Anthrocide

Who’d a-thunk it? By the end of the weekend, all my favorite sports teams had come through!

Saturday:

NCAAF – MIZZOU 31, Texas Tech 27. MIZZOU WINS a nail-biter and is bowl eligible!
NHL – Sharks 4, Dallas 1. San Jose WINS!

Sunday:

NFL – 49ers 23, Arizona 7. SF WINS (now 9-1)!
NHL – Sharks 4, Colorado 1. San Jose WINS and moves into 1st place!

Monday:

NCAAB – MIZZOU 87, Notre Dame 58. MIZZOU WINS what was supposed to be a close game!

Wonder which team will be the first to break the streak…

Other random sports thoughts:

I hear tell that MIZZOU basketball, which had garnered a pretty solid following during the Mike Anderson era, is having trouble attracting fans. The Frank Haith (a) hiring–since he has no exciting track record–and (b) NCAA investigation made me reluctant to get too excited. Then add that one of their best players–and one of their few big men–Laurence Bowers, is out for the season with an injury, and my interest was tepid. But I watched the game noted above and was mightily impressed! This is a tenacious, quick, scrappy team that, at least against Notre Dame, was fun to watch. How far can a 4-guard team go? Dunno, but they’re interesting and worth a look.

Q: Why aren’t the 49ers–with the second-best record in the NFL–getting any press?
A: The obvious answer would be east-coast media bias which, no doubt, plays a part. But the main issue is the lack of a “name” player. The media always wants an individual they can tout as “you should watch this team because of so-and-so if for no other reason.” Hence, it’s always “watch Eli Manning and the NY Giants take on Ray Lewis and the hard-hitting Ravens,” etc. But the 49ers have no marquee player. Certainly “Alex Smith and the 49ers” would not gain many viewers. And, although they have plenty of quality players who, together, are a formidable team, there are no true superstars. Patrick Willis? O-kay. Frank Gore? Yawn. Novarro Bowman? Who? The only “name” they have is the coach, Jim Harbaugh. Not much of a promo to say, “See the 49ers play Baltimore and watch Harbaugh’s post-game handshake!” So, face it, no matter how well they do, even in the playoffs, this blue-collar team of no-names is never going to garner much press.

Here’s an oddity that leaves me puzzled: hymn lyrics–or more specifically the use of King James English therein.

Now, I do realize that from the early 1600’s until the early 1970’s the KJV Bible was used by 99.9% of the English-speaking Protestant world. People somewhat understandably associated the use of King James lingo with all things sacred and often felt compelled to use that same mode of speech in any reference to the Lord, including prayers and hymns. This was especially reasonable where scripture was contained in a hymn since it would necessarily be the KJV that was used. The result is that many hymns are laden with “Thee,” “Thou,” “Thy” and “Thine.” Typically King James verbs were also used surrounding those pronouns–for consistency one would assume–giving us “art” instead of “are,” “loveth” instead of “loves,” “hast” (or “hath”) instead of “has,” etc. So, we end up with song lyrics like: “My Jesus I love Thee I know Thou art mine…”

Okay, whatever. What gets weird is that the use of King James parlance is so often random and inexplicable.

As noted, references to the Lord in KJV make sense for the day in which these songs were composed. What I have a harder time understanding is why references to you and me are done that way. For example, the song “Is Thy Heart Right With God,” as the title suggests, refers not to the Lord with KJV but to the listener: “…Dost thou count all things for Jesus but loss?” Why address ME in King James English? Other songs such as “Take Time to be Holy” do the same thing.

Then there are those hymns that can’t make up their minds. Notice how the hymn “His Way with Thee” switches between modern and King James for no apparent reason as it refers to the listener alternately as “YOU” (modern) and “THEE” (KJV):

“…His love can fill YOUR soul, and YOU will see / ’twas best for Him to have His way with THEE.”

Actually the only explanation is a pathetic one. “Thee” was used purely because it rhymed. Now that’s sad.

Even more random are those songs where only one word is KJV. An example is “All the Way My Savior Leads Me” where it says: “…For I know whate’er befall me Jesus doeth all things well…” Notice that at the beginning of the song it does NOT say “All the way my Savior LEADETH me…” but later He “DOETH” rather than He does. Again the unfortunate evident explanation is that the lyricist resorted to KJV in order to maintain the meter of the song–rather than rewriting the lyric (sorry, Fanny Crosby, but that was the cheap way out).

But it gets even more random that that. In the hymn “Count Your Blessings” there is a line in one verse that goes, “…Think that Christ has promised you His wealth untold…” Notice, “Christ HAS”. But in the chorus the lyric is “…see what God HATH done.” Unlike the others, this helps neither rhyme nor meter. The only possible explanation is that the lyricist developed a lisp between writing the verse and the chorus (maybe he lost a tooth or something).

Some hymn lyrics are pretty odd regardless of King James usage. This one for example from “What a Friend We Have in Jesus”:

“Do thy friends despise, forsake thee? Take it to the Lord in prayer…”

Now, first of all it doesn’t say A friend or SOME friends but strongly implies that it refers to ALL your friends. It is not unheard of for a so-called friend to forsake a person, proving to be no friend at all. But to have ALL your friends forsake you? What situation could cause that? The only thing I can think of is if you did some heinous, repugnant, disgusting thing that sent all your friends scurrying to get away from you–like becoming an Amway representative.

But even that is not the strangest part of the phrase. It asks if all your friends DESPISE you. How on earth could a group of people who despise you be classified as “friends”? Aren’t those who despise you–by definition–your enemies?

Or how about this lyric from “I’ll Fly Away”: “…Like a bird from prison bars has flown, I’ll fly away…” Who keeps birds in prison? Unless they’re referring to the Birdman of Alcatraz or something but in that case HE was the one imprisoned in Alcatraz; the birds could come and go as they liked. Of course, it might be referring to a “JAIL-bird” who has flown from prison–but doesn’t that mean an escapee? Is that what we want to be favorably compared with? In a hymn yet?

Another oddity among hymns is the use of what I call “Yoda-speak.” You may recall that the little green Jedi dude in the “Star Wars” films had a characteristic mode of speech in which he sort of spoke backwards. For example, instead of saying “He is strong with the Force” Yoda phrases it this way: “Strong with the Force is he.” Notice how the following hymns do the same thing.

From “Power in the Blood”: “Would you o’er evil a victory win?” Shouldn’t that be “Would you win a victory over evil?” Unless, of course, you have pointy ears and use a light-saber.

From “You Never Mentioned Him to Me”: “…You helped me not the light to see.” I think us non-Jedi’s would say “…You did not help me see the light” wouldn’t we?

From “Give of Your Best to the Master”: “…You from sin’s ruin to save…” Translation: “…To save you from sin’s ruin…”

Not that contemporary Christian music is immune from odd lyrics. Consider the song “My Glorious”. The chorus of the song has this first line:

“God is bigger than the air I breathe”

That is a truly weird figure of speech. Comparisons of the Lord to “the air I breathe” have been used before but always in reference to absolute necessity, i.e., we need God as desperately as we need air. Referring to air in terms of size is beyond strange. Someone suggested that perhaps the reference was to the whole of earth’s atmosphere–sort of a convoluted way of saying He is “bigger than the sky.” However the addition of the phrase “I breathe” tends to negate that since I don’t inhale the entire atmosphere. I think I read somewhere that a breath is about two quarts of air. Saying that God is bigger than that is faint praise indeed. Truthfully it is either using the wrong attribute of “the air I breathe” or the wrong attribute of God. Whatever, it is pretty much nonsensical. Sort of like saying Superman is “faster than a red, red, rose.” One’s natural reaction is “Eh? How’s that again?”

But that’s not the only issue with the song’s lyrics. Here is a verse:

The world’s shaking with the love of God
Great and glorious, let the whole earth sing
And all you ever do is change the old for new
People we believe that

(Then back to the Chorus: God is bigger than the air I breathe…) The first line of the verse–as does the chorus–refers to God in the third person, that is, talking ABOUT God to the audience. But the third line apparently has abruptly switched to speaking directly to Him (“…all YOU ever do…”). But then the next line is back to addressing the audience, this time in plural (“WE believe”) then immediately back to the singular in the Chorus (“I breathe”). I think the lyricist should have gone to bed earlier and taken a fresh look at this in the morning.

Perhaps more sleep would also have helped in the writing of the David Crowder Band’s “How He Loves.” The opening line or so about how God “loves like a hurricane” makes me scratch my head a bit, but then it gets really weird: “…all of a sudden, I am unaware…” I’m sorry but, by definition, it is impossible to SUDDENLY be UNaware of something. You could suddenly become AWARE of something, but how can one suddenly be unaware—unless one passes out or has a stroke or something. In another verse there is a reference to how “…heaven meets earth like an unforeseen kiss…” Eh? I’m not sure how, even poetically, heaven can meet earth like a kiss, but an unforeseen kiss? Does that mean it forgets to pucker or close its eyes? I don’t get it but it could be that I’m biased against the song because Crowder’s rendition of it makes my skin crawl.

Christmas songs are certainly not immune from lyrical oddities. Among the more bizarre is “The First Noel.” The tune is tolerable but the lyrics are, well, the only word to use for them is: lame. What earns a set of lyrics the designation of “lame”? For one thing, lyrics are lame when what they say is nonsensical or just plain wrong. For another, they are lame when there are superfluous words thrown in just to rescue the tune or poetic rhythm. And, as previously mentioned, “Yoda-isms” in lyrics (used primarily to force the rhyme scheme to work) make me crazy. An example of a Christmas song that uses one is: “God rest ye merry, gentlemen, / Let nothing you dismay.” Non-Yoda-speak would be, “…Let nothing dismay you” but that wouldn’t rhyme with “…born on Christmas Day” so, again, the songwriter took the cheap way out.

All that said, “The First Noel” is so bad it almost boggles the mind. To set the stage for the discussion, here is the first stanza along with the refrain:

The first Noel the angel did say
Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay;
In fields where they lay tending their sheep,
On a cold winter’s night that was so deep.

Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,
Born is the King of Israel.

Now, granted, poems and songs frequently butcher or completely omit relevant punctuation, but this one defies knowing what punctuation is appropriate. In the first line the phrase, “…the angel did say…” just dangles there out in space. The angel did say… what, exactly? One could presume that the next word or phrase would represent what the angel said, but that would be the word “Was” (ostensibly spoken “to certain poor shepherds”). As far as I know nothing in the Christmas story has an angel just saying, “Was.” This is fortunate, because if it did that would be mind-numbingly inane. As if that isn’t bad enough, even the phrasing of it is dorky. Using “the angel did say…” instead of “the angel said” is a case of a superfluous word thrown-in to try to stay on beat. Unfortunately the lyrics and “beat” really never do mesh in this song. What I think the lyric is trying to communicate is just that the angel spoke to some shepherds.

This, then, brings us to the next example of dippy-ness: “On a cold winter’s night….” Now, the evidence is marginal at best that Jesus was born in the winter but there is no hint in scripture that it was cold. Israel is a mild climate but admittedly it could have been cold—the odds are about as good that it wasn’t as that it was. Maybe slightly more toward the “wasn’t” side since had the birth taken place in the cold there’s a strong chance that Luke would have mentioned it—but he didn’t. The crowning touch is the final phrase: “…that was so deep.” Okay, what does that mean? It could be that I’m just not poetically-astute enough, but I have no idea what distinguishes a deep night from a shallow one. As near as I can tell, that phrase is there purely because the lyricist needed something that rhymed with sheep. How dumb.

But as bad as it is, the first, and most commonly known, verse is pure genius compared to some of the other verses. Get a load of this one:

Between an ox stall and an ass,
This Child truly there He was;
For want of clothing they did Him lay
All in a manger, among the hay.

There is so much wrong with this verse I won’t even attempt to critique it. I used to think that “The First Noel” was a French song that simply lost a lot in the translation. Turns out it is not French but Olde English—most think from the 16th century—making it contemporary with Shakespeare. Believe me, brother, this is about as far from Shakespeare as one can get!

Shortly I will have lived 60 years, and in that amount of time I have encountered literally thousands of people’s political views. I can honestly say that not once in all that time have I ever witnessed anyone reversing someone else’s political slant by outwitting, out-arguing, or out-insulting them. Yet, baiting and demeaning those of a differing political viewpoint goes on relentlessly and has now become a favorite pastime in the social media venues, notably Facebook.

Due to its futility, I generally, with rare exceptions, steer clear of political debates or venting my political views. However, although I have yet to see anyone’s views change dramatically from political discussions, I have seen honest, open-minded people moderate their views a bit. So, with that goal in mind, I now present some of my take on things.
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Before I continue my narrative, a few words about New York City drivers. First there is the rumor that they drive less with turn signals than with their horns. This is true. Most vehicles in downtown (or even uptown—there is a distinction) Manhattan are taxis. They honk their horns frequently for two basic reasons which I observed first hand. The first reason is illustrated by the following. Our tour bus was at a stoplight on a 4-lane one-way street. In the lane beside us was a row of taxicabs. Exactly one nanosecond after the light turned green, the cab that was fourth in line honked for the line to get moving. I have no explanation for that behavior except that it is New York. To describe the second reason for honking horns I must provide what I observed to be the philosophy of driving in Manhattan, which is: If I am directly beside you in my lane and wish to be in front of you in your lane, I simply go there. It is your problem whether there is room for me to do so or whether you run into me or not. With that said I provide the next illustration. Again, our tour bus was at a stoplight on a 4-lane one-way street. At the instant the light turned green, a cab in the second lane from the left turned left in front of the cab in the first lane. Not to be outdone, a cab in the far right lane also then turned left across in front of all the other lanes, giving a little thank-you wave as he did so. In return there was a cacophony of honking horns and, I would have to admit, justifiably so. Cars, cabs, and buses zip and slither in front of each other willy-nilly in a random pattern of turns and lane changes. Do accidents occur? Certainly. In fact, our tour bus bumped into the back of an SUV at one point, to the surprise of no one. What was a tad surprising was that a cop who happened to be near by took a quick look at the situation, told the SUV the damage was insignificant, and then told both SUV and bus to move on. Read more

On Saturday we headed to New Jersey which would be our home base for our excursions in NYC. Although it was too early for check-in at the hotel in Edison, New Jersey, we wanted to go there first to sort of get our bearings and take whatever transportation to NYC was nearby. The hotel was a Comfort Inn that we could see on the left side as we drove down the multi-lane street past it but since the street had a tall cement divider and allowed no left or U-turns we could not get there. Matilda would tell us to turn right now and again but that made little sense (rather like Columbus sailing west to get to the east). After a mile or two we took her advice at a street with a sign pointing right that read “All Turns.” What one did was turn right and immediately swing around an island to the left, went over an overpass and then navigate onto the desired road going the desired direction. This did not bode well for us finding our way around.

Rick had heard somewhere that one could take a subway into New York City from nearby locations in New Jersey but if that is true we never found it. One thing we were sure of is that we did not want to drive in New York. Now that we’ve been there that was truly one of the most intelligent decisions of the whole trip. The hotel clerk told Rick he could go two stoplights down, turn right and take a commuter train into NYC (this was on Saturday). Despite Matilda’s protests Rick followed the clerk’s directions and we wandered around in a residential area for a while before realizing that he should have said three stoplights down. Anyway we parked at the New Jersey Transit station in a numbered place. A sign saying “Pay for Parking” pointed to a machine that had Rick put in our space number and $4. The question was, did we need to put a receipt or something in our car window since we were warned that unpaid parkers would be towed? Inside the station the person running the little snack kiosk, when Rick asked that question, curtly replied that she had no answers. Period. We shrugged and set about buying tickets for the trip into NYC. Penn Station, New York City, was the final stop, so we had the right train. But unlike some low-cost subway ride, the fare was $12.50. Each. One-way. If you do the math that means $50 per couple round trip. Oh well, this was a once in a lifetime event, so we bought the tickets. A train arrived promptly and the ride in was quite comfortable. In about 50 minutes we arrived at Penn Station beneath the streets of New York City. Read more

“I don’t like it that there’s nobody else down here.” In a city of over 8,000,000 people, for there to be just the four of us Missouri hayseeds alone on an underground commuter train platform—which supposedly in a few minutes would have a train bound for New Jersey—I agreed with Glenda. I didn’t like it either. Apparently we were, once again, lost beneath Manhattan (sounds like a movie title, huh?).

But that was near the end of our journey. Let me go back to the beginning. For their 35th wedding anniversary, Rick (Becki’s brother) and Glenda decided to go to Philadelphia and New York City and invited Becki and I along. The trip started well as we got to the St. Louis airport in plenty of time to go through the madness of TSA security screening. Just a quick side note: I not only understand that people need to be screened before they fly, I actually endorse it. I feel much more comfortable knowing that at least some effort has been made to avoid my flight being involved in some terrorist activity. However, I imagine that for every person who has even a remote possibility of doing something dastardly, there are probably 10 million who simply want to travel to their destination safely and peacefully. Hence, I believe that airports should do everything they can to make the whole necessary security screening thing as hassle-free as possible. St. Louis airport apparently missed the memo. It’s bad enough that one has to practically undress (belts, shoes, jackets, hats, etc.) but in St. Louis, once you’re through, there is not even the convenience of a set of seats to sit down and re-collect oneself. So I found myself groveling on the open floor trying to get my shoes back on. I could go on but I’ll let that suffice.

Becki doesn’t like heights. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing can come of the story I am going to relate. When we first met 40+ years ago heights were something she neither relished nor avoided. I am told that as most people reach their mid-30s they begin to experience trepidation about heights and that is certainly true of me. Where I used to casually walk around on rooftops helping my dad install TV antennas years ago, nowadays putting the Christmas lights along the eaves each year finds me inching along on my belly trying to install them by Braille so I won’t have to look over the edge. But Becki’s dislike of heights has begun to approach the phobia stage and it includes everything from standing on a ladder to flying in an airplane. That said, she deserves a medal for being such an awesome little trooper throughout the trip. Since I have arachnophobia myself I truly appreciate her bravery.

The flight was packed and, as happens so often, a small man (shorter than me, even, I think) was trying to put a huge carry-on that apparently contained an anvil and three bowling balls into a too-small space in the overhead bin above Becki’s head. He got overbalanced and several passengers had to catch him in the aisle. Mercifully he managed to get the bag stowed on the third try without conking Becki on the head. The flight started fine with the pilot bragging about the beautiful clear evening, but the weather reports we had seen said it was raining in Philadelphia. Halfway through the flight we reached the bad weather and the plane turned into a roller coaster, much to Becki’s dismay. The fingernail prints in my arm are starting to recede now, so I think I’ll be okay.

The hotel in Philly was fine and we started out early the next morning in a drizzle on the Philadelphia phase of our adventure. We ate at a Denny’s and were reminded why we no longer have one in Jeff. Our waitress went out of her way to ignore us throughout the meal but the food was okay so off we went. We first visited the Liberty Bell which had a team of some half-dozen security screeners inspecting bags and having us open our jackets. I had seen the bell once before many years ago but the others hadn’t and the girls both said they had expected it to be larger. To which I had to add, “Not quite what it’s cracked-up to be, eh?” Next we took a tour of Independence Hall by a middle-aged male tour guide with a long pony tail who spoke loudly enough to be heard in Pittsburgh. Since I like history I found it quite interesting and can relate to how the colonists resented being taxed when they had no representation in Parliament. Of course, as one wag has put it, if they thought taxation without representation was bad, they should see how it is with it!

For lunch we, of course, had to eat an authentic Philly cheese steak sandwich. After about a ten-block walk we found a cheese steak place with free fries and ate there. In so doing Glenda was able to find (and have preserved pictorially on Facebook) the “perfect French fry.” I’m not totally clear on what qualifies a fry as perfect but they were quite good. When we finished, Rick and I walked back to where the car was parked so we could pick up the girls. On our way we spotted three people, two guys and one obviously a girl, walking down the street in Spiderman costumes. And, no, I have no explanation.

One of the main reasons for the trip was that the Sight and Sound Theater in Strasburg, PA (this is the original; the one in Branson came along later) was doing a play based on the life of Joseph. No, not the Andrew Lloyd Webber version, although I like it very much, this was an original musical. We needed to be at the theater by 6:30 p.m. and would be staying in King of Prussia, PA (next to Valley Forge). We shopped (if you can call what I do shopping) at a huge mall there and the only one to buy anything was Rick (chef items). At 5 p.m. we needed to get dinner so we could head to Strasburg. Glenda spotted a fondue restaurant called The Melting Pot and thought it would be fun. Though none of us had eaten at a fondue restaurant, we all agreed and went in. (Note: When the four of us are together, whenever anyone can come up with an idea of what to do next it is immediately considered a good idea insofar as it is better than having no idea which is true of the other three.) Mind you, we’re all wearing jeans, and Rick and I are in baseball caps. Our first clue was when the hostess looked surprised and asked cautiously if we had reservations. Her next question was, “Where are you from?” After we told her another woman, presumably her boss, said sort of under her breath, “Um, let’s seat them at table 41.” We were led to a back area and handed menus. The first item was: Four Course Fondue for Two – $86.00. After we gulped, a lovely, friendly, helpful young waitress came and said, “So I hear you’re from Missouri.” Apparently the Hayseed Alert had already circulated throughout the establishment. We admitted that we had never eaten at a fondue restaurant before. “Have you eaten at a hibachi restaurant?” she asked. For some reason an image of those tiny Japanese charcoal grills came into my mind and Rick and I both said, “No.” Then, in classic hillbilly-hick style I said, “We do have a Japanese Steakhouse, though.” The waitress, sweet as she was, said nothing but just shook her head slightly and suppressed a grin. (Note: Ironically, we had eaten at the new Japanese steakhouse for lunch the day we left, and the menu had referred to the items we had ordered that day cooked in front of us as “from the hibachi grill.”) We told her we only had maybe 45 minutes before we had to get going so she went on to explain how things worked. Normally one orders not only cheese fondue but steak, shrimp, chicken or other items that are cooked at the table to accompany it. But in the interests of time, she suggested two cheese fondues with various breads, veggies, and even apples to dip into it. One was spinach and artichoke in Swiss and the other was a Mexican cheddar. She suggested also salads for us. She prepared the fondues at our table and we dug-in. It was delightful but when she came back by to see how we were doing Rick asked what about our salads. She politely notified us that they come afterward and somewhere back in the kitchen another Nerd-alert siren probably went off. The salads were great (I had no idea how good glazed pine nuts were) and she asked if we’d like chocolate-peanut-butter fondue for dessert. Glenda’s a chocoholic so it took no effort at all to decide we’d go for it; our waitress assured us she could get us on our way quickly. It really was excellent, with strawberries, bananas, cheesecake, marshmallows, brownies, and mini-krispy-treats to dip with. Though our waitress had done her best to help us feel at ease, I can’t help but wonder how hard everyone laughed when we left.

We had taken our GPS with us who, having an Australian female voice we have dubbed Matilda, proved pretty valuable at various times. For whatever reason, she took us a rather circuitous route to the theater. When we were less than a mile from it we were still out in the middle of Amish farm country with no lights to be seen. Then suddenly, there was the theater and a long line of traffic. As is true of Noah at Branson, the theater and the play were spectacular. Rick had done an excellent job getting us tickets in an ideal location. I recall that Noah took considerably more liberties with the story than I was completely comfortable with (although I enjoyed it). They had a disclaimer at the beginning of Joseph that some of it was fictionalized but I actually thought the disclaimer unnecessary; it followed the Biblical narrative quite closely. Pleased with how well the trip had gone so far, we headed back to the hotel for a night’s sleep before our next adventure: New York City.

Report on my Bay Area sports teams (sorry, MIZZOU, I’ll get back to you in the fall):

San Jose Sharks Playoffs – They improved on last year’s NHL playoff fiasco by beating Colorado and advancing to the second round. When they play up to their capabilities they can be quite good… It’s been commented-on ad nauseum, but no one would have believed that they could have accomplished this while going all six games with a grand total of one goal being scored by their top line. Heatley can be excused because he was injured in an early game, missed one entirely and was obviously only about 60% for the remainder. Hopefully he can recover before the next round. Thornton actually gave a good effort in other aspects of the game; scoring is not his strong suit anyway, but assists are. So for him to have only three points in six games is definitely eyebrow-raising. Then there’s Marleau. Yes, he did get the lone goal for that threesome, but, of the three, he has played the poorest—and without the excuse of an injury. He both misunderstands and at the same time defies a basic law of physics: A solid object cannot pass through another solid object. When he has the puck and spots a teammate on the other side of the ice, he passes the puck toward his teammate despite there being three sets of opponents’ legs, skates, and sticks directly in the path of the puck. Apparently thinking the puck will somehow magically dematerialize, slide through these obstacles, then rematerialize near his teammate, he repeatedly throws the puck directly to the opponents. This, naturally, leads to innumerable odd-man rushes for the opposition. However, perhaps he believes in this solid-passing-through-solid notion because of what pucks do to his stick. Fully half his attempts to guide, pass, or shoot the puck sees the puck remain right where it is, as if it passes right through his stick. Patrick, do us all a favor and see if you can try playing in this universe with its laws of physics rather than that alternate one you’ve been occupying up to now in the playoffs. Please?… Last season I decided that Joe Pavelski was my favorite player. This season—and certainly these playoffs—have cemented that notion… And Coach McLellan, thanks for having the good sense to keep Brad Staubitz on the healthy scratch list. What is purportedly gained by his “enforcer” role is more than lost in his poor judgment regarding when to be a goon and his exceptionally lacking hockey skills. Both could result in disaster against playoff-quality opponents.

San Francisco 49ers Draft – Other than a questionable trade-up two positions to get a player almost certain to still be there (and other high-quality alternatives if he wasn’t), this was a good draft. It has been pointed-out that these are all Singletary-type tough, physical players, though some are questionable in terms of character. It will be awesome if Coach Singletary can instill his personal focus, intensity, and Christian-based behavioral ethics into this group and enable them to excel. This is a case where I would love to witness a successful program, not just because I’m a 49er fan, but as proof that a man of purpose and Christian integrity can permeate his entire team with those same qualities. Though during his coaching tenure Singletary is neither shy nor overtly outspoken about his faith publicly, what a great testimony it would be to show that dedication to Christ can translate to dedication in all one’s endeavors. More than that, to show that such a philosophy of life can turn a whole team into both winners and men of integrity. Good luck, Coach. Here’s hoping that the 49ers are the (positive) talk of the NFL this coming season.

San Francisco Giants – In the past few years my interest in baseball has waned, partly because of all the ridiculous drug scandals, among the most notorious of which involves the Giants’ last hitting star, Barry Bonds. The other reason is that, since his departure, the Giants have been frustratingly inept and made-up primarily of ancient castoffs and retreads. They now have had an infusion of youth and have a dynamite young pitching staff including Tim Lincecum, back-to-back Cy Young award winner. They still don’t have quite enough offense to be a truly great team but they have managed to revive my interest a bit. Taking two of three from the Cardinals including keeping Albert Pujols contained was fairly impressive. As the old bromide goes, good pitching beats good hitting. But as the 2-0 loss in the third game of the series shows, even with good pitching you can’t win games if you can’t manage to score. Still, as long as they don’t take a major nosedive they should keep things interesting enough to bridge the long gap between the end of the NHL playoffs and the start of football.

Richard Yoder was a devout Christian man. For some 45 years Richard Yoder was a gospel preacher. He was never a big-name preacher, even in the small community of churches where he was known. I doubt he ever ministered in a church of more than 50 people. Though he offered literally thousands of invitations in his ministerial life he never had Billy-Graham-like responses where an entire football field is filled with converts. In fact, in the 3+ years I regularly attended the church where he preached so tirelessly I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of conversions that resulted. But there was one that was of particular significance to me: my own.

You see, back in the spring of 1968 I became smitten, as they used to say, by a gorgeous little blue-eyed blond named Rebecca (Becki). She was two years behind me in high school and she was also a preacher’s daughter. She was Richard Yoder’s daughter. Now, sometimes preachers’ kids become notoriously rebellious, but not so with Becki. She was a devoted daughter and a devoted Christian. Me? I was an atheist. As we started “dating” (as much as her dad would allow) Becki never demanded that I convert to Christ or even attend church. However, I did attend because that’s where she was so often.

I wasn’t there to listen, I was there to pass notes and spend time with her. But eventually things started to happen. One was that I began to observe the love within her family and to realize that it was the influence of their–especially the parents’–belief in Christ that made it what every family should be. I also realized that part of what made me love Becki was Jesus in her. I also began to actually pay attention to those sermons her dad kept preaching. After some months had passed I began to realize that what this man was saying made sense. In fact, it made sense of the world, of life itself. Eventually I realized that the gospel of Jesus was true. It had to be; it was the only logical, coherent, rational explanation for what life is all about.

On Sunday, January 5, 1969, Richard Yoder called me over to his study and asked me if I was ready to act upon what I’d been hearing. That evening he baptized me into Christ. On July 7, 1973 he became my father-in-law as I married that wonderful little gal that I’m thrilled to say remains my wife after 36+ years. Richard, along with Becki’s mom, Mary, continued to be wonderful Christian influences, wonderful in-laws, and wonderful grandparents to our sons Paul and Scott.

Richard Yoder was not famous or even a gifted speaker. But he was dearly loved by a great number of people and exuded Jesus in all of his life. While he may not have legions of converts to show for his faithful service, his influence for Christ was deep and far-reaching nonetheless.

And among those he did help bring into the Kingdom of God, there’s me. Richard Yoder was more than my father-in-law, Richard Yoder was my father in the faith. For that I am literally eternally grateful. He passed the baton of salvation to me. My prayer is that I will successfully pass it on as well.

On December 18, 2009, at 90 years of age Richard Yoder went to be with the Lord he had served so faithfully. Thanks, Dad. I shudder to think where I might be had it not been for you.

– Your loving son in the faith, Don.

The Sutter High School class of 1969–my class–had its 40th year reunion on Saturday, November 21. Sutter is a very small town with a small high school and our graduating class was fewer than 70 people. Thirty-some attended the reunion and that included some graduates’ spouses.

As reunions go, this one was excellent. Sometimes reunions leave the attendees feeling pretty bummed–those who in school had been jerks are still jerks, those who had been snobs are still stuck-up, and those who had been dorks are still dorky. But not so this class, this reunion. Everyone was warm, personable, unpretentious, and friendly.

We spent a lot of time talking about grown kids, grandkids, and plans for retirement. It is clear that this group that took their diplomas amid handshakes, flashbulbs, and starry-eyed aspirations has had its day in the sun. The baton has long since been passed to the our children’s generation.

None of us found a cure for cancer, flew to Mars, or brought about world peace. But the attendees of the class of 1969’s 40-year reunion turned out to be good people. And, all things considered, that in itself is a pretty impressive accomplishment.

So, here’s to my class. May God richly bless you all. I count it a privilege and a source of pride to be a member of the Sutter Union High School class of ’69.