Enough

This is me.

Born in a small town in Indiana.  Raised in a home with a mom and dad who taught me to love Jesus.  Worked through high school and college.  Fortunate to find a job in my hometown.  Christ continued to pursue me time and again.  Met my wife and bought a home.  Two kids followed.  Surrounded by friends.  I wouldn't call life easy, but it was, I never had to worry about food or shelter.

This is my brother.

Born in Haiti.  Found Jesus because someone cared enough to share.  Roamed streets to look for work to buy food.  Loves his family.  Surrounded by love.  He wouldn't call his life easy, but would never complain and still finds joy.


The difference is in the color of our skin, in where we were born.  I chose neither of those.  God's overwhelming love for those He created, who follow Him, join us in a brotherhood experienced throughout the earth.  God does not see color, He does not see country or state.  He sees His creation, a broken people needing a Savior.  Only people who do not know God would see things differently.  Only those with the darkest of hearts would have contempt for His creation.  And of all people, God's people should be those who defend the defenseless, love those who need love, and stand for those who cannot stand for themselves.  If He gave His life to love them, so should I.

I have been so deeply convicted over the events and comments of last week. I am waiting for God's church to drive out any hint of this wrong in our four walls, to ask for forgiveness because we failed to stand in the past, to not be complicit with our silence.  I am waiting for His church to say, enough.

Renewing my faith in people of faith

"The every day kindness of the back roads more than makes up for the greed in the headlines."  - Charles Kuralt

Professors and pastors alike get time off for self-reflection, personal growth and refreshment.  I feel a bit cheated in this because if I could get a sabbatical, this is what it would look like:  me, going Charles Kuralt, and driving the countryside visiting church and parish, large and small, urban and rural to interview people about their faith walks.  Because, I've realized, somewhere along the way I've lost my faith in people of faith.

Now, before you fire back that we are not to look to people to sustain our faith, stop and ask yourself where exactly it says that we are to be islands in the development of our faith.  Of course we're not, that's why we plant ourselves in pews each Sunday.

I will admit to being saddened, maybe sickened, certainly dismayed by what has become the mainstream face of people of faith-the "headline" demonstration of our faith.  The movement toward civil religion will ultimately make the gospel of no effect in America.  Unless we come back to the heart of God and demonstrate the love of His Son, we will surely lose a generation.  Already our evangelical leaders' voices sufficiently clang with hypocrisy as they vie for political favor.

I believe, somewhere out there on the back roads, in the food pantries, coffee shops, orphanages, alleys, and migrant camps are those who understand the "call" that prods them out of the pews and away from the "show" on Sundays to live out the gospel in a way that it was intended.  I believe these people exist.  And I'd love to get to know them.  I need to have my faith renewed in people of faith.

These are the questions I'd ask:  What are the times you feel closest to God?  Is there a passion you feel for His creation?  How do you feel part of the brotherhood of man?  What do you sense in your quietest times?

I've really only ever known two churches my entire life.  I was about 4 when our country church of a couple hundred went through a split separating families and friends.  I don't remember much, other than the hurt it caused.  But the church I grew up in, well beyond my college years, was closer to a couple thousand.  It operated big, and there were big ideas, and we worshiped a big God.  But in the end, after I had left, it collapsed-in a big way.  I wouldn't give up the 25 years that I was there-it was solid teaching, but it also taught me what a church is not.

After my wife and I were married, and we settled into our hometown, we also settled into a new home church.  It became very personal, intimate, and as our family grew, so did our church family.  They become those we could count on, laugh and grow with.  Fellowship.  Our kids were dedicated, baptized, and mentored by friends until they, themselves, became mentors.  And now, 20 years later, I look back and understand these roles as part of a church family.  But, once again, I'm beginning to understand what that means, and doesn't mean, and how God can use adversity in those roles to make us seek Him in others.

People, particularly leaders, can and will fail us.  I'm not immune to that myself.  However, in those failures, are we learning and growing together?  Are we seeking unity through the hard work of reconciliation?  Are we becoming a stumbling block to the spiritual growth of others?  Are we being encouraged by the true demonstration of faith, of Christ, or are we just protecting the show?

I'd love to be on the road for a year to visit a mission in LA, a reservation in South Dakota, a church on the plains of Texas, a mighty cathedral in Boston, and a home church in Indiana.  I'd love to site down with my Catholic and Episcopal brothers, fellowship with Methodists and Baptists, worship with my Latino and AME family, have a conversation with Muslims and Jews.  God isn't in four walls, and his family is much bigger than the few hundred white people we sit with on Sundays.  If engaging others can restore what has been compromised and carved away for years, then we need to stop, ask, listen and learn.

When was the last time you stopped long enough to have your faith encouraged by someone you don't even know?

Pattern of the Precipice

A good friend texted me and asked what I was up to one afternoon several weeks ago.  It had been awhile since we had caught up, he knew some things were unraveling and wanted to come by to talk.  In the midst of a long conversation, he mentioned how patterns seem to weave into our lives over the years.  In this case, every 10 years.  His comment made me consider what extent this was true in my life.  And it became evident it was very true.

Ending 1997, I looked ahead into 1998 and thought that graduate school would be in my near future.  But within months of the new year, I had met my wife and we were married and had bought our home by the end of 1998.

Ten years later, after a wrenching but spiritually flourishing 2007, our little family sat at a precipice, not knowing what 2008 would hold.  I had lost a position that I thought would carry me into the future and my career itself was terribly uncertain.  I remember that Christmas being one of great anxiety, right through New Years, as we waited for an announcement that would also mean the end of my job.  That never came, but by July of that year, the uncertainty finally took a toll and it pushed me right out and onto my own.

And here we are, at the end of 2017.  Another ten years have passed since that uneasy Christmas and New Years, and we find ourselves thrust right back onto that precipice.  And much like ten years prior, it hasn't been of our own making.  Not by our choice.  And not under good circumstances.

By the end of 2018, I hope to be able to say the pattern of not knowing has a good ending like in past decades.  But this one stings.  It stings deeply because the stability that you would count on to uphold you is what is crumbling after decades of loyalty and commitment.  God carries those who trust in Him-I don't doubt that.  And we have never seen where He has not been faithful.  But this time, after many times, my spirit-my soul cannot be satisfied in that alone.  This time, I feel that speaking is what is required to level the deep chasm ahead because silence created it.  This time, speaking is what demonstrates my faith in Him.  God uphold us all in 2018.

Westward Ho!

You can learn all about our vacation exploits at http://westwardhovacation.blogspot.com.  I'll be posting over there for a few weeks.

Help stop building abuse

 We've all seen it.  We know the signs.  Yet we choose to remain silent and let building abuse happen all around us.  We pass it every day and do nothing to stop it.  In Marion, Indiana, a group of people have decided to put an end to building abuse with the rescue of their old depot.  The depot served a railroad that ran from Anderson through Marion during the early 1890s.  The folks at Marion got the shaft though, when the railroad company built the foundation of their depot in 1893, then loaded the rest of the building materials on cars and shipped them down to Anderson who received a depot exactly like the one promised in Marion.  Ultimately, Marionites got their depot when it was opened for passenger service in 1895.  Restoration will be slow, but the abuse is over.  What abused buildings are you aware of River City?

Photo journal of a Quaker church

One of the things I love about the work I do is the opportunities I'm given to visit places I've never been, nor likely would ever go.  I meet great people all across our state that are proud of their history and the buildings and places that embody it.  Such was the case at this little Friends Meeting House in Dublin, Indiana built c. 1874.  A great photogenic building with a wonderful history and steadfast folks who care for both.

A Home to come Home to

Time is ticking.  Mom and dad have talked about selling their house for over a year now, and they've stepped up the process by looking for a place in River City, and prepping the ol' homestead for the market.  This is going to be a big transition....in fact, they've never bought and sold a home.  When they were first married, they moved a mobile home onto grandpa's farmstead and within a few years built the house in a woods on the farm in 1973.  They've been there ever since.  And except for a few fragments of memories from my toddler days, the house they built is really the only one I can remember from my childhood days.

I know it is going to be difficult.  I can't imagine not having that house to come "home" to after more than 40 years.  Mom insisted on having a get-together over Memorial Day weekend, thinking that it may be the last time all of us siblings, and our kids...and grandkids, would be together in the house.  I don't even want to think about the monumental task of moving and downsizing.

My room-turned antique/plant room.  The only corner view in the house.

My grandparents were in their houses for 46 years and their entire lifetime since it was handed down from generation to generation.  My wife's parents have been in their house for about the same length of time as my parents.  People don't do this anymore these days.  We've moved once, after spending 11 years in our first house and going on 7 years at the farm.  At 11 years, we were some of the "oldest" neighbors in the neighborhood.  It seems that these days people are so disconnected to their homes, families, communities, neighborhoods and other circles that once held our broader communities together.  Our connections are now social media based and it makes me wonder if our inability to be civil in our discourse doesn't follow the trend to be disconnected in real time.

Anti-establishment before it was cool

I remember after I won my first election, in 2003, the city party chairman came up to me, congratulated me and said "we have a name for guys like you....progressive."

I wasn't sure how to take that.  At that time, I think it was a good thing to be a progressive.  It meant that you thought outside the box, wasn't trapped in typical party platform ideology and were willing to work across party lines to make things happen.  The first reference to a "progressive wing" of the party dates to 1910-1916 when Teddy Roosevelt split off from the Republicans and ran as the head of the Bull Moose Party.  Now my  admiration of Teddy makes sense to me.  The views were generally left of center of the party and Teddy's brand was famous for its trust-busting ideology.  Social security and other social justice issues branded the wing too far left and of course, it and the GOP went down in flames that election year.  In 1924, a senator from Wisconsin controlled that wing of the party and he launched an equally unsuccessful third party campaign for president.

Of course, I don't know that I fully align myself with those ideas of progressivism, but social justice issues are part of my moral fiber and probably does push me out of many rank and file types.  So be it.  I also believe that there is a role for government-something that many in the tea party and libertarian wings of the GOP don't want to acknowledge.

Interestingly enough, when I did a google search for "Progressive Republican", it didn't even come up.  Progressive politics, progressive Democrat, but nothing on the GOP.  Which goes to my next point that the progressive wing is dead.  I, and what I believe were a large number of others during the 2000s virtually became extinct with the election of President Obama because the right ran so far to the right it left progressives as rare as the white buffalo.  And if there was a reason to hate progressives, it paled in comparison to the disdain the "establishment" wing of the GOP found in the hearts of folks calling themselves conservatives in this election year.

In that first election, it became clear that the "establishment" (a term no one was using then) had to figure out what to do with me.  The answer came in the next election when I ran an unsuccessful reelection campaign, losing by 15 votes.  When I was interviewed after the loss, I commented "I got the message, loud and clear".  And so I figured that was the end of my involvement in politics.  The establishment won.

Fast forward to the beginning of 2014, long after the elimination of the progressive wing.  I saw a slim chance to run and win a position I don't think I had ever seen myself holding, a very slim chance.  I knew I had to do it outside of the insiders, outside of the party establishment.  And my message was simple:  stronger together.  And it was a massive uphill climb, feeling like every step was fraught with someone, something working against it. The message resonated, and I think to some degree my campaign was seen at the "anti" establishment that folks could get behind.

Oddly enough, I think now I'm seen as part of the establishment, only a year and a half into it.  And that goes to my next point.  What exactly is the establishment?  Because for the last nearly 20 years of my life, folks in the establishment would have never identified me as one of them.  So is it after a year in?  Is it because someone else isn't in?  We've so villainized our elected officials that anytime someone gets in.....that we've put there to upset the apple cart.....we immediately blame them as being part of the problem.

And we've lost some really good public servants in the process.

Maybe there is good reason to not trust politicians-I can think of plenty, reasons and politicians.  But we also have to be educated and able to be governed.  God's Word goes to this point very plainly.  I trust one day civility returns to public debate and that finding oneself in the role of an elected official isn't about catering to a particular ideology that is counterproductive to a solid democracy.  It may be an imperfect system, but it is still the best in the world.  And it didn't happen absent of decent people, strong leaders, with a desire to work together for the best interests of the people they serve.

Vincennes: our first territorial capital

One of the most spectacular memorials in Indiana is the George Rogers Clark Memorial in Vincennes.  Its location along the Wabash River in Indiana first territorial capital is a fitting site given the importance of the river to the expansion of the country in the old west, now our Midwest.

Just across the lawn north of the memorial is this great bridge crossing the Wabash into Illinois.  Its grand flanking gateway carved with Native Americans is probably my favorite bridge in the state-well, second to the one I proposed to my wife on....I suppose that's my favorite.  While my reason for visiting the city this spring was because of it being the location of Indiana's Historic Preservation Conference, I'm losing a good friend to Vincennes-his hometown, so I'm thinking more visits are in my future.

Where the Wild Things Are

This is Bandit.  Every night I have to go out and get to the bird feeder and suet before he does.

This little fella swam right past me while I was sitting down by the creek.

I've been roaming our little 8 1/2 acre piece of paradise as the weather warms and the sun has been making its appearance.  I remember the first time we visited Sycamore Hill and being a wildlife lover, I realized pretty quickly that I found "home".  Late spring seems to bring out the very best on the Hill, at least in terms of wildlife.  And with the advantage of phone cameras, I'm usually quick to send my latest sightings off to family and friends.  Now, none of these shots are spectacular, and some you'll just have to take my word for it, but here's a little photo-documentary of where the wild things are....on Sycamore Hill.

The bright red spot is a Scarlet Tanager.  I believe this is what the fortune cookie foretold. 

This is a Mockingbird that's been hanging around the farm.

Thankfully we found enough to make one mess of these tasty morsels.

Take it to the Ring...er, uh Hoop.

I knew Ted was Cruz'n for a bruisin' in Indiana when he made two fatal mistakes:

1) He told Hoosiers how to vote and
2) He called a basketball hoop a "ring" while trying to channel our favorite pastime to his advantage.

Maybe that's what happens when a transplanted Canadian crosses the border into Indiana.  If you're out campaigning you have to either get it right with the folks you're trying to win over or admit the heck you don't know their culture and move on.  If I ever run for president and go to California to campaign, I'll applaud surfers for their skill but you won't hear me talking about "catching a wave on that floaty thing".

And Hoosiers simply don't like to be told what to do.  Rolling into the primary and saying you struck a deal with John Kasich (my pick) and that his supporters should vote for Cruz I think left an odor most foul.  I think a good deal of uncommitted voters at that point doubled-down and voted for Kasich or thought forget those two and went Trump.

We Hoosiers are a funny bunch.

Holding Court in Porter & Sullivan Counties

The Porter County Courthouse (above/below) provides the tale of a phoenix, as it were, rising from the ashes.  The courthouse was built in 1883-1885 and designed by John Cochrane of Chicago, responsible for the Illinois State Capitol.  It typified many courthouses of that period with a mansard roof and clock tower.  However, just after Christmas in 1934 the courthouse suffered a major fire bringing the roof and tower down.  The building was substantially rebuilt and a fourth floor added giving the impression of more classically-designed courthouses of that period.

The Sullivan County Courthouse (above and below) with its great rotunda and stained glass dome was built in the Classical style and designed by Vincennes architect John B. Bayard in 1926.  The courthouse is the center of the small southwestern Indiana town taking its name from the county, Sullivan.  This courthouse, along with five others built during the same period, ended the time of classically-inspired design for Indiana's courthouses.

Pomp and Circumstance(s)

Andrews University graduation outside Pioneer Memorial Chapel

I've been like a kid over celebrating Indiana's bicentennial this year, but 2016 is big in my book for at least two other reasons.  The advantage of graduating from your first four-year stint in college and going to a five-year program at another is that when you celebrate important graduation anniversaries, they are always in the same year.  This year marks the big silver anniversary of 25 years from completing my Business Administration degree from Bethel, and 20 years from completing my Architecture degree from Andrews.  So if you do the math, I spent nine years in college and don't have a "Dr." in front of my name to show for it-or the income for that matter.

Marrying these two degrees with my love for history has allowed me to take what is essentially a hobby and turn it into a career in which I work for myself.  It's just hard to believe it has been this long out of college, even as I look to my 30th high school class reunion next year.  There is no way I am that old.

Bethel College graduation outside of Goodman Auditorium

Unfortunately I don't see any of my old Bethel or Andrews classmates, except for occasional pics on FB.  I miss my archi-friends from Andrews.  I trust you guys are all doing well and changing the physical face of America and beyond for the better with your exceptional talents.  What I wouldn't give for another round table discussion over coffee at the Daybreak.  And I miss many of my Bethel business classmates-it does my heart well to know many of you stayed right here in Indiana to make this a better place.  Happy 20th and 25th everyone-it doesn't quite seem like yesterday, but close enough.

Oscar

Man's best friend.

Less than a year after we were married, my wife and I were talking about getting a dog.  We had a house, big backyard, and wanted to practice on a dog before having kids.  So we landed on getting a dachshund and named him Oscar, as in Oscar Meyer Wiener Dog, which we frequently called him.  He was tiny and for several months, was fine with some supervision to stay in the backyard as he did his business.  During the winter the snow was typically higher than him so no worries about escape.  In the spring, we fenced in the backyard and double-checked Oscar's shoulder width to make sure he couldn't wiggle through the wood pickets.

The day we brought Oscar home

On occasion he would escape.  Typically we had to convince a neighbor or guest to call him since he never responded to us.  And he was pretty limber and a jumper-on two occasions we found that he had jumped up onto a dining room chair, then onto the dining room table, to feast on Christmas cookies that had just been frosted or to finish what remained in the bottom of everyone's soup bowls.  He understood the word "DQ" meant a trip in the car to get ice cream.  He also understood squirrel, bath (which he ran from), kids, grandma, bye bye, and snickerdoodle.  And church, he hated church since that meant we'd be gone.

The Easter egg massacre

Hunting eggs

 Our windows in town were tall and nearly reached the floor, which was good for Oscar to run from window to window to bark at pedestrians.  And when the sirens sounded, he ran to the windows in anticipation of seeing flashy red firetrucks speed past the house.  One time when we were in the middle of a remodel project that removed a sinking back concrete porch, he went missing until we heard the whimper of a pup wedged way back under the concrete.  You could barely see him from the hole he squeezed through.  We worked and worked and hours later, after one of our youth group boys was bit trying to get him out, we decided to call in heavy equipment in form a a backhoe.  But, a few more swings of a sledgehammer scared him enough to squeeze back out.  We canceled the backhoe which was en-route.  He loved those youth group boys and showed it best by dribbling just a little on their open-sandled feet when they'd reach down to pet him.

DQ for Oscar's last birthday

Oscar hunted Easter eggs.  No kidding.  We packed plastic eggs with dog treats and jelly beans, and he went on a hunt and rarely needed guidance to find them.  A few years ago he found the stash of empty eggs post-Easter in a bag.  While I was in the shower he had emptied the bag and popped open every one of the eggs.  He had his own Christmas stocking and would sit on his hind legs whining below when we put it up.  We would take him on long walks in town and he pulled us onward.  Once he found a dead frog flattened on the road, which he then proceeded to get flattened in the roof of his mouth.  I had to dig it out.

He and his bear

After we moved to the country I felt a little bad for him.  The windows were too high to see out of and since our yard was so large, we never fenced in a section for him to spend much time outside except while on a leash.  When I quit my job and started working for myself, I put his bed in my office and most of the time that's where he stayed.  He was my only employee.  Since he was older than both of our kids, we told them that Oscar was in charge when my wife and I left them home alone.

Waiting for his Christmas stocking

He stayed in good shape and we kept his weight in check.  When he hurt his back a few years ago and quit walking, he rebounded with a shot but never went up the stairs or jumped onto the couch after that.  We'd take him on walks on the property.  He loved going up the hill to the barn and down the path to the creek.  We pulled off many-a-ticks.  Late last fall he hurt his back again, and had slowed down considerably; we debated, but thought he might rebound well with a shot again.  He did, somewhat, but by February he was struggling to walk and we found him trapped beneath chair rungs or in corners.  It was tough, but we didn't want to see him in pain.  He had a good, long 16 1/2 years.  It is quiet now in my office-no longer the clop clop of his paws walking across the wood floors while I type away.  I do miss him.

Vacation 2015

You know you're getting behind on your blog when vacation posts are nearly a year old.

By the end of June last year I had realized that I had not taken off a single day yet that year.  The rest of the family had managed to spend time in Florida, twice for one, and they weren't nearly as interested in a family vacation that summer.  I was.  So we set aside three days of rest and relaxation in southwest Indiana.  Where it rained.  Nearly non-stop.  Still, it was a great time at Spring Mill State Park, German food in Jasper, Holiday World and the Lincoln Boyhood National Monument.  A photo-log of our trip:

They recreated a photo from 2004

Rain created a swollen mill race at Spring Mill

Doorway at Spring Mill

Recreated Abraham Lincoln Cabin

Lincoln Boyhood Home National Monument

Gettin' their German on in Jasper

Gloomy skies over the inn at Spring Mill State Park

Hiram Lyon Cabin, c. 1846

I get pretty regular calls from concerned individuals asking "what are you going to do about ____" fill in about any historic building.  That occurred early in 2016 concerning a log cabin that I have had my eye on ever since it was partially uncovered by the owner in the late 1990s.  I went with another preservation professional to take a look at the cabin that the owner now wants to remove.

From some preliminary research, it looks like the cabin dates to 1846, and was built by Hiram Lyon, who with two other gentlemen petitioned to have West Township cut off from Center Township.  Lyon, himself, became the first trustee.  A saw mill was operating in the area beginning in 1840, which could have provided the floors, doors, and the framing for the gables/roof as was noted in a brief characterization of the mill that it provided such mill work used in "crude cabins of the pioneers".  The cabin is one-and-a-half stories with two rooms over two rooms, though this division may have been made during c. 1880, as trim work and doors in the cabin would suggest.

We found one organization that was interested in taking it, but alas, it wasn't meant to be.  I've always felt that with the extensive amount of state wetlands in our area, we should have a nature center of sorts for wildlife viewing and interpretation.  This cabin would be perfect.  Better yet, the bulk of the acreage of the Lyon property is now owned by the DNR.  But alas, again, IDNR would not permit a structure to be moved onto its property due to origin of funding.

There are other locations that this cabin could be relocated and used to tell the pioneer story of West Township, in the home of its first trustee, for future generations.  Does anyone have $30k for its relocation and restoration?