage in his novel, “Red Wind:” “There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen.”

The Santa Anas arrived last night and are howling as I write this afternoon.

We have been given the ridiculous opportunity to live in a tiny apartment directly on the Pacific Ocean for the past few months until we move on to campus, and it has been an awesome privilege to lie in bed at night and listen to the waves. It is truly amazing. Last night, however, we listened to the winds howl instead, and this morning I was out in the street surveying damage and retrieving the trash cans. With the sunrise, I noticed that the waves kept coming, but the powerful winds took a layer of ocean spray each time and lifted it to the sky like a LeBron James powder toss (see picture above, although it doesn’t do it justice).

Just another day in paradise.

As today unfolds, something I had forgotten about this crazy phenomenon returns to mind, and that is how beautiful it is afterward. The absurd winds seem to cleanse the sky of any hint of haze, and it looks like someone drew the horizon with a Sharpie. The winds come and go, and in the aftermath, it is more beautiful than ever.

I remember many a Bible lesson about the Greek word translated “Spirit” (that really means, “Wind”), and how you cannot see the wind as it blows, but you can surely feel it and notice its effect on things. That seems relevant to life in general as I look out my window this afternoon. The winds of life surely come and go, sometimes gentle and refreshing, sometimes harsh and destructive, but regardless, when they die down, something remains. Whether those winds cleanse us or wreck us, as surely as the Santa Anas visit Los Angeles, they surely clear out the haze and produce some clarity.

If you really want to know what is there down in the depths of your soul, like I often do, maybe Dylan nailed it when he said that the answer is blowing in the wind.