Quin gets the archives and establishes his routine

Red was good to his word. When Quin returned to his office around noon after teaching his class he found a manila envelope leaning against his office door. Across the envelope twenty five years ago Red had scrawled in permanent black marker in all caps “Archives of the Appendix Historical Society.”
Quin smiled to himself as he bent over to pick up the envelope. As he picked up the envelope he found a short note attached with a paper clip to the back, “Quin the Society is so pleased that you have agreed to write this paper. It is going to be fabulous.” The note was signed, “Red Wilson.”  

Quin took the manila envelope containing the archives and threw it in his brief case. When he returned to his apartment that evening he took the envelope out and then sat it in a corner next to his ancient computer that had no connection to the internet. There it sat until February.

Early on Saturday of that week Quin woke to his phone ringing persistently, he walked groggily over and answered with a big yawn, “Hello.”

“Hello Quin it’s your granddad, Red Wilson.”

“Hey Gramps, what’s up?”

“Sorry for calling so early. Did I wake you up?”

“No, I’ve been up for awhile I was just getting out of the shower. What’s going on?”

“I’ve got great news Quin, we had a special meeting of the Society last night and I gave them the good news that you had agreed to accept the assignment to write the history. They were all really excited, and then we had this idea that we should hold a special celebration for the unveiling of the history. So we are going to host a banquet and a dance to celebrate.  Isn’t that fantastic?”

“Yeah that’s great news gramps.” Quin responded automatically and then a brief panic set in as he fully realized what Red was saying. “When is this going to happen?”

“Well that is why I am calling we have a couple of dates in mind and I just wanted to call and find out what will work for you.”

Red let Quin know the different dates for the banquet the following February. As far as the dates went any of them were good with Quin whose social calendar was completely wide open for the following year. He was about to let Red know that any of them would work when he decided it would simply be best to pick the latest date. That date would give him the most time to procrastinate or as he explained to Red, “That way I will be sure to have all the time I need to do research and time to fact check and revise my first draft.”

Red was gleeful, “This is just fabulous Quin. This is fabulous. It is going to be some night. I can hardly wait.”

“Yeah gramps it will be some night. Well gramps I better get going so I can get started on my research.”

“Yeah I don’t want to keep you from your work I know how busy you are.”

After Quin hung up he immediately returned to bed were he slept on and off until noon.

Over the second week of school Quin established a pattern of getting up around seven drinking some decaf, driving to school prepping for about thirty minutes and then teaching his classes. He could have lectured on the Great Gatsby in his sleep. He was entirely bored by the book, but he had already prepared these lessons when he was a grad assistant and literature seemed like his calling. So though he was bored he was content to coast along on these lessons.

The class was obviously already bored by his lectures as well and any attempts at drawing out discussion from them had fallen flat. They were more than content to just coast along with Quin taking notes on his regurgitated lectures, assuming that they would have to regurgitate the same facts on an upcoming test. In this assumption, they were of course entirely correct.

Through the early afternoon Quin would pretty much vegetate in his office, just waiting for Jack to swing by for their afternoon jog around campus to the field. The run was already becoming somewhat easier and Quin was pleased when he stepped on the scale to note that he had lost a couple of pounds already. Quin had to admit that he was enjoying practice and watching some of the young pitchers begin to get some of the mechanics. His lessons were already paying dividends in their ability to hit the strike zone, and in their ability to throw without their arms hurting the next day.

Red and Quin meet for Breakfast

They met at seven the next morning, and Red spent the first forty minutes of the breakfast peppering Quin with questions about his classes and coaching pitching.  Quin ate it up. Finally Quin turned the conversation to Red’s phone message. “Now granddad you said that you had something very important to talk to me about. We need to talk about that.”

Red took a big slug of coffee and then began his spiel. “Well Quin you may remember that I am the President of the Appendix Historical Society.”
Quin nodded. “Absolutely.” Quin had been to one or two meetings during the summers when he was a kid and Red had brought him along. He had liked eating the donuts and all the attention the adults at the society had given him, but the meetings and the telling of the stories had been almost intolerably boring for him.

Red went on, “Well none of us in the society are that young any more and we need to get the history down on paper, particularly the history of Wondermaker and the carnivals.” Quin nodded he could easily see where this was headed. “We took a vote yesterday morning and voted to commission a writer to write the history for us. Then Quin the Society unanimously voted to commission you as the writer, since you are a son of Appendix, and you are a Professor of Literature. Only I didn’t know when we took the vote that you had your plate so full with your classes and coaching baseball, or I would have told the committee to think about somebody else.”

It was the perfect opportunity for Quin to beg off. Red was giving him an out. Quin had absolutely zero desire to write a paper about Appendix, but he was still basking in Red’s admiration of him as a coach and a professor and he did not want to disappoint. “I am pretty busy, but I would love to help out the society. I used to love going to those meetings as a kid,” he lied convincingly.

Red jumped in, “It would be wonderful if you could do it Quin, but I don’t want you spreading yourself too thin.”  Quin of course had all the time in the world since all of his lesson plans and tests were already written from his previous years of teaching, but he played along.

“I’ll have time, gramps once I get on top of my classes and fall practice will end in a few weeks here.”

“That’s fabulous Quin that is really fabulous, the society will be so pleased. Hey you should come join one of our meetings some time.”

This time Quin made the most of the busy lie, “I don’t think that I’ll be able to make a meeting. I really am swamped in the mornings getting ready for classes and planning practices with Coach Preston., but I can get going on a little bit of research for the paper. When does it need to be done?”

Red was a little disappointed that Quin would not attend a meeting like he had when he was a kid, but he was heartened by the prospect of him beginning research on the paper, “This is really fabulous Quin. The paper will be amazing I just know it. We hope to unveil the paper sometime in March or February at a meeting of the Society.”

At that moment Quin knew if that were the case he could rest easy, and that he wouldn’t even think of the paper again until late January. “That’s good gramps. That should really give me some time to really dig in and wade through the background material. I would like access to all the information that the Society has.”

“Absolutely, I’ll see that it is made available to you.”

“That’s great gramps that will really help me get started. Hey I need to get going so that I can get to class. The young minds need molding you know. Let me get the check so that I can hit the road,” Quin offered knowing full well that there was not a chance of him paying for the breakfast.

“No way Quin. This one’s on me.” Then Red added in a far away voice more to himself than Quin, “This is just fabulous. It will be a great paper,” then turning back to Quin, “You get going now and teach that class. I’ll make sure that I get the Society’s materials to you.”

Red makes contact with Quin

Red tried calling Quin at his office at the college immediately after the Society had adjourned, but Quin was not in. He left a message there and at Quin’s apartment. Quin did not get the message until he got home from practice. Quin walked through the door and saw the light flashing on his machine. He hit the button and a very pleasant female voice said, “You have one new message.” There was a beep and then Red’s gravelly old voice came over the machine, “Quin this is your Granddad, Red Wilson.” (Red had a very peculiar habit of identifying himself by his full name even when calling his relatives or friends, even inspite of the fact that as far as he or anyone else knew he was the only ‘Red’ in town). Quin smiled when he heard his grandfather’s voice. The message continued, “Quin I have something very important to talk to you about. I need you to call me as soon as possible.” He then left a number even though Quin had known the number since he was a very young boy and the number had never changed. 

Quin dialed Red’s number quickly hoping that nothing was wrong. Red answered gruffly on the first ring. “Hello this Red,” he growled on the other end of the line. 

“Hey granddad this is Quin, I just got your message, sorry it’s so late,” Quin paused for a moment caught between a desire to impress his granddad, and the desire to find out what was so important that he needed to call right away. He went with the desire to impress, “I got hung up late at ball practice.” 

It worked like magic. “What do you mean you were at ball practice?”

“Yeah I’m helping out a little with the pitchers. You remember Jack Preston, gramps he was my catcher when we won state?”

“I sure as hell do. That kid hustled and had the balls to sit back there and catch the bullets that you threw in there.”

“Yeah, gramps that’s the one. Well he is the coach at the college and he asked me if I could help out a little with his pitchers and their deliveries. So I’m just helping a little.”  

“Well he sure picked the right man, if anyone could coach a pitcher that would be you.”

“Well I don’t know about that gramps, but I wasn’t calling about that.  Your message said you had something important to talk to me about.”

Red had momentarily forgotten about the commission in his gladness that Quin was coaching pitching. “Oh yeah I’ve got some very exciting news myself and something important to ask you, but I don’t want to do it over the phone. Can you meet me for a breakfast or lunch at the Caboose?”

Still eager to impress Quin lied about his workload, “Sure gramps, I have a bunch of prep work to do for my classes, and I have to get ready for practice, but I could meet you for an early breakfast before class.”

Red paused not wanting to take his grandson away from all the important work that he had to do with his classes and coaching. Still, he had a duty to the society who had voted unanimously to commission Quin to write the history. He accepted the invitation to breakfast.

The mall and worship and a viral video that is worth experiencing

Last Sunday I talked little about worship and how worship focuses our hearts. What we admire we worship. Then I read a really lengthy excerpt from the book Desiring the Kingdom by James K. A. Smith that portrayed the mall as a place of worship – I thought it was  a brilliant description, but long.

Today I happened to check an old email account that I rarely check because I thought maybe I had a recipe there. I didn’t find a recipe, but I did find this – worship of the King of Kings breaking out at a mall. This video has as the saying goes gone viral, and I think deservedly so…. If you can, listen where you have really good speakers….

The Appendix historical society meets and votes to commission Quin

I think one very interesting thing in viewing our lives as stories, is how stories intersect. In this section Quins story begins to be intersected by the historical society's....

The Society had added a few new members in their first five years, but the Appendix Historical Society had not added another member in the past twenty years. A few members had let their annual membership dues of twenty-five dollars lapse, but most had let their health lapse and had had to be removed from the membership roll because they had been removed from the rolls of the living. Now there were only the five left for their quarterly meeting.

The meeting began with Red calling the meeting to order. The meeting always began promptly at nine even though all the members would be there by 8:30. They would gather at 8:30 and eat the day old plain and powdered donuts that Red had picked up that morning from the supermarket on the way to the meeting. They would also drink the scalding hot extra strong coffee that Red made at 8:15. Red was very precise when he made coffee. He always made certain that he filled the filter all the way to the top with grounds. With this method he consistently turned out very bitter, very dark, strong coffee.

The members talked ate donuts and drank coffee for half an hour as they sat on the metal folding chairs that are the staple of all church basements.

At about 8:58 Red would say to one of the members, “Well it is just about time to get this show on the road.” Then he would gravely get to his feet and walk to the podium that stood at the ready by the table that was home to the donuts and coffee. At precisely 9:00 AM he would begin the meeting by solemnly banging a gavel on the podium as loud as his old arm would allow; three times.

He had been banging the gavel since the first meeting of the historical society. Ed Reynolds had told Red that they needed a gavel, before the first meeting. He said that it would give the society legitimacy. Red immediately latched onto the idea. He had never led anything before in his life so the gavel became the symbol of his leadership and authority.

He learned in the first meeting that sometimes simply having the right costume is what matters. During that first meeting he banged the gavel and everyone came to attention. Later that meeting they had elected him president and he had been president ever since. He had led the historical society through six different US presidents.

That fall he again banged the gavel and brought the meeting to order. However on this day instead of handing the podium over to one of the other members to tell a story that the committee had heard a hundred times before, he kept the podium to himself. He decided that this would be the morning that he would share a plan that had been forming in his mind since early summer when he had first heard that his grandson would be moving home to teach at the college. He had rehearsed how he would deliver the plan a number of times before the meeting, and though he had practiced he was still a bit nervous, though he need not have been.
The four members of the audience listened in rapt attention as he unveiled his second stroke of genius.

He began with a bit of self- reflection. “Fellow members of the Appendix Historical Society, it has been my great pleasure to stand behind this podium and serve as your President for these past thirty years. I love this society as it has helped me remember the best days of my life. Ed Reynolds and I talked a number of years ago about the need to remember the great events of our youth, and we decided that we would invite others to help us in the remembering. Many joined us in this endeavor. The intention always was to remember and to commit the memories to paper, so as we passed on our memories would not.”

The members of the society nodded in agreement with all that Red was saying. “Well I’m sorry to say that many of our members in good standing have passed on, and yet we do not have anything on paper.” The members shook their head in grim recognition of the sad truth.

“Well ladies and gentlemen I suggest that this is no longer acceptable. I fear that I myself am drawing closer to that other side, and I do not want this work to be left undone. I propose that we draw upon the savings of the Historical society and commission a writer to write this history, so that after we are gone a record will remain of what life was like in our youth. So the chair will entertain a motion to commission a writer to write the history of Appendix, MI and its Carnivals.”

One of the members immediately jumped to their feet and shouted, “Mr. President, I move that a writer be commissioned to write a history of Appendix and its carnivals.” The other three remaining members said immediately in unison. “Second.”

Red smiled as he said, “It has been properly moved and seconded that the society commission a writer to write a History of Appendix and its carnivals. Is there any discussion?” Each member of the society basically repeated the gist of Red’s opening statement. They all hit the main points. They wanted to get something on paper so that the memories would live. Each also noted that a bunch of their members had “passed on,” and they were approaching that marker themselves. After the fourth member had spoken they brought the matter to a vote and the motion carried unanimously.

Red banged the gavel, “The motion carries. Now I suggest that we move quickly on this motion and commission a writer as soon as possible. I would like to make a suggestion, but it is of course entirely up to the society. I have no special say just because I am the president. Many of you probably remember my grandson Quin. He was the kid who pitched the shutout in the state championship game the year that Appendix won the state title. Well Quin has always loved Appendix and has moved back into the area.  He is teaching literature at the College. He has studied writing and he loves Appendix, and I know that he would be willing and that he would do an outstanding job writing the history.”

Red paused. In that brief pause one of the members was on their feet. “Mr. President I move that the society commission a son of Appendix, Professor Quin Holsten to write the History of Appendix.” Again there was a unanimous second. Again Red asked for discussion and each member repeated similar things and the phrase “son of Appendix” was a particular favorite of the committee. The last member of the society to speak summed up the attitude of the whole, “Who could possibly better write a History of Appendix than one of her own sons. I urge the society to vote in unison on this very important matter.” They did just that.

The Prophet's Song and I how spent the entire talk on one thing - that we are the Temple

For Advent we are participating again this year in Advent Conspiracy with churches from around the Globe.

Our particular focus this year for Give More  is Kenya Matters and their well project, which will supply clean water not only to the orphanage, but also to the surrounding area.

For advent we are also participating with Churches around the world in the lighting of Advent Candles which give a particular focus to each week of Advent.  The first candle is the Prophecy Candle. This candle reminds us that the Old Testament is full of poetry and songs that point to Jesus the coming Messiah.
The readings for were from Isaiah 40 and Luke 1. I titled the talk The Prophet’s Song.

I started by pointing out how this season is a season of songs – Christmas songs are everywhere.  Just this morning I heard one of the songs I reference Santa Baby.  This is a fairly recent song, but there are ancient songs that go back millennia. One of the most ancient songs is found in Isaiah 40 which pointed to the Messiah’s forerunner, John the Baptist.

I discovered that I came into this talk a little overloaded with things to say. I had three things that I felt like the Spirit wanted to highlight from Luke 1 and Zechariah’s encounter with the angel. I somehow managed to really only get to one of them, and that was this. The ancient Jews believed that the temple was the place where Heaven and Earth met. The temple was the place where they believed God dwelt. Three primary things happened at the temple that we see in Luke 1: Sacrifice; worship and prayer.

The New Testament points to us as the Temple of the Holy Spirit. People who call on and follow Jesus are now the place where Heaven and Earth meet. I think that this means that our lives like the ancient temple are to be characterized by: Sacrifice; Worship; and prayer.

I really spent a bunch of time on Sacrifice and Worship and short-changed the prayer part, because it seemed important to spend time in worship at the end.

Regarding sacrifice there is an undeniable thread in the New Testament that refers to us taking up our cross, losing our lives, presenting ourselves as a living sacrifice. God it would seem is after our entirety of our lives. A shorthand way of representing this is to talk about our time; talent and treasure. I believe each of these areas will reveal what we value.

Regarding worship, I tried an experiment (about a quarter of the way into it I thought this is taking way to long – which it was), in which I read a fictional description of a Martian observing the “worship” practices of modern society. The excerpt is from the book Desiring the Kingdom by James K. A. Smith. Though it took way too long and that probably wasn’t the setting to read for an extended period of time, I thought the passage was brilliant in its description of the Mall as a place of worship. The point of the exercise was to help us recognize that our hearts are shaped by what we admire – by what we ascribe worth to (ascribing worth is the most basic definition of worship).

The point brothers and sisters is that there are many other things which compete for our allegiance and admiration, or as Rich Mullins beautifully said in song, “The stuff of Earth competes for the allegiance, I owe only to the Giver of all good things.”

In the end I briefly referenced prayer and the exercise of thoughtfully praying through the prayer Jesus gave us as way of training our souls.

Then we closed in singing of the worth of our Great God.

My prayer is that we would be a community of Jesus followers who are characterize by our self-sacrificial love, extravagant worship and lives of prayer.

How the Appendix Historical Society got started and how Red found a sudden passion for basketball

When Ed Reynolds sat across from Red Wilson and started complaining about how the carnivals had gone to seed, he had a ready audience. Red nodded glumly in deep agreement. Then somewhere in the midst of this conversation, Ed said, “you know Red these kids today don’t have any idea what it was like back then, and their parents ain’t going to tell them.”
Red merely nodded in glum agreement, and he thought of his grandson Quin. Suddenly he was seized by the idea that Quin must someday know about the magic of the carnivals when Red was eighteen. He said with a sudden burst of energy that startled Ed, “So we’ve got to tell them, Ed,” and in that flash of passion and inspiration the Appendix Historical Preservation society was born.
They ran one advertisement in the local paper:
Anyone interested in preserving and documenting the history of our fine town and
the carnivals of the 1940’s is invited to the first meeting of the Appendix Historical Preservation Society. Tuesday, September First. We will meet at seven in the basement of the First Methodist Church.
There were twenty people at the first meeting, and Red was elected president of the society. Red’s wife said he was forming the society just so he could reminisce about the Chinese Acrobat. Red lied and said that that could not be farther from the truth, and that he wanted people in the town to understand their heritage and know about the good times they had had as they were kids.
Some of the members had wanted to create a complete history of the town, but most wanted to talk about the old carnivals they had snuck into. So eventually the society focused almost exclusively on the old carnivals and the founder of the carnivals, Wondermaker.
The committee still met in the basement of the First Methodist Church of Appendix. Red was still the president.
*
The society never learned that much amount the end of Wondermaker’s life. He had sort of faded away. All the members and Red in particular did know that he had had one daughter later in life. There were many in the community who whispered that the child must have been someone else’s. Red’s dad in particular had participated in this gossip.
Wondermaker’s daughter did not attend Appendix Schools until her freshman year. When she did arrive her freshman year, she had an immediate impact. Her name was Grace, and as a freshman she became a member of the Fighting Carny Cheer team. She had been trained since her youth to be a performer, and beyond that she was a natural. Suddenly men, including Red, who had not been to a football game since his graduation were showing up to the games and joining loudly in the cheers. Meanwhile on the field the Fighting Carnies took even more drubbings than usual.
The basketball games in particular, where the crowd is right up close to the cheerleaders were all sellouts. Red did not miss a home game and even found a way to make it to the road games. His wife of five years (along with many other wives in town) accused Red of going to the games “So that you can gawk at Wondermaker’s daughter, while she does all those flips and twists. You just think she is so pretty, don’t you?” Red always told some bland lie about showing team spirit. They did not miss a game.
After Grace Wondermaker graduated from Appendix High School, attendance fell off considerably. The one exception that year was the homecoming game. The tradition at homecoming is for the homecoming queen from last year to return to crown the new queen. Grace Wondermaker had been the previous year’s queen. The game sold out, and though the Wilson’s had not made a game that year, they were there for homecoming. Red told his wife, “It just doesn’t seem right not to cheer the team on at homecoming. We haven’t been to a game all year, because you complained so much last year, but we have to go to homecoming.” A bunch of other families in Appendix must felt the same way, because it was standing room only around the old Appendix field. No one went to the concession stand at halftime and when Grace Wondermaker was introduced as the previous year’s Queen, the crown including Red burst into loud applause.

Red's brush with passion at the Carnival

One of my growing convictions is that we were meant for life... many of us will look for life in the wrong places, but we are nonetheless looking for life. This portion of the story is about Red looking for life.

Twenty-five years ago Jack Reynolds, sat down at the corner booth, his booth at The Caboose, and started talking with Red Wilson. Red at eighteen had snuck into the Carnival on the first day and had been smitten by a beautiful Chinese girl. The girl was also eighteen, and was at the freak-fest because she and her family were acrobats.

Red’s passions overwhelmed him. He snuck into the carnival for the rest of the week, and managed to offend the girl’s father with his persistent interest in his daughter. In so doing he made himself attractive to the girl, who had showed no interest in him prior to that.

The girl resented her whole family and the life of traveling around as an acrobat. So anybody who angered her father and had her father’s disapproval was someone she found irresistible. On the last day of the Carnival Red had once again managed to sneak in.

Wondermaker was always well aware of the kids from town sneaking into his Carney-Festival, but he didn’t care it boosted concession sales. It especially boosted sales at the beer tent.

Red and the Chinese acrobat managed a clandestine rendezvous in the straw pile of the horse-tent. They were just in the beginning stages of the throes of passion, and Red’s trembling hands were making their first fumbling gropes at regions of femininity they had never known previously. The acrobat was responding with willing passion as she dreamed of this Michigan farm boy rescuing her from life with her family of acrobats.
In these opening moments of passion Red and the girl had been discovered by her younger brother who had been sent by their father to look for her. He immediately reported what was happening to his father.

The father came running and would have thoroughly beaten, and possibly killed Red had the commotion not drawn a crowd that restrained the very angry little acrobat, before he could skewer Red with the pitchfork he had picked up as he entered the horse tent.

The incident had attracted enough attention that Wondermaker himself had been called in. Wondermaker did not mind the local kids sneaking in to boost sales, but he couldn’t have this commotion known in the town or there would be an uproar. So he very deftly arranged for Red to be dropped off in town, after he had talked with him and said that he understood the passions of a young man, but that the father just did not understand.  Let him talk to him and see what he could work out. To this day Red still referred to Wondermaker as the greatest man he had ever met. Wondermaker soothed the angry acrobat, by having him and his family as his personal guests for dinner, which was the greatest honor that could be bestowed on those who attended the carnival.

This may have been the end of the incident if Red had not told his best buddy that he was in love with an acrobat and that Arnie Wondermaker was going to arrange it so that they could be together. His best friend told his girlfriend. His best friend’s girl friend told her mother, who was best friends with Red’s mother. She of course had told Red’s mom who told Red’s dad.

Red’s dad was a hot-tempered, frustrated farmer who was about to lose the family farm, he screamed and yelled at Red for about an hour. He was furious not that Red had been caught with a girl, (he was actually quite relieved to know that Red was not a homosexual, which had always been his deepest fear), but he was furious that the girl Red had been caught with was a “freak” and that she was a foreign “freak” no less. After yelling at his son, but being secretly relieved he went to go see Wondermaker who tried to pacify him, but had no success.

Red’s dad had started a petition to outlaw the Carnival for the Carnies, for corrupting the morals of the youth of Appendix, by that of course he meant introducing them to foreigners. A petition to end the Carnival was something that happened nearly every fifth year. Wondermaker had become accustomed to the petitions and he always managed to diffuse the situation, because the reality was that the carnival was a once a year economic boon for the merchants of the town.

Red had never seen the girl again, but his heart and his groin still ached when he thought of her; which he still frequently did. The carnival ended and all the freaks left town, and Red sank into a deep depression. The next year when the carnival returned the acrobats also returned, and Red’s spirits revived, but soon fell again when he found out that the beautiful daughter had not. Red learned what had happened by asking around, and finally by asking Wondermaker what had happened. Wondermaker told him that the father had arranged a marriage for his beautiful daughter to a Chinese merchant in California who was nearly twice the girls age, but was quite wealthy, and he had paid the father a very nice dowry.  Red was devastated and furious.

He released his anger by vigorously pursuing his best friend’s girl friend who had  told her mom about what had happened. He succeeded in stealing the girl from his friend and eventually married her. She nagged him for the forty years of their marriage to be romantic like he was when they were courting. He never was, but he did frequently think longingly and passionately about the Chinese Acrobat and his time of passion in the straw.

Red did show enough interest in the marriage to eventually after seven years produce one child, a daughter.  His daughter, Linda, married a local boy, Buzz Holsten. They had one son, Quin.

The only times Red Wilson had been passionate in his life, outside of his encounter with the Chinese Acrobat was when his grandson Quin had led the Appendix Carneys to the state title in baseball, and when the Appendix Historical Preservation Society met.

The Appendix Historical Society

I probably enjoyed this part of the writing as much as any. For whatever reason I found this part particularly fun. Maybe I was glad to take a break from Quin (who really was  a bit of a drag to write about at times, and maybe I was also glad to be done with baseball for a bit)...

The second day of classes fell on the same day as the quarterly meeting of the Appendix Historical Preservation Society. The society consisted of five members all now in their early eighties. Three were female and two were males. All were life long residents of Appendix, who had been in their formative years when Arnie Wondermaker had begun his failed Ferris Wheel business and who had been teenagers when he began his successful carnival freak-fests.

While all of their parents had strongly disapproved of the happenings on the outskirts of town, they had been drawn to the assortment of odd-folk that gathered to make noise and have a hilarious time. To them the gatherings had been magical, giving faint hints of a life beyond farming, manufacturing and ice cream socials on Sunday after church. Without a doubt much of the appeal had been their parent’s disapproval. So at one point or another each of the members of the Appendix Historical Preservation Society, when they were teenagers, had slipped into the freak-fest and had had loud, hilarious times. The memory of these times could to this day stir their old blood, the many years and the true decadence of the youth of today making the memories more magical and more innocent than they actually were. It was the golden time of their life and it was sixty-five years ago.

The Society had formed twenty-five years ago when they were in their fifties and were old enough to be disappointed with how their lives had turned out and how their children had turned out. They would occasionally bump into one another at the local grill, The Caboose and there they would lament the current state of affairs in their life and in their town. They complained most strenuously during the annual Carney-fest, because it was certainly not what it was when they were in their youth. They would commiserate over the miserable state of the world around them, and talk of the golden past and it would become even more golden.

How Thanks and Giving cultivate abundance

This past Sunday we wrapped-up our Good and Beautiful God series and began the transition into the season of Advent with a talk entitled How Thanks and Giving Cultivate Abundance. As always it is humbling to listen to a bit of the talk. I am quite thankful today for the opportunity to clarify a couple of things and also for the ability to edit the actual talk itself with sound editing software.


For some reason I began the talk with a plethora of “um’s, and uh’s.” So I cut the first two and a half minutes right out of the talk. Really, um, you will, uh, like not miss it, um, at all. I also cut about the last five minutes to shorten the talk, so that it will seem more concise than it actually was.


I’m also thankful for the opportunity to clarify something. Kristine pointed out that the talk could have been construed to have been saying that if you are suffering from depression it is probably because you are ungrateful. Let me be clear in writing. That is not at all what I meant to convey. I know that depression is an unwanted life - draining reality for many of us with many varied causes.


What I did mean to say is that Jesus came to bring us life, and one thing that he modeled and that the whole of scripture commends to us is giving thanks. Many studies in recent years have shown that Jesus was right. Giving thanks is indeed good for us. It boosts our feelings of happiness; we will be more likely to exercise; lowers blood pressure; makes us feel more socially connected etc.


Conversely the Bible warns against ingratitude. Not saying thanks has a way of shrinking our world. It narrows our focus to what we do not have, and the more intent our focus becomes on the thing we do not have the less happy we become. An interesting story that illustrates this in scripture is the story of Ahab who is the King of Israel. Being king is a pretty prime position, but he becomes focused on a Vineyard that he does not have. I suppose you could say the same of David as he becomes fixated on Bathsheba (he already has a quite a few wives at that point – incidentally just because something is recorded in the Bible doesn’t mean that God thinks it is a good idea - for example David’s multiples wives). You may have seen this illustrated at times in your own life when you become focused on the thing that you want, that you don’t have and it begins to rob your enjoyment of what you do have. I talked about how I sometimes see this in my children, (it is easier than talking about how I see in my children than to talk about how I see it in me – which I do).


In the Bible passage we looked at John 6. The disciples are approaching their situation from a position of scarcity, “There isn’t enough.” Jesus approaches the situation with a heart of thankfulness and abundance.I believe that saying thanks changes our perspective and opens our hearts and our hands.


After Jesus gives thanks he begins to distribute the bread. He isn’t hoarding what he has. Instead he is giving. The Bible frequently commends giving. Giving also boosts our levels of happiness. Giving it turns out is actually good for us. Paul says to the Corinthians that as they give they will be rich in every way. 


Sometimes I think we are tempted to think that the primary reward from giving will be that we will actually end up with more money. This may or may not be the case, but I think ultimately misses the point. If the money is our focus then we are still living from a narrative which points to money as the source of happiness, a narrative which points to money as a source of life. The Bible is clear that God is the source of life. I think that giving is an opportunity to focus our hearts on God and on others. This focus on loving God and loving others, leads to a life that is rich in every way. In other words we will really be living. We will be discovering that Jesus really did come to bring us life.

We are about to enter a season where many different voices will be saying you need more. You need to spend more you need this. I showed one of the ads that at least approaches the event of Black Friday with a sense of humor…

It is a funny commercial, but there is a reality that you had better be in pretty decent shape if you are planning on venturing out Friday morning. Because narratives about shortage and want do lead to grasping and pushing behavior.

I suggested a few soul training exercises, that may help us focus on God. Let me be perfectly clear. You won’t win God’s favor through these exercises. God won’t love you more if you do them, nor will God love you less if you don’t. But, they might be an opportunity to discover more of the life that Jesus points towards.

- Make a no complaint pledge from here to Thanksgiving

- Record at least 5 things you are thankful for at the end of the day

- Sleep in and buy nothing on Friday

- During the next week every time a commercial comes on get up and take inventory of what you have

- Give gifts that help change the world like ducks, or goats or jewelery from the WAR Chest

Quin is drawn further into a story

I'm starting to read a book by Donald Miller that is asking the question how would we need to live our lives so that they are stories.... Today is the conclusion of the practice and Quin being drawn into the story of being a coach....

He arrived at the mound just in time to hear, “OK now coach Holsten will show you what a real delivery looks like, and teach you how to throw batting practice.  Draver warm the coach up, the infield will bat first, outfielders shag flies.”

Pitching batting practice is a good discipline for a pitcher to learn, it helps their accuracy and it helps them remember that baseball is a team game. A pitcher instinctively wants to keep the batter from hitting the ball, but in batting practice his job is to make his pitches as hittable as possible, so that his teammates can hone their swings.

Quin had always passionately hated throwing batting practice. Whenever he had done it at Appendix and at Stanford his teammates had invariably complained that he was throwing too hard. He was very tempted to simply jog off the field and leave Jack to explain to his team that Quin had not agreed to be “Coach Holsten.” But, before he could seriously entertain the idea, Draver was in position and telling him to fire it in there. He did a few of the warm-ups that he had had the pitchers do, and then he began to try to throw with a little bit of heat. He was pleasantly surprised to discover that he was still pretty accurate and that even as he approached forty he could throw the ball with some pace. He knew instinctively that he was not throwing as hard as Mullen had been, but then he was at least throwing strikes.

While he was warming up somewhere from deep within himself an unbidden thought came, “Quin you’re becoming part of a story.” As quickly as the thought came it was pushed back down and drowned, by a thought much closer to the surface, “Oh, no I’m not because I’m not ever doing this again after today.” He pitched batting practice without much effort, and felt a bit of sympathy for Preston, because with the possible exception of the Catcher Draver, there was not a whole lot of hitting talent on the team. He was surprised, though by how well they all seemed to field.

After the last batter had taken his swings, Jack said, “OK, we’re going to play three quick innings. Team two take the field behind Coach Quin. Team one you’re batting.

By this point in the practice Quin was completely accustomed to Jack making pronouncements about what he was going to do without consulting him. Once again a thought from the deep of Quin’s soul came with bass melody “You’re excited that you get to throw hard now. You wonder if you still have it. He’s pulling you in. You’re a part of this now.” The surface thoughts responded quickly again. “If I am excited that’s pretty damn pathetic, I’m throwing to a bunch of teenagers, and I’m not doing it again.”

He struck the first batter out on four pitches, and  felt alive each time the ball left his hand. He struck the second batter out with a beautiful change-up. Team two was hooting it up behind him. Encouraging him and making catcalls to the two batters he had struck-out. Draver was on deck, as he struck out the third batter on three pitches. The strike-out pitch was a nasty curve that had buckled the poor kid’s knees before hitting the mitt for a strike.

The kids from team two managed two hits off of Jack, who was pitching for team one, in the bottom of the first, but they didn’t score. In the top of the second Draver, fouled off the first pitch, a fastball, and then took the next two pitches for balls.  Quin decide that he wasn’t going to even let anyone put the ball in play, so he semi-intentionally threw the next two pitches way outside walking Draver. Then he struck-out the next three batters. He felt a little bit like a chickenshit, but mostly he felt good. Once again team two got a couple of hits, but didn’t score.

Quin struck out the first two batters in the top of the third. The third batter finally put the ball in play grounding out weakly to second. In the bottom of the third practice inning his team managed to push a run across the plate with three singles Quin got so caught up in the moment that he yelled, “Dig, Dig Dig,” like a madman as the winning runner rounded third and headed for home.”

As Jack and Quin jogged very slowly back to the locker room after the practice, Quin’s lungs burned again and his shoulder was very sore, but even he had to admit that he felt somewhat happy.

Towards the end of the very slow jog Jack said very conversationally, “Now that was fun wasn’t it coach.”

Quin replied between gasps, “Jack if I weren’t so tired I would kill you.”

Life as a story and Baseball/Or Quin assesses Mullen's pitches

One of my growing convictions is that we were meant to really live, but many of us live half-lives. As I re-read this it is obvious that the main thing I'm working to do is to draw Quin into a story where he is really alive. Baseball and helping Preston Coach are two of the primary things that draw Quin back towards life. So I spend some time on baseball stuff, but as I re-read I wonder if I spent a little too much...

The seriousness, sincerity and confidence in this tall gangly kid with intense eyes startled Quin. He wished again that he had believed what he said. He was momentarily speechless, but quickly recovered and lied with a chuckle, “Well thank you Mullen. I really do love what I do.”

“Your passion is evident.”

Quin thought, “Well his powers of perception aren’t great,” but the confidence of this kid and the immediate depth of this initial conversation struck him, and the kid’s eyes were so penetrating that Quin half thought the kid knew he was lying. He put himself back in charge of the conversation with his favorite weapon, humor. “Well thanks again, Mullen. Hey you know I’d love to talk lit – ur - a – chure with you, but the boss wants us to work on your pitching, so let’s see what you can do.”

“OK coach,” he said with a big smile and his eyes burned with more intensity.

“All right burn it in here, now,” Draver yelled.

Mullen reared back and let it fly. His wind-up motion and delivery were truly dreadful, but nevertheless the ball left his hand like it had been shot from a cannon. It was high and off the plate, and when Draver caught it his mitt popped loudly. Quin could see him grimace. “That was pretty damn hard,” Quin thought admiringly, but he said very calmly, “Good pace Mullen now put one over.” It was no wonder that Jack liked this kid. Quin knew even without a radar gun that the kid was throwing harder than he ever had.

Mullen fired ten more pitches at Draver all rockets and as Draver had predicted all wild.
The first few times he had watched his motion it had seemed so jumbled that Quin had had no clue where to begin. The more he watched, however, he was beginning to tick off things in his head that needed to be changed about Mullen’s delivery. Before he started tweaking anything in the kid’s delivery, though, he wanted to see some of the off-speed stuff.

“OK, that’s good Mullen. Let’s see you’re curve and your change.”

“All right coach, but they aren’t pretty.”

“They don’t have to be, let’s see them.”

The kid hadn’t been lying. The first pitch which Quin was pretty sure was supposed to have been the Curve simple floated up towards Draver and Quin thought, maybe, just maybe broke ever so slightly before settling softly into Draver’s glove. One thing that could be said for the pitch unlike all the others, it was a strike. Which meant if it were a game that ball would have most likely landed somewhere out beyond the leftfield fence. In short it was a terrible pitch.

“Again.” Quin said calmly.

He watched Mullen’s motion very carefully. There was no doubt that he was trying to throw a curve.

“Again.”

He had Mullen throw about ten “curves.”  Then he said, OK, let’s see the change.”

Mullen threw and his motion looked different, but the result looked very much the same as the curve. He had him throw about ten off those also.

He was just about ready to start making some suggestions when he heard, Preston calling the entire squad back to congregate around the pitcher’s mound. Quin's thoughts raced as he walked towards the mound. There could be no doubting that the kid had an electric arm, but there could also be no doubting that his delivery was terrible, and that if he continued to throw that way he would permanently injure his arm. Beyond that he would also walk almost every batter he faced.

The entire baseball assessment Quin had concluded quickly and coolly. What made his head spin was the idea that he might get caught up in helping this kid. Preston had already committed him verbally.  The idea was enticing to him, but before he was at the mound he had firmly decided not to help. He began steeling his resolve to tell Jack that this had been his first and his last practice. Jack, however, had a few more surprises in store for him.

Quin starts working with the pitchers

He had just finished making his resolution when he tuned back into Jack’s speech in time to hear, “OK, I’m going to hit infield. Wilson I want you to hit flies in left, and pitchers you go with Coach Holsten over to right and to the visitors’ pen. Coach Holsten, Draver will go with you and catch. I’d like you to work with Mullen first. All right, any questions. OK good let’s go hustle to your spots.”
By now Quin’s head was positively swimming, but he managed to get his bearings and jog somewhat confidently to right field, where seven pitchers and the catcher Draver gathered around him with curious looks.

“Well,” Quin “began hesitantly, Coach Preston is quite a speech maker, I ought to have him come in and give a pep-talk about lit-ur- a- chure.” Even though it was crummy humor the pitchers all chuckled a little bit, and Quin relaxed a little bit. Preston’s speech had somewhat altered the way the players viewed the literature Prof. He had no clue where to begin so he went with the first thing that popped into his head, “Categorize them.”

“OK let’s have you separate into relievers and starters if you know that yet – if you’re not sure, you’re a reliever for now, relievers on my left and starters on my right.”

Having, thus organized them, he went around quickly and had them give him their names. He quickly readjusted to a world where everyone went by last names. He then got them going on the first pitching drill that popped into his head from his Stanford days.

Once they were sufficiently into the drill he asked the catcher Draver, “OK who were we supposed to work out?”

Draver who looked like a catcher responded, “Mullens, Coach.”

“Is he any good?” Quin asked conversationally.

“He throws bullets, but he’s wild, and has no off-speed pitch.”

Quin instantly liked Draver. He was obviously a student of the game. “OK we’ll see what we can do,” Quin said in his best, I know exactly how to fix that voice, as if he were a mechanic who had just diagnosed a dead battery. “Which one is he?”

“The tall skinny kid.”

Quin looked at the kid who had been watching him intensely as Jack had given his speech. He knew he was in one of his classes and sat somewhere near the front and to the right. He watched him work through the drill. He could tell that the kid was being careful to follow his instructions, but that the motions of the drill were awkward to him. The drill would not have been awkward for anyone who had been well coached in pitching. It meant that the kid had mostly been poorly coached or he had coached himself. However, he was not the only one looking awkward, there were others who looked equally uncomfortable. “These kids don’t have a clue.” Quin thought.

“OK Mullens head over to the pen and get loose.” The kid instantly sprinted towards the mound of the visitor’s bullpen. Quin started the rest of the pitchers on a different drill, the second one that had popped into his head. As he made sure the other kids knew what they were doing he casually observed the skinny kid starting to warm-up. His delivery was a one – of – a – kind amalgamation of about everything wrong to do in a pitching delivery. Once Quin was sufficiently sure that the other kids grasped the essence of the drill, he casually walked towards the bullpen.

When he was about fifteen feet from the mound he said, “OK, you warm yet Mullen.”

The kid turned and faced him and smiled broadly. “Yes sir, I am Coach.” He paused and kept smiling, but there was a dark brooding intensity around his blue eyes. “I want to say Coach that it will be an honor to work with you. I think your lecture on the first day of class was the most eloquent and passionate talk I’ve heard outside of church. You must really love what you do.”

Jack continues to draw Quin into a Story

Quin of course knew that he was probably committing to much more than that and he was sure that Jack was thinking of it that way.

Preston whipped out the set of keys that Quin had heard jingling through their whole run and undid the padlock that was holding the gate to the outfield shut. After Quin and he had stepped through and he had re-locked the gate, he began walking very briskly towards third base, and shouting simultaneously, “Gentlemen, give me one lap around the field, and then huddle up at third, now go.” Quin followed along behind almost having to trot to keep up with Jack’s walk.

Jack hollered the typical things you would expect a coach to yell the whole time the players circled the field.  As the last players straggled in Jack began his speech, “Men, I’d like to introduce you to Professor Holsten, Professor of English Literature. No he’s not out here to read you a sonnet, whatever the hell that is,” The players all chuckled and looked at their coach with obvious admiration for making fun of the egghead. Quin could feel them look at him, the egghead, with obvious suspicion as he slouched there soaked with sweat and the remains of his beer belly hanging over a too tight pair of old gray sweatpants. He deeply wished that he at least had a hat or glove to partially hide behind.

Coach Preston paused briefly as the players laughed and then continued, “No he’s here for a much more important reason. He’s here, because he was the best Fighting Carny to ever throw a baseball for dear old Appendix High School. A school both he and I are proud to name as our alma mater.” Quin subconsciously sucked in his stomach a little and thrust out his chest a little. He could feel the looks losing the edge of suspicion, and out of the corner of his eye he caught the skinny kid staring at him with great intensity.
“After graduating from dear old Appendix, he attended Stanford where they apparently gave him a degree in something or other,” more laughter, “But, more importantly he was a starting pitcher for two years for the Cardinals, who in case you did not know are one of the premier Division I programs in the country.” “He is here to help those of you who call yourselves pitchers, because he really is a pitcher. So, in the refined world of English Lit-ur-a-chure, those of you fortunate enough to be in one of his classes may refer to him as Professor Holsten,”

“Obviously, Jack hasn’t heard my, just call me Quin speech,” Quin thought. At the same time he was thinking that Jack was making a really nice speech. It was of course not as good as his “Power of Story” lecture was, but Jack’s speech did have passion in its favor, and most in its favor was that Coach Preston actually believed what he was saying.

Jack continued, “But, here where things are really important you will call him Coach Holsten, or if you are truly daring you may call him Coach Quin the Eskimo, because gentlemen, ice water flows through this man’s veins when he steps onto the mound.”

Quin winced inwardly at the thought of being called Coach Quin the Eskimo, and he also winced at how much Jack had built him up. He used to throw pretty hard, but now he was a rather overweight English Professor aging not that gracefully into his late-thirties. He fervently hoped that none of the players would have the balls to call him Coach Quin the Eskimo. Even more he hoped that they wouldn’t ask him to “burn one in here,” because he was all but certain his days of “burning ‘em in here” were past.

He made a very firm resolution there on the spot to survive this practice with a degree of dignity intact, and then very firmly and forcibly inform Jack Preston that he was not the least bit interested in being the pitching coach of a junior college baseball team. He even determined to be insulting and nasty if that were required. Still, he was aware that somewhere in the deepest part of him something had been stirred by the idea of being Quin the Eskimo once again.

How Transformation Happenes

We love stories of transformation. Marley’s Ghost and the Ghosts of Christmas together transform Ebenezer Scrooge from a tight fisted miser to a man who keeps Christmas the whole year through in one of literatures most famous stories of transformation. I think transformational stories grip us because they point towards the promise of transformation which we find in the Bible. In the Bible we read the stories of Jesus' followers who begin as a ragtag group of fisherman, tax collectors and zealots and are transformed into people who turn the ancient world upside down.Jesus makes amazing promises about his ability to transform.

One of the boldest promises is found in John 7. Jesus points to the reality that Bruce Srpingsteen hints at in his song Everybody has a Hungry Heart, and U2 gets at more explicitly in I still haven’t found what I am looking for.  We feel this discontent with how our lives are. We are thirsty and hungry for something more. Jesus says without apology that he is the answer to the thirst and the hunger that we feel.As if this promise were not big enough, he makes an even bigger promise. He promises that as we turn towards him we not only find our own thirst satisfied, we actually become people who bring life to others.  I love this. It points to the reality that we were made for a greater purpose than ourselves. We were made by God for God and for others.

Sunday after the message we had what I thought was a really great discussion at our house church. The center of the discussion seemed to be, "What does Jesus want for us?"  I talked about a narrative that I have held for much of my life, which goes something like this:  Jesus’ big goal for me is that I don’t sin.  So the purpose of my life is that I don’t mess up. In this narrative Jesus aim for me is merely the absence of the bad. However, the more I get immersed in the narrative of the Bible, the more I become convinced that Jesus actually wants more for me than just not messing up. I think that he actually wants me to be an agent of good, an agent of life. He desires me to become a person who brings a glimpse of God’s goodness to those around me. I think this is what Jesus is getting at when he says that “springs of living water will flow from within.” I think that is his purpose for us. What's more he believes that he is completely competent to transform me into the type of person who brings life to others.

I closed out Sunday morning by reflecting on how often we are bored in our culture, and I contrasted that to this story from International Justice Mission.  These are followers of Jesus whose lives are overflowing with goodness. Because they are following Jesus others are actually experiencing life. So brothers and sisters may we be a people who are transformed by the love of God so that streams of living waters flow from us.

Grace and Peace,

John

Jack talks Quin into watching the kids throw

I think most of us want our lives to be a story worth telling. Most of us, however, do not feel that our life is a story worth telling, but at the same time we are afraid to take a step towards adventure. In this story Jack is inviting a reluctant Quin into a bigger story...

Preston interrupted the silence, “See the kid standing right by third. He’s the one I was telling you about. That kid has a golden arm, but no form to speak of, and I’m not sure I can teach him that much about pitching.”

Quin focused as well as he could from beyond the fence. The kid looked vaguely familiar. He guessed that he was most likely in one of his intro to lit classes. Physically the kid was striking, but not in an altogether good way. He was quite tall, probably about six foot five, but skinny, almost malnourished skinny. Being that tall and that thin he probably could throw hard, but he would probably fall apart mechanically in no time, and he would probably be wild. All these thoughts registered immediately and automatically in Quin’s subconscious. There was still some part of him, though it had been dormant for a very long time that knew baseball.

At the same time that he made his initial baseball assessments he came to grips with the ulterior motive in Preston’s offer to get him in shape. Jack had wanted him to come to the field, and see the kid. “He thinks he can hook me into this thing,” he mused as he still fought to catch his breath.

When he had caught his breath to the point that he was reasonably sure that he could talk, he said with as much irony as he could muster, “Is this the route you always run coach? I’ll bet you had no idea that your boys would be out here warming up.”

Preston was unfazed by the jab, “Of course I knew they would be here, I’m the coach, the skipper, the captain of the ship, and these are my boys.  They’re here because I told them to be, and when I tell them to be somewhere, they show because if they show up late, for even one practice I’ll sit there ass on the bench.” Jack had started talking casually, but by the end he was speaking with an intensity that made it obvious that he was the coach and had acquired the intensity of a coach.

He paused and looked at Quin, and then said with conviction mingled with humor, “And you’re here, Professor, because I want you to watch that kid throw the ball, and help me figure out how to help him with his pathetic form.”

“So the whole song about getting the poor old out-of-shape Professor of Literature into shape was all just one big ruse to get me to watch the skinniest kid I’ve ever seen throw a baseball?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you just ask?”

“Because, you would have said no, and besides I’m asking you now.”

“OK, well now I’m saying no.”

“Come on professor, just watch him throw, and then I’ll leave you alone. Besides you can’t have anything better to do.”

Against his better judgment Quin agreed, “OK, coach I’ll watch him this one time.”
“That’s all I ask Professor. Let’s introduce you to the boys.”

Quin and Jack go for a run

Throughout the book Jack plays the role of calling Quin back to life...


As they walked across campus, Quin looked around at the students flopped out on the grass pretending to study, and he realized that it truly was a beautiful day, and that he was glad to be out of his office.
“You know a couple of my boys are in your classes.”
“Is that right, you could tell me their names, but that would not help me, because I don’t know who anyone is yet.”
“I was talking with one of them this, morning. He told me you gave quite a lecture on the first day of class. He said that he thought it was about the best speech he’d ever heard, outside of church. I think his dad is a priest or something.”
“Well, I’m happy to hear that you have at least one player with a degree of wisdom, Jack.” Quin replied, but inside he thought, “Oh no please don’t let them buy that rubbish.”
Preston found Quin some old St. Christopher sweats, and he raided the track stores until he found a pair of running shoes that would fit. They jogged at a very relaxed clip looping around the campus. Quin was relieved that most of the course twisted through the small woods that were owned by the college, because he did not want any of his students to see him gasping for air. Jack had assured him that they would take it really easy and only do a couple of miles. Quin had tried very hard at first to lope along easily without breathing too hard, but after only about five minutes he was panting heavily, and his legs felt leaden. During the first couple of minutes, Jack had chattered away conversationally, but he soon noticed that Quin was not responding with anything beyond grunts. So, he kept his comments to a minimum and only spoke intermittently to assure Quin that they did not have much farther to go.
Quin had a hard time believing that he really was in that bad of shape, and he was embarrassed, by what a struggle it was for him to keep going, even at such a relaxed pace. He wanted desperately to stop and just walk and to attempt to catch his breath, but he was determined now that he had foolishly begun to not stop until Preston said that they were done.
They had been running for about fifteen minutes, and it seemed to Quin that most of the time they had been running away from, or parallel to the campus. Now it seemed that they were finally shifting and turning back towards the direction of the main part of campus. They turned out of the woods and Quin understood what the run was about. They were outside the chain link fence of the outfield of the college baseball diamond.
Stretched across the third base line were two rows of very young men who Quin surmised cared infinitely more about playing this game then they did about the education of their minds.
They were obviously in the first stages of warming up, tossing the ball back and forth. They were also obviously enjoying themselves. He thought back to when he played and remembered fondly how the relaxed time before the arrival of the coaches had always been one of his favorite parts of the game. There was no posturing, or trying to impress the coach. You were just there because you liked playing and you liked the guys you were with on the team.
Quin stopped running.  They had come out of the woods in such a way that the players had not yet noticed that their coach was present. Jack who had been consistently two to three steps ahead of his out of shape friend had now stopped also and walked back to Quin. Jack stood beside him looking through the fence at the kids on the field.
“Well, it ain’t Stanford, Professor, but it has its own kind of beauty.”
Quin said nothing, but just kept staring at the field. He was soaked through with sweat, breathing heavily, and acutely aware that it had been years since he had participated in any serious exercise. As he watched the players warm up, he was seized by the sweet nostalgic melancholy that grips all men in their late thirties, when they watch boys who are not quite, but almost men.

Day Two of Classes

Day Two of Classes

Quin woke feeling a little like he had when he used to drink. His headache was as bad as any he had had when he actually was an alcoholic. He mechanically went about the procedures of getting himself presentable to the world of community college, all the while pushing the thoughts of the previous night far from his mind. "It was a binge of a different sort," he thought, "a binge of memories and I simply consumed too many too fast."

Day two of classes is really the first true day of classes. The actual content of the class begins to unfold. This was always the day that Quin unpacked his "Character, Setting, Plot," lecture. He delivered this one with much less passion than his day one lecture. He wryly noted that actually the students paid much more attention to this one as they feverishly took notes, because much of it sounded as if it might one day appear on an exam. The students were entirely correct the material would appear on the first test. In fact the test was already written, and had been since Quin first wrote it as a Grad Assistant.

He again immediately retreated to his office after his morning of three lectures. He had no paper work, since the first paper he had assigned was not due until next week. He did not need to prepare a lecture. He glumly thought about the next three weeks. He would lecture on the Great Gatsby, a book he really disliked, but it was heresy to say so. So, he would pretend liked he loved the book. His students would pretend like they had done the assigned reading, just as they would pretend to listen to his lecture. Then on the night before he gave them a test to make sure they had read the book they would read as much of the Cliff Notes as they could and try to make little cheat sheets.

A firm knock on his door interrupted Quin’s spiral into an afternoon of self-absorbed deppression. Quin opened the door to Jack Preston in a running suit. "Professor Holsten, it’s time for our afternoon run."

"Are you insane, man?"

"Come on let’s go. I can tell just by looking at you that you’ve put on a few, and you could use some fresh air. You look about as pale as those other three vampires that haunt this department, come on man I’m going to rescue you before you become one of them."

Quin laughed, it would be nice seeing Jack on a regular basis. "Boy, you’re complimentary this morning."

"One, it’s afternoon, and two I just call ‘em like I see ‘em. Come on we’ll go nice and easy. You are a very fortunate man Professor Holsten, you have access to a highly qualified, well-educated personal trainer at no cost. You are going to be my project. By February I will have you in such good shape that you could go to spring training with the Tigers."

"Man, then you must be able to work miracles." Quin laughed again. In reality he was in pretty lousy shape. He had stayed pretty fit for a couple of years after he stopped playing, but he lost interest in working out when he had begun to work on being an alcoholic and getting a divorce. Now he was probably about forty pounds over weight, and though he no longer indulged, he did have the memento of his belly to remind him of his previous dedication to alcohol.

"It will take much work professor, but I have such confidence in my ability that I believe that with my professional guidance, even a Professor of Literature may be whipped into shape."

"As appealing as it sounds, I’m afraid that I must continue in my work of helping students fall in love with literature."

Jack was undeterred by Quin’s lie; "A little exercise will help you focus professor."

"I don’t have any work out clothes here with me. For that matter, I’m not sure that I own work-out clothes any more."

"Well there you’re in luck professor, it just so happens that I am in possession of the keys to the equipment room of the St. Christopher’s men’s locker room. I’m quite certain that I could find some official St. Christopher’s work-out gear, even for a man of your considerable girth, professor."

Quin laughed again, "I’m not going to be able to say no am I, Coach Preston?"

"No sir, it would be a dereliction of my duty. I’m sworn to rid the world of unfit people."

"Let’s get this over with then."

Quin remembers when life was a story

In this section Quin reflects on his meal and conversation with Jack and thinks back to when his life felt like a story. I think part of the challenge for us is to live life forward as a story. Sometimes it is easy to look back on a golden past, but the challenge is living in the present - present to God and others...

Quin Remembers

Later that night as Quin was in bed his mind retraced the rest of the conversation. After Jack said, “the best,” he, Quin Holsten, had actually started talking about “the game,” as he had come to sarcastically think of it. He had talked about the different times he was behind in the count, and the two errors the shortstop had made. He even talked about the sixth inning when he had loaded the bases with one out and the coach came out to talk to him and was even thinking about pulling him. The coach had asked Quin if he thought he could get out of the inning, and he, Quin the Eskimo, had said with as much passion as he had ever said anything before or since, “Just give me the damn ball.” He then struck the next two batters out. The seventh inning was anti-climatic after that.

Quin had talked about the whole game and Jack had listened spell bound as if hearing the story for the first time, even though Jack knew the story. He had been there after all catching the whole game. Quin was thoroughly depressed by the time he was in bed. He thought of the revelation he had had during the meal. He lay on his back and as he stared into the night he turned the thought slowly and carefully over and over in his mind, testing it and probing it for weakness, until his whole being was convinced. In fact he was so convinced he said his thought out loud into the silent darkness, “That’s when I was still alive. That’s when my life was a story.”

Then having heard his own voice utter with complete matter-of-factness what he now knew was undeniably true, Quin Holsten felt one small tear run down his cheekbone, past his ear and onto his pillow without making a sound in the night.

Jack and Quin catch up

Over supper they caught each other up on the past twenty years. Actually Jack mainly caught Quin up on his life. He talked almost incessantly. He had married almost ten years ago and his wife was expecting their fourth child in December.

“Got to have ‘em in the winter Quin so they don’t interfere with Spring Training.”
Preston peppered Quin with questions about himself, but Quin brushed most of them off with monosyllabic replies. However, he enjoyed listening to Jack rattle on and he had recently begun to take great pleasure in not answering questions about himself. Jack pried out the information that yes Quin had been married, but, no he was not now.

“What happened, you leave or did she?”

Quin only responded by lifting up his palms and shrugging.

Preston laughed, “Quin the Eskimo. Not much of a talker for a professor of literature. Are you Professor?”
Quin laughed a little, “It’s just not that interesting. It was painful to me, but it doesn’t make much of a story. It leads nowhere.”

“OK Quin, I get the hint. I’ll quit prying.”

“It’s just not much of a story, nothing that tragic or passionate. We both just found that being around each other was painful, and eventually I thought I found someone I really loved, but I didn’t I was just trying to escape. Even the affair turned out to not be that interesting, just painful in the end.”

“Well you were a drunk that must have been sort of interesting.”

Quin laughed loudly at Jack’s sincerity, “No eventually I just drank way too much, way too consistently. I would drink to escape and she wouldn’t even get mad, and I wasn’t that interesting of a drunk. That’s when I knew that she wanted me to escape. So every night I would just read while I got loaded on too many gin and tonics.”

“Wow, you are a wild man Holsten.”

Quin sighed and then said in an attempt to change the subject, “No you’re the wild man, Presto, and I’m sure the only story worth telling in these parts is how you are single-handedly turning around the St. Christopher’s Community College baseball team.”

Preston laughed deeply “Now that would be a story, if it were at all true.”

Preston then launched into a long narrative about inadequate funding, players who could not keep their grades up, and the overall lack of talent that he was forced to work with. The whole time he was complaining Quin could tell that Jack loved what he was doing. It made Quin slightly envious, but mostly it made him feel good to be around a man who seemed alive.

Preston was just finishing his lament about the lack of talent on his team, when he became suddenly serious, “I do have one kid though Quin, a pitcher who is bursting with raw talent, but has had almost no coaching so he has a completely unorthodox delivery, which makes him wild, and being wild will make it impossible for him to go any more than an inning at a time. But if I can teach some of the proper mechanics he could really be something.”  Preston paused abruptly to swirl his drink and down the last couple of gulps, and then he looked intently at Quin. Quin immediately had that sinking feeling you get when someone’s about to let you in on the opportunity to distribute Amway. He knew what was coming before the words were out of Preston’s mouth.
Preston put his glass down and said with the seriousness that only a semi-intoxicated person can achieve, “But you know who could really teach him something? You.”  Then he paused as he looked seriously across the table at Quin and pointed at him.  “You had a gift man, both talent and technique. You were an artist.”

Though Preston was gravely serious, Quin burst out laughing, “Jack, I was no artist. An artist creates things of great beauty or at least things that make you stop and pause and think about something besides what you’re going to watch on TV. I didn’t do anything like that. I threw a little white sphere at a fairly high speed with decent accuracy. That made it somewhat difficult for other people, who by the way were also not artists, to make contact with it with there cylindrical clubs.”

“That may be your opinion professor, but I saw you pitch from behind the plate and the games you pitched were masterpieces, especially the state game - one to nothing. A frikkin’ shut out in the state championship is a thing of great beauty.”

In spite of himself Quin felt slightly nostalgic and a little proud, that someone who had made baseball his life thought of him as that much of a talent. So he said as a slight concession to Preston, “That was a good time.”
Preston, simply replied, “The best.”

Why scenes of self-sacrifice move us

Finding Forrester
Acts of self-sacrifice move us deeply. In the movie Finding Forester, the two leads Jamal Wallace and William Forrester both act in self-sacrificial ways. Jamal goes first and then William in the climactic scene summons the courage to self-sacrificially come out of his apartment and appear before a group of people on behalf of Jamal.

Many films, novels, short-stories, songs, works of art etc. deal with similar themes. Some of the films that came to mind while I was thinking about this talk were: Chronicles of Narnia, Gran Torino, Brave Heart, Life is Beautiful, The Messenger, Man on Fire & Braveheart.  These came pretty immediately to my mind. I’m sure that you would have your own list.

What is it about these scenes that move us? I think that these scenes reflect a reality that is at the heart of the universe, and that truth is that God is self-sacrificing. How do we know that God is self-sacrificing? We look at the cross of Jesus.

In John 12, Jesus looks ahead to his impending death at the hands of the Romans on a cross.
I really love this passage. Jesus in this passage ties his glory to his act of self-sacrificial love. In other words God’s glory is revealed in Jesus as he lays down his life on the cross. This sermon series The Good and Beautiful God has been about replacing wrong narratives about God with the true narrative that we see in Jesus.

One false narrative is that God is primarily selfish. God is a sort of a cosmic boss or bully that simply bosses everyone else in the universe around. That is a part of the basic lie in the Garden of Eden. The undercurrent of the serpent’s conversation with Eve is, “God is just acting like an arbitrary bully. This fruit is really good. God is just trying to throw his weight around, by saying you can’t eat.”

Jesus shows that God is self-giving. God in Christ is going to “be lifted up” on a cross. This act of self-sacrifice will “drive out the prince of this world.” The prince is driven out as the lies, the false narratives “God is selfish, God is a cosmic bully” are exposed.

Not only is the prince driven out, people are drawn to God as they get a clear picture of God as they see Jesus on the cross. Jesus at the cross draws “all people to himself.” This is why Paul would say things like he preached “Jesus Christ and him crucified.” The cross of Jesus is the perfect antidote for the many false – narratives we have believed about God.

People on the Journey/ Jack and Quin get re-aquainted

One thing that I found interesting as I wrote were the secondary characters who shared this story with Quin. I ended up liking most of them more than Quin and this was certainly true of Jack Preston...


He had been in his office for perhaps a little more than half an hour after his final class of the day.  He had been trying to sit and not think when the knock on the door startled him out of his trance. He jumped and said, “It’s open,” with an edginess that surprised him. Immediately he felt like a moron, “Who responds that way to a knock on their office door?”
“Rough first day Holsten?”  a gravelly male voice boomed.
Quin jumped to his feet and laughed, “Well, well Jack Preston, Mr. Presto, how long has it been?” He laughed again grabbed Jack Preston’s hand. His grip like everything else about Jack was strong and enthusiastic.
“Too long my friend. It’s good to see you. I can’t believe it, Quin the Eskimo has returned.” Jack nicknamed Quin that in high school, because he appeared so cool on the pitching mound, plus he loved the Manfred Mann song. Jack was shorter than Quin but very strong and athletic looking still. Quin had much more of a former athlete look with a slowly but ever growing pot-belly and the pasty white skin of someone who rarely if ever gets outside.
“So Professor how many young Hemingways you got in your Intro to Lit. Classes?”
“Probably about as many as you’ve got Nolan Ryan arms on your baseball team.”
Preston laughed. Jack Preston. Quin knew when he took the position that this time would come. Jack Preston had been one of his better friends at Appendix High School. Jack was his catcher and a very good hitter in high school.  He didn’t have much speed, but he hustled and had played his guts out during every game. Jack talked, slept and ate baseball. He was a decent student, but not naturally gifted like Quin. But, he worked hard at being a student also, and he had made grades good enough to put him on the honor roll. He also used his determination to pry himself into Notre Dame with much help from the local priest.
After four years at Notre Dame as a walk on with the Baseball team, Jack had spent four years as a graduate assistant, while he earned his Masters in Business Administration. He had jumped at the opportunity to move back to Appendix when the opening came up at St. Christopher’s as Athletic Director and baseball Coach.   The season before he took over, the St. Christopher Travelers had won only one game, but since he had been at the helm they had consistently been making progress. Last season they had been around .400 and he vowed that one season they would break the .500 barrier.
“Sorry it took me so long to come see you, Quin, but I wanted to give you a chance to get settled, and get used to your surroundings. Besides that I had to get my players squared away with classes. This place is a ways from Stanford, ain’t it?”
“That it is, Jack, but it’s good to be here and good to be back around home.” Quin lied blandly.
“You don’t seem very convincing. Hey how about I buy you a few drinks and a big fat juicy steak and we’ll get reacquainted?”
“Maybe another time, I’m still settling in trying to prep for my classes.”
“Come on man, you look like you could use a drink.”
“That’s more true than you know.” Quin thought, but said “Maybe another time.”
“Come on let’s go, just a couple of drinks if you don’t have time for supper.”
Quin replied flatly, “Listen Jack, I got out of rehab 4 years ago, so I’m going to have to pass on the drinks.”
Jacks voice and face fell a little, “No kidding? Man I’m sorry. I had no idea. I’m really sorry. I feel like an ass”
Quin chuckled slightly and was beginning already to feel better just from having Jack around. Jack emitted a contagious nervous energy, and Quin found it rather amusing that his old friend was uncomfortable. “Don’t sweat it Jack, it wasn’t your fault.” Quin laughed slightly at his own little lame joke and continued, “And besides I didn’t die I just detoxed. And I think maybe I will take you up on that steak. I didn’t give up eating.”
“That’s great. Quin the Eskimo in the flesh, dinner’s on me man. You know as a Coach  and AD here I’m pulling down the big bucks.”