AFTER

"WHO CAME UP WITH THE NAME TORNADO?" my 8-year old grandgirl asked me. We were driving through our tornado-devastated town in a zig-zag route to avoid still-downed power lines, uprooted trees and twisted chunks of sheet metal.

I'm glad her question was not: "Could God have stopped the tornado?"

Late Wednesday, April 19, 2023, my Amazing-Missus and I were sitting on the bathroom floor, the most interior room of our house, as instructed; under a mattress, watching the weather reports on a mobile phone. Our power was already out. The tornado seemed to have placed a bullseye on the campus of Oklahoma Baptist University with its dorms and apartment buildings full of students. They were all moved to the basement auditorium of the enourmous old chapel building which lost part of it's bell tower and a portion of its roof. All were safe!

Our oldest son who teaches at the university told me the announcement had been made that classes will have to switch to remote learning because of the damage to so many of the buildings across the campus. He said, "These poor seniors spent most of their freshman year in remote learning because of Covid. Now they're returning there because of the tornado." At least all are safe!

"What causes tornadoes?" was the next question from our inquisitive GrandGirl. I could have gone several directions with an answer: like something geo-political and talked about climate change, or veered off into the religious lunatic fringe and speculated it was judgement for some or the other sin. I chose to act like I knew meterological science and threw around terms like mezzo-cyclone, lowerings, convergence of warm moist air with cold. I don't know if she was buying it, but at least we moved on to a different topic. Maybe I should have just said, "It's Oklahoma, Cutiepie. It's what we do."

Here's a story from 1964, archived by the New York Times from the UPI wire service:

SHAWNEE, Okla., Jan. 14 (UPI)—A former mental patient dived a rented plane into an Oklahoma Baptist University classroom building containing 300 students today. He died instantly, but no one else was hurt. He apparently had intended to crash into an evacuated building.

The police tried to shoot the plane down, but failed. They fired seven rifle shots at it as it buzzed the airport adjacent to the campus. It was not known whether any of the shots hit the plane.

The pilot was Robert Lawson 43 years old, of Inola, Okla., a former student here.

The plane rammed into one of the few vacant classrooms in Shawnee Hall, a three‐story red brick building. A class had taken a test there two hours earlier. A French class of about 40 students was in a room just 30 feet from the impact.

It appeared that Mr. Lawson did not mean to hurt anyone. He got mixed up and hit the wrong building. The university had evacuated the Administration Building on his command.

Witnesses said that Mr. Lawson had buzzed the campus for 35 minutes before he rammed his plane into the south side of the building.

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Shawnee Hall sits at the top of the Oval in the heart of the OBU like the keystone of the original campus. If you'll forgive my anthropomorphism, the old girl recovered from a direct hit by a nutjob in an airplane to her beautiful face, survived and has stood as the standard of dignity and grace since. That is until last Wednesday night, when the tornado hit.

Here are a couple of photos: the first is one I took on one of my early morning walks around the campus. The next, I borrowed from the OBU Facebook page. Last night, we drove around the Oval for the first time since the storm. So much destruction across the campus, but seeing Shawnee Hall was a gut punch. I'm pulling for her to rise again.

Certainly, Shawnee Hall isn't a single point of devastation. The tornado didn't discriminate. I'm just using her as sort of a marker, a finish line. Things will be cleaned up, what can be rebuilt will be, students will return to class, the beauty of springtime on a college campus will emerge. For me, once Shawnee Hall has a new roof, new windows, and a new start, I'll feel like we're back and ready for what's next.

In our faith tradition we speak of "rededication". It's works kind of like this: say, you're sitting in the bathroom floor with a mattress over you and a storm bearing down. You think: maybe I should quit fooling myself--Braum's frozen yogurt is NOT health food. From now on, I'll strive to be healthier, kinder and gentler...

Here's something I've learned about rededication: it must be preceeded by restoration; whether we talking about lives, life or landmarks like the old Hall. Once restored we can rededicate to place and purpose. And, when we seek to restore we understand that we're back to the essential ingredientes of dignity and grace.

Here's another picture for you. It's of that young GrandGirl of mine, the one that is full of questions. This is her, last autumn, doing a dance on the east steps of--you guessed it--Shawnee Hall.

I can imagine that once the campus is rebuilt and the old Hall is restored that maybe there could be a rededication as students return for the Fall semester of 2023 and a new class of freshman start their journey.

Once the restoration is complete, I may, while on campus for my early morning walk, run to the top of her stairs like Sylvester Stallone in "Rocky", and do a litte dance of my own.

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As I'm typing these last lines, listening to a mix from Apple Music, Cat Stevens is singing:

Morning has broken like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word

Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from Heaven
Like the first dew fall on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where His feet pass

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the One Light Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God's recreation of the new day

FAMILY IS A LOT LIKE GUMBO

Gumbo, or in Louisiana Creole: Gombo, is a soup consisting primarily of a strongly-flavored stock, meat or shellfish (or sometimes both), French dark roux, and the Creole "holy trinity" ― celery, bell peppers, and onions. The flavor of the dish has its origins in many cultures.

TODAY WE HAD LUNCH at a place called Pappadeaux Seafood Kitchen. It's sort of a New Orleans / Cajun inspired place. It reminded me of trips to Louisiana to visit my Dad's family. Those roots start in the northern part of the state in a small community called Dubach, and stretch south all the way to New Iberia, north to the Memphis area, west to the DFW area and then north again to Oklahoma. My memories of visiting as a kid are deep and mysterious. On the long drive from Tulsa my little brother Rusty and I were prepped for each visit. "Remember to always say, 'Yes Ma'am. No Ma'am. Yes Sir. No Sir.' At least TRY every food on your plate; without comment." This was an adventure in itself. Meals would almost always include something newly caught or shot. Usually there was a bowl of rice and something called butter beans and other foods foreign to a Tulsa boy's palate. It was all, at the same time, elegant, exotic and delicious.

There was a mystique about it, a culture I could imagine belonging to Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn; or Jem and Scout Finch. The tall pine trees and still waters, the patterns of speech and choice of words; spending time there gave me a glimpse of how my Dad might have experienced his boyhood. I wish we could have spent more time with our cousins and aunts and uncles from that side of the family tree.

Of my Dad's siblings, only my Aunt Betty is living. Although I didn't get to spend a lot of time with her, the time we had was life-changing. She is a wonderful musician, teacher and encourager. She was a devoted leader in her church. She helped teach me the value of a lifelong pursuit of music and she taught me the value of the role of women in the church. Aunt Betty is proof that not only should women be leaders in church, but if there had not been strong women leaders, the church would have suffered more than it has already. She epitomizes a no-nonsense kind of unconditional grace.

One of my favorite memories was a time when I was 14 or so. I was playing drums in a band that was actually getting to play a few gigs: School dances, Teen Towns, Battles of the Bands, etc. It created a bit of angst because my Dad was a Baptist pastor, and at that time, Baptists and dancing were kind of like me and crawfish etouffee--they wanted nothing to do with it.

There was a guy from Dubach who was enjoying some local fame as a rock musician. He and his band practiced at the long-shuttered old movie theatre in town. My Aunt Betty had been his music teacher at school. We were in Dubach for a visit and she contacted him and arranged for me to sit in on one of the rehearsals. I vividly remember sitting there with my Aunt Betty while the band played, "I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night", and thinking: if my Aunt Betty says that it's okay for a baptist kid to play rock and roll, then it's okay with God too. The drummer even let me sit in on one of the songs. Stuff like that makes a kid love music and his Aunt Betty.

I'm proud to have Louisiana roots, even though those roots include having the Fuller hairline. I'm grateful for the memories of fun times with family there; with grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins who lived the southern culture of respect and reverence but also enjoyed occasional irreverence and a good, hearty laugh.

At the Pappadeaux Seafood Kitchen, My Amazing-Missus and I were splitting an entree. I know she would have chosen the Shrimp and Grits (her roots are in South Carolina). I'm confused about grits and something she likes to eat called Malt-O-Meal "cereal". I like food that I can chew at least once. Anyway, since we're now retirees living on a fixed income, when we go to a place like Pappadeaux we're going to split a dish: it's smart financially and reduces the likelihood of the sin of gluttony. I have tried grits. It was one of those things that could show up on the breakfast table in Louisiana where we were required to try a taste of everything.

We were having lunch with a couple. Follow closely now: the guy of this couple is My Amazing-Missus' oldest brother, whom we call Hugh, but everyone else in the world calls Fred. The lady is my first cousin, Coral, who is the daughter of my mother's sister, my other Aunt Betty. Coral and Hugh met at our wedding and later had one of their own. They spend the winter in South Texas and we are here to visit for a few weeks.

It's a great match. Coral and Arlene sew and sew and sew. Hugh and I sit and solve the world's problems. Then we take them to Hobby Lobby and some obscure, out-of-the-way quilt shop where they can restock on thread, fabric, and inspiration while we follow them around.

Yesterday we were in a new quilt shop find. Hugh pointed to a quilt hanging on the wall. "That one is pretty," he said. "That's your basic double wedding ring pattern," I replied. He called our spouses over for verification, discovered I was correct and then prescribed a quick trip to Harbor Freight to somehow recapture a bit of our manhood.

As I said, Coral and I are cousins. We grew up living next door to each other. I was raised dually by my parents and my Aunt Betty and Uncle Bob. I feel almost guilty having TWO aunt Bettys when some people have never had even one. My Louisiana Aunt Betty is tall and lean. My Tulsa Aunt Betty was neither, but outside of my own parents I don't think there is anyone who loved me more. She too, was always the encourager, especially when it came to music. She sealed the deal for me being able to be a baptist rock and roll drummer by arranging for our band to play at a youth group dance in their church's fellowship hall. Lightning didn't strike the church, and as far as I know, among the teens there that night, no children were conceived.

Most of the cousins on my Mom's side lived in Tulsa. On summer Saturday nights we would gather for burgers or tacos, a ball game and catching fireflies. My Uncle Vernon would bring his hair trimmers and give us a flat top haircut so that all we would need to be ready for Sunday school the next morning was a bath and shoeshine. It was an idyllic time and place to grow up.

The only cousins that we didn't grow up near were those of my Uncle Bill and Aunt Joyce. They moved to California when we were young. Chuck, the oldest of their crew, and I were close to the same age, along with our cousin Tom. I envied both of these guys. I could just imagine Chuck surfing and skateboarding in Southern California and how boss that would be. Tom was a great athlete. Did I mention I played in the band?

It's funny how having time and space in the warm sunshine of south Texas can cause an old man to remember and ramble on about family and growing up. My Uncle Bill still lives in California. Just as my Louisiana Aunt Betty is the only living sibling of my Dad's, Uncle Bill is the last of my Mom's. Their brother, my Uncle David (and my namesake) died too soon and too young, even though he lived a long, good life. I wish I had just a portion of his amazing sense of humor. He always called me David Lee, he was the only one that did. I appreciated the uniqueness of that bond.

When our Mom passed, Uncle Bill was so gracious and helped us to make sure that Mom and Dad could be buried near family. I wish Uncle Bill and my Louisiana Aunt Betty could live forever. I'm afraid of the complete loss of a generation of family. But, I'm grateful that we are family.

THE ASTERISK AND ATTACHED STRINGS

COUNTING BLESSINGS.

Is CYA a real thing in the lawyer lexicon? I gave it a Google and sure enough, in a website of the "California Lawyers Association" I found an article about C-ingYA.

Does everything come with "Terms and Conditions"? You know: small-print? Is the asterisk the emoji for Caveat Emptor, which is translated: buyer beware?

If I send you a note like this in the midst of a rough time in your life: "I'm sending you thoughts and prayers.*" Do you assume there might be a footnote with some terms and conditions at the bottom of the page; something like: *This is mainly sentiment and does not constitute any promise of concrete support or action on my part. The offer is good as long as your situation is fresh on my mind.

I'm in the throes of finding a Medicare plan for My Amazing-Missus and myself. Maybe you've noticed the ads on TV. If you haven't, then your TV hasn't been on. Imagine trekking a path that for seniors should be clear, wide, flat, true, honest and well-lit; but instead it's winding and full of forks. There are roots growing into the path that trip you up. There are moss-covered rocks to make you slip and fall, and old signs nailed to trees with rusty spikes warning you to beware, because once you choose a plan, there's no turning back. The path is strewn with old people murmuring about regret over choosing an "advantage" plan or the wrong "medi-gap" plan. There is a place along the path called the "donut hole" which sounds delightful, but apparently is dreadful. I don't know what it is or how to avoid it, and the only answers seems to be embedded in the small-print that old eyes can't read.

But, this isn't really a post about all that malaise. This is about searching instead for something that comes freely and in full measure; WITHOUT CONDITION. In others words: unconditional, no asterisks.

That's risky business though. No lawyer, no politician, no business person is going to enter into any contract without a page or a hundred of CYA small-print. Do those Terms and Conditions come from a lack of trust? Maybe they come from hard lessons-learned. Maybe we're all just a little too jaded, bruised and burned to go into anything unconditionally.

My sage and beloved friend, Doug Manning, tells of a Justice of the Peace that would start each wedding ceremony at his courthouse with these questions to the bride and groom:

"So, you want to become ONE!?"

"I have a question for you: which one?" The point being that there's got to be some give and some receive from both.

I highly and strongly recommend you read a little book by C.S. Lewis called The Four Loves, which are affection (storge), friendship (phileo), romantic (eros) and charity (agape), which is unconditional love.

Speaking as one who is and has been loved unconditionally, with more than 50 years of marriage in the books, the answer to the Justice's question is: a relationship that includes all four of Lewis's ingredients will create a ONE that is born from both persons.

It is a journey though; a quest, a voyage--becoming friends, becoming lovers, becoming a team to take on the quagmire of stuff like medicare, to be there for one another for better or for worse. It's love in spite of, because of, not: love if... A relationship isn't a contract with terms and conditions. That doesn't mean it isn't without risks and hurts. Lewis offers this small-print:

"There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell." --C.S. Lewis.

This Thanksgiving season I am grateful for unconditional love. I'm thinking and praying that I can do better at giving and making as I am at taking.*

*As the small-print in the home internet brochures say, upload and download speeds may vary. When it comes to love, grace and peace I tend to upload a lot faster than I download. Just so you know.

BOO!

MAKING SCARY FUN. Halloween is today. It's one of my favorites because we get to make what should be scary, eerie, sinister and creepy; fun.

The are some other notable days coming up that also have the potential to be scary, eerie, sinister and creepy. I'm hoping for some fun in their midst, but I'm skeptical. Here's the list:

November 1: Sign up for Medicare and choose a plan. I don't know whether to put my trust in Tom Selleck or Joe Namath.

November 6: Fall Back. At my age I'll take any opportunity to "gain an hour" even if it is the one we lost last spring. But I don't like that fact that it will be dark before "Wheel of Fortune" comes on.

November 8: Election Day. This is the scariest of all. I realize I don't live in Georgia, but the fact that Hershel Walker could actually become a U.S. Senator--one of the 100 most powerful, unrepentent people in the country, makes my skin crawl. Which brings me back to Joe Namath. No offense meant, but Joe and Hershel, I loved watching you play football, but I think I'll look to someone who's been hit in the head a few less times to guide my Medicare choices and to sit in the Senate casting policy-making votes.

November 10: Dental appointment. If you can't see the inherent terror in that...

November 11: Veteran's Day. My fear here is that we are forgetting. Forgetting the sacrifice. Forgetting the worth of a democracy worth fighting for. Forgetting the beauty of civility and common causes.

November 17: My oldest Grand-Girl will be 14. Please can we slow this down a bit. I'm scared, I'm in awe of the beautiful young lady she is. I'm daunted: how can I be the best Pops I can be to a 14 year old?

Here's a picture of her at four years old sitting next to her Mimi, anxiously waiting on the curtains to go up on "The Nutcracker" ballet.

The next picture is of her a few nights ago sitting next to her Mimi, anxiously waiting on the curtains to go up on "Lady of the Camellias" ballet.

November 24: Thanksgiving. Not much to fear here other than the power of gluttony. I do fear that the scale has tipped to ingratitude in our culture today. Arrogance seems to be valued over humility; power over servanthood. Hope is giving way to despair.

In an essay by David Brooks he notes a study of headlines published between 2000 and 2019 by 47 news outlets popular in the United States. "The headlines grew significantly more negative, with a greater proportion of headlines denoting anger, fear, disgust and sadness.

"The General Social Survey asks people to rate their happiness levels. Between 1990 and 2018 the share of Americans who put themselves in the lowest happiness category increased by more than 50 percent. And that was before the pandemic.

"Each year Gallup surveys roughly 150,000 people in over 140 countries about their emotional lives. Experiences of negative emotions — related to stress, sadness, anger, worry and physical pain — hit a record high last year."

TODAY IS HALLOWEEN. Really the only thing to fear is that we will all be judged by some little witch, princess or Spiderman on the quality of the offering we drop in their bag or bucket. Sure the days are getting shorter. I'm going to pay the dentist mightily (because Medicare doesn't cover dental) to learn I need to floss more. All of our Grand-Kids are getting too old for Pops' antics and stupid jokes. I miss my Dad, one of the last WW2 vets. The election will come and go, some will accept the results, some won't. But, at 6:30, Pat and Vanna will still be there. Thankfully, the political ads will be gone for awhile. And when the Medicare ads run, I will have that settled.

After Thanksgiving we will go to Utica Square in Tulsa with all of our kids and Grand-Kids and they will sit by Santa for a picture just like I did when I was a little boy and the world seemed simpler.

Before your treat bowl is empty this evening, turn off the porch light and eat the last few Snickers by yourself in the dark. [You are giving Snickers aren't you?]