Visiting the Elderly

Some time ago I went with our youth group to visit a nursing home. I was the elected musician, ready to accompany any and all Christmas songs. Obviously it was during a Christmas visit. Since we are in Florida nursing homes are as prevalent as gas stations. We have many within a 3 mile radius of the church and I'm not really sure how this particular one was selected but as usual, not an important part of the story.  Preparation is everything. We rehearsed the songs, we prepared wonderful bags of candy decorated with some small ornaments, and talked about how we would share stories with the wonderful folks we would meet. Upon arrival we noticed by the sign outside that it was a home for Alzheimer's patients. Not really knowing what that added to the thrill of our visit, we charged on in. The staff had been expecting us and gathered many of the residents in a main hall for us to visit with.  Some of them were quite happy to share stories with our youth, even claiming them as their own children. I was asked many times to play Elvis songs and "Roll Out the Barrel" was also quite popular. One sweet lady asked for her favorite Christmas song, "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star", obviously about the Star of Bethlehem.  A bit of dancing took place, and then the giving of the gifts. As we were about to leave, I heard some commotion in the corner of the room.  Actually it was more of a ruckus if I knew what a ruckus was, and I think I do. We watched as 2 or 3 attendants tackled a resident in his wheelchair as he screamed "Nooooo!" Ready to report elder abuse, we moved in closer. It seemed he was choking. Maybe. The staff had fingers in his mouth. Then I noticed in his hands he was trying to stuff all the candy in his mouth. Unwrapped.  No.  Wait.  That wasn't the candy. It was the ornaments. Little Christmas balls like you put on a tree but tiny that we brought as decoration tied neatly to each bag. For him it was like a hollow Easter Bunny with a funny metallic chocolate. He yelled at the staff that was taking away his candy as he bled from the mouth. There really was nothing much else to say from us. We left. "Merry Christmas" we shouted on our way out. He was okay. We checked back later.

Mission Impossible (Almost)

I love Missions trips. I like to travel. Sometimes the two go together. Well actually I travel and have traveled a bit without being on a mission. Ok, so I was on a mission, but not a church mission. I digress (as usual). Airport security. Enough said. These guys are at the top of their game in figuring out if you are a bad guy. They ask all the right questions and look for bad answers. One mission trip on our way to Guatemala I recall "an incident" at the luggage check. We were traveling with about 20 people. The procedure is pretty simple for team members. You can check 2 bags on international flights. Pack one bag with your stuff, and bring an empty bag for the church to put team supplies that we will need. We all packed the bags with things we would be bringing for our mission with children such as games, school supplies, toiletries that would be considered a luxury, etc.  Upon reaching the ticket counter to check the bags, the standard security question came up. "Did you pack your bags yourself?" Thank God for honest people. One of our sweet ladies decided "No, in fact, I have no idea what is in here." would be the proper response. Thank you for playing, what do we have as a prize for the 20 passengers with bags they didn't pack themselves? A long delay with a security and customs interrogation. We did make the flight with all of our newly labeled and inspected bags on board. If you travel with a mission team from our church today, you will be instructed as to how to talk to security as part of the team training. Nice.

Hopes and Dreams

When I was a bit younger, I loved to go on retreats. We always had guitar music, decent food, and a good dose of feeling like we could live on some sort of compound hearing about God and not working. I guess that pretty much describes a cult, but then I kind of understood the draw.  There were always a few different kinds of people on these retreats. The "super spiritual" people that loved everything we did and held arms and swayed to the out-of-tune guitar songs. You know them, the ones who put all the effort into making their name tags look pretty with some sort of cross or fish placed in plain view and with their name in all 7 colors of the rainbow. Then there are the "seemed to be court-ordered" attendees who didn't like anything we did and obviously came at the request of someone else. Never sang and never participated in group discussions. And lastly there are people like me. Kind of normal, but not quite; otherwise why would they be on this silly retreat.
Anyway, aside from songs and food and talks, there was always the one-upper. The one thing you did on a retreat that was like no other thing anyone else did. Maybe it was a "faith walk" in the middle of the night. Maybe it was a surprise visit from someone like Billy Graham or Amy Grant. Or perhaps it was some secret ceremony where nobody but God and the 47 other people with you would know about. I vote for secret ceremonies.  One of my favorite is when we write down something you want no one to know about.  The writing down is important because they leave you feeling as if someone might read it, probably anonymously.  Instead, they make a big fire outside and we burn them up. Cool.
So one year not so long ago I was leading worship at a retreat for 500 or so people in North Carolina. At a gathering before it started we had a strategic planning meeting with all the leaders. The keynote speaker was concerned with how many seats would be in the room. "If there are 500 people, I don't want 700 seats" said the speaker. I thought, smart man, makes sense. Keep 'em close, promotes unity. The next priest developed a plan for his talk.  His plan included the one-upper. "I would like all the people to write their hopes and dreams on a piece of paper" he says. "What will we do with that paper?" asks another administrative planning-type priest. "Oh, well maybe we could put them in a big basket, and on the last day take them outside and burn them as an offering to God" says the priest who obviously has been on one or two of the secret ceremony retreats. "Great idea" chimes in most of the group gathered there. One-upper solved. A bit of silence passes as they contemplate this great plan before my hero, the smart man, the speaker, clears his throat. "Ahem...." he continues, "So you are saying we should ask people to write down their greatest hopes and dreams, and then have them stand by and watch as their hopes and dreams go up in smoke?" "Umm" comes the reply. "We burn up their hopes and dreams, is that it?" he asks again. As I laughed out loud, I became remotely aware of two things. I was the only one laughing, and - some guys don't like being made to look like fools when planning a retreat, even if it is their fault.

Are You Talkin’ to Me?

When I travel to a foreign country, I always take the time to learn a few phrases in the native language. “Hello, how are you?”, “I am fine, thank you”, “The food is great!” are a few of the standard phrases. I always try to match the accent and speak as authentically as possible, sometimes being mistaken as a local, since I have a nice tan.

A few years ago I traveled to Uganda to teach music.  Uganda is a quaint, yet rustic country. Quaint because in a country named Uganda, in a Kingdom (yes they have a King) named Central Buganda, the language they speak is Lugandan. Quite creative with the names, and yet, easy to remember.  Anyway, Ugandan culture is quite formal, which seems somehow out of place in an area with no electricity or running water.  Even so, as a country founded and influenced by the British, they know more about and practice proper etiquette more than any city today in England.

Our job; to teach songs at a school in rural Uganda. Our team; 5 great musicians with instruments and can-do attitudes. The song; I can’t quite remember but that part wasn’t important to this story. The important part is that we had so many children, we split them into two sections and introduced an all-American aspect of our culture -- competition. One group was competing with the other to see who would sing the loudest. All we needed was the word for “louder”.  No problem. The word is nyo. Proper pronunciation is one syllable, kind of like a Japanese word.  “Yo” with an “n” sound at the beginning. 

Some people just don’t take their language arts seriously is what I have found. “Try to blend in” is my motto. So I am in the middle playing the guitar. Our two best singers are on either side of me getting their respective groups ready. One side is noticeably louder. I lean toward the right and the crowd goes wild. I lean to the left and the kids are staring at their newly appointed leader as she screams for them to be louder. Well, not really. She is yelling nee-oh at the kids, an obvious two syllable modification of a simple word. But we are American. Surely they understand. And yet, they stare, some in despair. 

Our Ugandan escort quickly corrected the word to the one syllable version and off they went. Well, not really. Some probably sang louder from fear, others out of obedience, and there was that group who just kept the look of bewilderment. I had to ask. What was the problem, did they not understand our Lugandan? The reply; “oh yes David, they understood.” Oh, well what was the problem? Our friend would not repeat the word but gave us the translation by pointing at her rear end. Yes, our team leader called the elementary school children asses. And not just once. She kept yelling at the kids as they looked at her...”ASS, ASS, ASS”! A finer moment in church mission ministry there has not been.

Wearing the Uniform

As I drove to work today, I passed a bike rider waiting at a light to cross the street.  I wonder about these guys. Sometimes they are happy to have the rules of a car, wanting a full lane of traffic to drive in, but other times they decide not to stop at the traffic light and ride through.  So this guy was decked out in the aerodynamic helmet, tight shirt made to look like you are riding in the tour-de-france, and the trademark biker shorts. Oh, don’t forget the fancy shoes or peds or whatever you are supposed to call them. Anyway, I wondered what it would be like for me to go for a casual drive in my car and put on a NASCAR jumpsuit and helmet, kind of like Speed Racer. Why do some people go all out for the uniform when they are not really playing? Most professionals practice in a uniform that doesn’t look like what they perform in. To even carry this a bit further, when I wear a nice outfit to work at the church, the first question is “Do you have a performance today?” Even to visit people in the hospital I wear average clothes.  We all have our performance clothes, don’t we?  I question the people that wear performance clothes in a casual setting.  Why do some clergy wear the complete clerical outfit to come for a regular day of work? I recently attended the National Anglican conference and at the end of the day went to get a drink with friends. No services had been conducted that day, just seminars, workshops, meetings. And yet, in the bar, the bike riders of our denomination were there. Clergy, dressed in collar, black shirt, black pants, black shoes, pink drink in hand.  Looking a bit out of place kind of like Joe Bike Rider in my neighborhood.  Oh, did I mention I spent 8 years in the U.S. Navy and we also had those that dressed up in full uniform to go to the mall on saturday? I also should mention I own the complete Speed Racer series on DVD.  Next time you see a Mustang in Central Florida driven by a guy with a white helmet and jumpsuit, just know I am trying to fit in.