Friday, April 9, 2010

Blackberry Smiles...

For two glorious years of my childhood I lived on the Oregon coast. I still love the rain…it calms me…though rarely do we get rain like that in Idaho. The smell of the ocean…the stench of the lumber processors…the feel of the sand on my feet…and the taste of fresh, ripe blackberries…just a few of the sensory emotions I will never forget from those days.

I think the house was green…I was in kindergarten. We hadn’t lived in the area long and would eventually live in three houses in two years. Dad had gotten his first teaching job at a small Christian school and we uprooted from the only house I’d ever known and ventured a million miles away…at least it felt that way. Whatever emotions I had about leaving my old home didn’t stand a chance one I tasted my first fresh blackberry…and I was lost in a trance staring at a wall of fresh berries guarded ever so carefully by their own thorns…

It wasn’t unusual for me in the height of blackberry season to be found at the blackberry patch in the back yard. Even before school, I would wander out to sample the deep black berries that were bigger than my thumbs. I can’t remember why this particular morning was any different…don’t remember if I just disappeared out back or if mom sent me out to pick berries to go in the cereal (it wasn’t unusual for the bowl to only be half as full as my little belly).

Regardless of the reasons…I found myself standing at the edge of the berry patch…looking at the three-step stairs that led down toward the middle where the best berries could be found. But…being the season…and the fact that this wasn’t my first trip out back…most of the berries were gone in that area. Soon I was mesmerized by the untouched treasures that sat just out of reach…I ate my way into the middle of the patch…off the steps…and at least five more feet into the thickest brambles and thorns to be found. The bucket of berries was only half full…my stomach was nice and full…and I’m sure there was purple juice on my face from ear to ear…

When I had my fill I turned around…ready to go back into the house. Though I wouldn’t see the movie for years…looking back my memory equates that moment with the scene in Honey I Shrunk the Kids where they look back at the house and it is miles away. There I was…five years old…and stuck in the middle of a blackberry patch…blocked from getting home by the thorny branches I let close in behind me on the way in. I’m pretty sure I started yelling for help…I vaguely remember my dad asking, “what in the world are you doing all the way in there”…and soon I was safely back in the house eating my breakfast…with more berries of course.

Where I failed as a five year-old…I wasn’t aware of my surroundings…I had no exit strategy. Saved by the love of my dad, I have no recollection of any negative emotions…though I am sure there was an element of fear. What I remember to this day, is the succulent taste of fresh Oregon blackberries…

At times I have challenged myself…sometimes, I’m learning, at my own expense…to always identify an exit strategy to any situation I enter…to exercise caution and prudence. But to some degree for the rest of my life I have run head-first into the brambles and thorns without an exit strategy and found myself trapped. Granted I have survived many situations in my life based on my awareness…physically and emotionally…of the dangers that surrounded me. But I will be the first to admit that there have been many times I was no different than that five year-old boy…yelling for help. And sometimes…it isn’t the fear that I remember…it is the sweet flavor that stains my smile…

Sunday, April 4, 2010

My dad killed Jesus…

Easter brings back some fond memories…I’m sure I’ll write about some of my other experiences behind the scenes of the local Easter pageant at some point. I took the girls last year and was surprised how much it had changed…but how much of it was just the same as I remembered it…Somewhere I think I could probably find the video spot…maybe…but I couldn’t help laughing today, Easter Sunday, as I thought about some of my memories of those days.

As a kid, Easter season was a family event…though honestly I really don’t remember my little sister being around much. When I was little, I remember going up Golgotha with my mom for the crucifixion of Christ…I was awed by the power of the Roman soldiers …I’m sure I should have been scared…I mean it isn’t every day you see Satan walking down the back hall, just out of makeup.

Honestly I loved being a part of that program…I was proud of all of my family for our participation…and I took great pride in advertising our involvement. Looking back I find it humorous…Mom was in the choir…I was in the children’s choir…my aunt sang a solo…and my dad killed Jesus…

Over the years of my childhood, Dad had several different parts he played…he helped me off the roof to be healed by Jesus…he ran spotlights…he helped one of the crucified criminals with the dry-ice machines…but the part I will never forget was the time my father was an executioner. It was severely ironic to see my father…one of the meekest men I know…pushing Jesus and the criminals through the crowds up Golgotha…and the dramatic silence of the first time the hammer struck the nail…

I admit…that it was a little shocking the first time I saw my dad crucify Christ. I knew that the crucifixion was fake…I watched it in practice year after year. I knew how the crosses were raised on hinges…but I didn’t know how the executioners made the nail-pounding sound so real. I got the chance at some point to see the block they used to simulate the nail strike that cued the crowd into silence (mostly).

I was struck by the symbolism of the event…that Christ died to cover our sins in his blood. But I couldn’t get over the irony that my dad was one of the guys that killed him. My dad is one of the most sensitive guys I know…and I love him for that (another article soon on that subject)…never could I ever have imagined Dad even playing that part.

Later in life I found the humor in it and loved the shock value when I'd say my dad played an executioner…and even now it makes me laugh. I was confused when Dad gave up that role in order to join the spotlighting team. But looking back I completely understand…how can you expect to be considered a good Christian and go to heaven when you make a habit out of killing Christ every year? I can only imagine the thought at the resurrection…”now I have to kill him again tomorrow…”

He is risen; He is risen indeed…in spite of my father…