100

I lay my claim with the old guard. That staunch reserve of people who look out over a baseball field with an unreserved hatred for those pithy words: 'It's just a game.'

As Moneyball reminded us, how can you not be romantic about baseball? Yes, it's a game, but not just, not merely. Baseball is a unique relationship, a passion, a love affair with an ideal which, like all ideals, can never be reached but, unlike most hopes, can never be fully crushed either. Even Cubs fans, most of whom are far too young to know anybody who remembers anybody who remembers when the Cubbies won a championship, know there's always a chance. Every spring brings the childishly hopeful thought, "Maybe this year."

I know the pain, I know the relentless antics of those other teams who strut their rings like it's mating season. 

But I also know that dreams come true. A Red Sox fan always knows.

And as a Red Sox fan, I know the meaning of heartbreak. You don't root for the Sox because they bring home rings, because they have consistency, because they ever bother to finish a season without half your guys on the injured list. No. You love the Sox because they're yours, and win or lose, they'll be at bat again with that enthralling hope of “Maybe this year.”

We Sox fans had a decent decade as the century began. After 86 years as "God's most pathetic creatures." It was justification for loving the Sox despite, well, everything. Yes, we had the smug knowledge that we'd made the Yankees everything they are today. An alarming number of people are still ignorant of the fact that the Yankees couldn't win a game until we sold them half of our World Series champions in 1919 (not to mention Fenway Park), without any profit to the Sox. We made ourselves—baseball's first dynasty—and then we made the Yankees. Bah. Well, when 2004 hit and the impossible happened, the wonder of observing history in action was almost worth those 86 cursed years.

But what does it matter? Every game was sold out preseason before '04, and that trend continues. Loving the Sox isn't really about winning more marbles or bragging rites. It's the romance. And it's anchored in being able to return yearly to where it all happened. What would the Sox be without their ballpark? Everyone else, I guess.

Today is Fenway Park's 100th anniversary. Like the Red Sox themselves, its existence really makes no sense. Despite fire and flood, wind and rain, Yankees, greed and the lure of shiny new things, Fenway remains, its underbelly ringing with the phantoms of the past. You can sit in the seat where Teddy set the record for farthest home run inside the park, touch the pole called Fisk after Game Six and walk on a field where every giant of the game has played over the last 100 years. It's a city in itself, with a mythology that has gripped fans throughout that century.

Other parks have their history, other sports have their legends, other baseball teams have their moments. But does any other team have such a disproportionate share of the impossible? When the Red Sox stink, when it's high time to walk away, when your dignity's been shorn and you wonder why you stay, you wait, you stand breathlessly in the decidedly Boston rain, hoping for that tarp to come off the field and two shivering little fans on the field to shout, “Play ball!” And you pray for another miracle. Because God likes the Red Sox, and everyone knows that, and if you wait long enough, breathe through the pain, something legendary will take place if it takes 12 innings.

It is odd that the one park that remains in tact and in use belongs to the team with the greatest history. The Sox were the first dynasty of baseball, and the only team I know of in that history to literally scare its National League rivals so badly that there was no World Series in 1905. They were the first World Series champs, the beginning for Babe Ruth, the team graced with Teddy Williams and Cy Young, and they continue to bring in players that will rightfully fill the pages of history. I mean, this is the home of the Red Sox. Yes, rich, yes, talented, and still! somehow the underdog. What's more American than that?

America's greatest pastime, now considerably weakened (except in Boston) has served people of every class and background through war, depression, strikes and riots. She reflects the failings, the triumphs, the battered and bruised history of the country who created her. She perseveres, through no fault of her own, foiling plots that should have demolished her long ago.

Here's to the next 100 years.

--

"Genteel in its origins, proletarian in its development, egalitarian in its demands and appeal, effortless in its adaptation to nature, raucous, hard-nosed and glamorous as a profession, expanding with the country like fingers unfolding from a fist, images of lost past, ever-green reminder of America's promises, baseball fits America." —Giamatti

The Man Returns

3/20/2011

It's 3am in the city, and once again I can't sleep. No, that can't be right. Dawn has cracked and is starting to spill. Must be later.

As is custom, rather than lie in the dark and stare at a ceiling I can't see, I'm at the window, looking down into an empty street. Only it isn't entirely empty. He's there, just below, in trench coat and fedora, leaning against a...tram sign? There are no street lamps on our street, so he's been thwarted as far as his late night spotlight goes. But he appears nonplussed and the Man in the Street continues smoking his familiar cigar in the half light.

It's that rare time of morning when shadows start to bend and dissolve, but the streets are silent, still, unassaulted by the sound of trams or traffic. The Man, solitary, stands waiting, in the dying sighs of an insomniac's morning.

There is no woman at the door this time, no furtive glances or scurrying raccoons, no suspect meetings or hope of reprisal. Just him, standing and smoking and looking now and then at the sky.

Down the sidewalk, in the distance, comes a little round man with a white hat shielding his face from view, his pace slow, imposed upon by a limp. He approaches our Man, who I now see is not smoking a cigar, but a pipe. Odd. A good bit more than odd, really. Whatever may be his dress, stature, character and calling, it's always a cigar. Suspicions rise and I peer more carefully at the Man in the Street.

The round man finally stops and stands near the same tram sign, staring over his shoulder. The options are endless and I imagine the Man in the Street is a messenger or a thief, a friend or a stranger. He could meet the other man, ignore him or pursue. He does nothing for awhile but smoke on his infernal pipe. At last he says something as he taps out the tabacco and sets to repacking. The shorter man laughs, answers and continues chattering on, very much at his ease. He barely notices his companion, but I can't peel my eyes from his every move, turning cold when I suddenly realize he's right-handed.

An imposter.

How? This is my imagination and yet there he is, blatantly, unapologetically right-handed. Maybe this isn't my imagination... Impossible. Reality won't kick in for another hour.

The rumble of an approaching tram signals the end of twilight and the round man finally faces the imposter, still chattering, blissfully ignorant. But now our pipe-packing friend catches a glimpse of his face and starts, yanking his hands from his pockets. His pipe falls from his mouth as he takes instantly to his heels.

I would never imagine an ending so simple and crane my neck to see what the imposter saw. My efforts are fruitless, however, and that face remains an enigma.

I keep watching our friend in the white hat as he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a cigar and lights it. After several puffs, without warning, he tilts his chin upward and looks directly into my face as the early tram cuts between us, leaving me with only the vague recollection of a sly grin and the punctuated pose of his cigar, waiting, lit, in his left hand.

Smooth and Creamy

8-9-10
Two in the morning:
I switch on a light and lock the door against the darkness, shivering a little bit in the stale, cold silence. Opening the ice box, I survey what's inside. It's milk I'm after and pull out my carton only to immediately put it back and choose instead my roommate's milk. Ah, two percent.

I pour myself a shot, literally, and sip it, feeling richer and creamier for the moment.

Pouring a second shot, I return the carton to the fridge. Can't overdo it. It's not my milk.

Those conversations that start late at night and meander into the wee hours of the morning vary widely, but in general something came to the surface. When your friend is pregnant, on bed rest and all ears, you talk. The dog is asleep on the floor. Comically, so is the husband.

You voice stuff you can't put into words, and your friend understands, explaining to you what you've been trying to say or trying to not say or not trying at all. But she knows. She knows she's not sure she knows and she knows you don't know but you know she knows. So it's all right.

And then you drive. You hop on deserted streets and look at your gas light, now burning with vengeance, all the while thinking 'I do not feel safe stopping for gas. I don't even know this city. I wonder how far I can go?" But you shove those thoughts far enough into the base of your skull to let everything else flow. You talk to Jesus about what you told your pregnant friend, all that stuff which, for some reason, tends to dam up before it breaks and spills all at once in a torrent, but there you have it.

You find a gas station, you give it a few gallons without getting mugged despite the darkness, and you make it home to your warm kitchen with the cool fridge.

It was a two percent kind of night. 

The Man in the Street

6/5/10
It's 2am. Again. How is this getting to be a theme? These late nights/early mornings, these sessions of insomnia?
Sleepless nights seem to preclude deep and brooding thoughts but, then, this blog imports to Facebook, far from anonymous and widely available. So I'll hamper and censor the deeper reflections in favor of the more approachable, like tater tots and why an empty street dabbled with the washes of street lamps isn't really lonely. I can picture a man standing under one of those street lamps. He is, of course, in a trench coat and fedora. Smoking a cigar. The Man in the Street.
Why is he there? Well, let's see. He has insomnia, and he comes outside to ponder why an empty street isn't lonely. Then he realizes, it is. It is lonely, but in a few hours dawn will break out over that little isolated street and it will become part of the bigger world. Connected... If only by light connected nonetheless.
Maybe some nights that's enough and he snuffs his cigar and goes inside and lays in bed until sleep takes him hostage.
But not tonight.
Tonight, of all nights, he remains and waits it out, watching. And he notices things he hasn't noted before. Like the person darting in and out of shadows. Never mind, it's just that lousy raccoon that keeps eating his garbage. He could chase it away, make it think twice next time, assuming it thought once in the first place.
And then a light comes on, a porch light but it's quickly snuffed out as a woman exits her house. Or is it her house? A low, whispered conversation in the doorway, a few furtive looks, and she's shuffling down the street, looking warily about her, not for fear but in readiness of being discovered.
Our Man in the Street has a few options. She's walking his way and it will only be moments before she notices him. Unless he slinks stealthily out of the light and back into shadows. She passes by and he can follow suspiciously or remain there or go back to his post and continue watching.
He could walk out to meet her. Ask what she's doing at 2 in the morning on a lonely street. Offer to see her home. I imagine our Man is a gentleman.
His next option is to remain where he is, let her see him and respond accordingly. Certainly she will respond with shock. It's clear she doesn't expect to meet a man in the street, just smoking off the insomnia. The way she keeps looking about her, though, makes him wonder if she would be shocked. Maybe she would stop and say hello. And they could exchange stories. She could tell his and he could tell hers. Or several versions of hers. Just like I'm telling you several versions of his.
In another version, he's the man at the door, whispering instructions like "avoid the man in the street," or "ignore the insomniac, he's there every night."
Tonight he is the Man in the Street. Maybe tomorrow night he can be the man in the doorway, but that's another version, another story.
Same theme. 

Water

10/6/09: Originally published alongside Earth, Air and Fire

Successful blending in is realized when somebody asks you for directions. This has become my goal while traveling. These few days we've been traveling to and through New Orleans.
I began writing a response to a message I'd received roughly a year ago from a friend. Then, realizing the absurdity of email, called him. When he discovered I was in New Orleans he must have jumped out of his seat, judging from his fire engine tone.

YouHAVEtogotoCafeDuMonde!!" he cried without breathing. This place is, apparently, one of his favourite places in the city. And on earth.

His fervor convinced me; I vowed not to leave New Orleans until I found it. Sunday morning was our last day in town and I determined for two things: church and the cafe.

With only my feet for transportation, I searched for something close and decided on St. Louis, the old cathedral in the French Quarter. Granted, I am not Catholic, but all I needed was people who love Jesus. I laughed at myself a lot during Mass, failing to make the sign of the cross at the right time, once simply making the wrong one (having forgotten there are two versions). But for sitting, standing and kneeling I was able to follow everyone else's lead.

Ironically, the last sermon at my home church had been about Mary, and my pastor, raised Catholic, stressed the point that she was a ordinary girl who said yes to God. These are the thoughts that went through my head as I glanced over the icons and statues of Our Lady of New Orleans.

The people in the church were genuine and friendly and the music was beautiful. It was good just to be in a house of worship on Sunday.

After church I wandered the River Walk in search of this legendary cafe and was surprised when I finally found it. When I think of a cafe, I picture something out of Seattle: a large room dominated by an espresso machine, a huge selection of breakfast foods and some very pronounced attempts at coziness. What I found in Du Monde
was a single counter, out in the open of the River Walk. The menu offered maybe four items, including black coffee and coffee with milk. And there was only one thing to eat: beignets.
Ah, beignets. These are small, square donuts, super light and fluffy, dusted with powdered sugar. I am not a donut fan, but for these I could certainly make an exception. And I did.

Cafe au lait and beignets in hand, I sat down. It was then that I understood what was so great about this unimposing cafe: the dining area. "Dining area" is much too formal a title for what it was, but the high ceilings capped an open area in the middle of the walkway crowded with small tables and high backed chairs. Mirrors lined the walls on two sides with floor to ceiling windows dominating the third. These windows opened directly on to a wooden walkway and the mighty Mississippi River.

Watching boats meander down the murky waters of the wide river and people sauntering past, it was easy to feel like time had stopped. In the warm, humid air of Louisiana, gazing at the river, chewing on biegnets, life was simple and slow. This cafe certainly wasn't even trying, but it beat any Seattle cafe I've been to yet.

The celebratory atmosphere of night life in the French Quarter is lively and entertaining, but given a choice between the two I think I prefer a quiet morning on the Mississippi.

Wandering back through the Quarter, I wondered if the morning could possibly be any more complete. And then, a truck slowed nearby and the driver poked his head out...to ask for directions.

Ah, sweet and savory success.

Italy

Flashback, published 3/31/09

Siena

August, 2006
My cousin and I, lounging around one night in Rome, decided to visit Siena, an ancient village snuggled deep in the hills of Tuscany. The night before this undertaking, we thought it would be a good idea to stay up and talk into the wee hours of the morning about deep and serious things. That hurt when we got up early to hop a train bound north. Running late, we also decided not eating was a good plan. Ah well, we were in Italy. Who ever heard of gong hungry in Italy?Siena was as charming as only Siena could be, beautiful and cut by small cobblestone streets that wound tightly up the side of the mountain. We passed under ancient arches and between dwellings crammed along the street, piled one upon another, their windows opened to the street. We caught glimpses of the vast, rolling countryside streaked with hazy hues of blue and green as we made our way slowly to the crest of the hill. At the final peak, we paused to explore the stunning architecture of an ancient church standing like a sentinel above the hills and valleys.
All was going according to plan until we found the payphone and called a restaurant in Florence. This wasn't just any restaurant, it was, apparently, the best food in Italy. We were to meet our friends there at a specific time, but we had tarried too long in Siena and realized we were going to be late. Attempting to leave a message for our friends, we found the restaurant was closed for fiere-- vacation month in Italy. We had only one choice now: rush to Florence and meet our friends on time outside the locked restaurant, where they would surely be waiting.
We made our way down the mountain only to discover we'd gone down the wrong side. The steps we had taken in a matter of hours we now had to retrace in 20 minutes. Ravenous, exhausted, but not failing to see the humour of our situation, we re-crested that hill in record time and threw ourselves down the correct side, rushing down the final street and into the train station just in time to watch our train pull away. Crestfallen, we put together a plan. We would simply stay in Siena for dinner and make our way back to Rome on the last train. Back up the hill we went to get something to eat (at last). It was about 5pm and as we wandered past multiple closed restaurants, we realized eating time in Siena began promptly at 7pm and not a moment before. So we wandered and wandered and wandered until finally we gave up all hope of a full service restaurant and stumbled into the next open place we saw. I kid you not, we found ourselves in Pizza Land, in the middle of Italy. "God bless Pizza Land," quoth my cousin, who still says it now and again. Pizza Land was everything it promised. Full, and more exhausted, we returned to the train station for the return to Rome, where we discovered we didn't have enough money for the tickets. I swore I'd stuffed 30 euro in my pockets, but it was nowhere to be found. So we hunted, we dug, we scrounged, we turned our pockets inside out and gathered every coin we could find. Putting it all together, we were five cents short. I turned my pockets out again and discovered two 2-cent pieces and a penny, only to find that the ticketing machine didn't accept anything smaller than a five-cent piece. Desperate, I ran toward a man selling maps and struggled to find the word for 'change.' Things were a little bit fuzzy by then. Finally, cambiare?! sprang from my lips. The map seller laughed, but I walked away victorious, a shiny new euro-nickel in hand.
On the train, my cousin and I wandered into what we later learned was first-class (where we should not have been) and tried to fall asleep across the empty seats. By the time we reached Rome, it was late enough that the buses had stopped running. And so we dragged ourselves across the Eternal City, through the Roman nightlife, over the Tibre River and into the apartment, where we went to our respective rooms, silent, sullen and sore. Without hesitation, I flung myself into bed and left the waking world to its own devices. Yuri and I related this story to our friends the next day in explanation for why we never made it to Florence. 
Looking at me, my cousin nodded wisely and simply said: "Best trip ever."

A Night Much Like This

December 25, 2008
I found an entry I wrote several years ago during a Christmastime that was less than perfect. For a long time I had held to the ideal that Christmas should be special, cozy and happy. Joy should be the general consent for such a celebration...
That particular Christmas I spent with my aunt, but thanks to my work schedule had to come back Christmas night to my large, empty dorm. I called my parents, who were 3,000 miles away, and the conversation with my mom soon turned into an argument. I hung up, utterly defeated, and looked out at the gloomy, overcast that was the skyline of Boston, dripping with a depressing and droopy kind of rain. This was not how Christmas Day was supposed to be.
Sitting at my window, alone in the dark, I thought about the fact that 2,000 years ago the Savior of the world was born. The God of the universe, come to earth. It occurred to me that the night Jesus was born was probably not the glittering stillness we picture. Disappointed people probably sat, lonely and watching the rain. Chances are someone was fighting with their mom and swearing that life wasn't supposed to be this way. And yet Jesus was born, on a night very much like this. 

Who Cares About Sharks?

July 16, 2008
The great thing about having a birthday in the Philippines with a bunch of Americans is that it begins at midnight Filipino time and doesn't end until midnight American time. So Dani got to celebrate her birthday for 39 hours.
Most of it was spent running around with kids, doing dramas, the usual. Part of it was spent swimming late at night with kids who came up from the barrio to join in. It felt great to just celebrate as hard as we could, and I finally took to just diving over and over and over...
At one point I was hoisting myself out of the pool when the sky caught my eye. It was perhaps the clearest night we'd had so far, and the stars were out in force, gleaming to be noticed. I paused at the edge, and following my awe came the thought, "What if there were sharks in this pool?"
With a strong imagination, that's a terrifying question. But on that night, it was my turn to be nonplussed. Instantly the reply in my mind came: "So what about sharks? I've got stars."
I shared this later with the group, and they laughed. I laughed with them-- not everyone contemplates the idea of the swimming pool shark. But I had learned something from that moment. As I told the team, "Even if it's entirely absurd, God still knows your language and how to speak it."
When Kari was teaching a group of deaf students using sign language, she came to the verse "That if you confess with your mouth, 'Jesus is Lord,' and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved." Confessing with your mouth would be pretty pointless for someone who communicates with their hands, so Kari signed assurance to them, "God knows sign. You can confess with your hands."

Foreign Blood

July, 2008
Knives were the big souvenirs. Dad, brother, cousin, boyfriend, uncle, in-law, whoever, we were all pretty sure they would love the hand-hammered knives the guys down the road made daily. It was amazing to watch. Up before the sun, they heated their fires, prepared their tools and went to it. When the metal was glowing hot, one guy would lift it out with tongs and hold it on the anvil. Then he pulled out his hammer. He and two others would alternate their hammering in seamless rhythm to bend the metal to their will. The whole process took a good amount of time, but the blades are incredible. And the sheaths are carved wood, fitted to each blade.
The downside to shopping with 20 other people when you aren't willing to elbow through and snatch up everything you see first is the fact that the knives are bought up faster than they can be made.
After a particularly hard morning of cleaning cemented silt from the local road, most of the team was ready to rest for the few hours we had before heading to the next school. When Lindy mentioned adventuring into town and only two of us joined her, I was secretly rejoicing that I would finally have my choice of knives.
Bouncing down the road, we came to a pile of rocks. Perched at the bottom was a little boy, 7 years old if I remember right, crying hard while blood from a gash on his head ran down his back. It took us a moment to realize what we were seeing, then Lindy was on the brakes and jumping out of the car. The boy was obviously in pain, but wouldn't sit still for us as we tried to figure out what to do (he may well have been on the hysterical side of pain). We didn't have anything in the way of bandages, paper towels, rags, nothing. Lindy used the one small disinfectant wipe we had. It quickly soaked with blood and the wound kept gushing.
A teacher finally came out of the nearby schoolyard and calmly took his hand. Lindy tried to get across to her the serious nature of the cut, that it needed pressure, stitches... but the teacher remained nonplussed.
With the help of his playmates we found the boy's mother, who also seemed surprisingly calm when we told her about her son bleeding profusely. She smiled pleasantly, hopped in the truck and rode with us to the school, where we found the boy had stopped bleeding and the wound had been cleaned off. He wasn't crying anymore, and his schoolmates were surrounding him. Smiles everywhere. Lindy offered to take the boy to the clinic-- the wound was still gaping-- but she was denied. So we accepted their thanks and left to continue on.
I was woozy from all the blood and put my head down in the truck while Jennifer and Lindy talked about the discrepancy between the calm parents of the Philippines and the "I know she's lying dead in a gutter" obsessed mentality of American mamas. It was bizarre to us that everyone was so unconcerned about a little boy's serious wound.
But it's a different culture, with different ways of dealing. It was also a very poor area we were in, and health care was an immaculate expense. I found myself wondering about the education of the parents. It's strange to me that nobody would realize a wound of that nature can lead to worse things if not properly treated, but then I suppose had nobody taught me that, I wouldn't be concerned with such trivialities as blood.
As for the knives, it turned out people had given requests and while I took my time contemplating my choices, the day's collection was bought up for people who weren't even with us. Sigh. The men in my life will just have to wait.

Foeign Skies

Published 7/3/08
I've had a love affair with the stars for as long as I can remember. Night time was always my chance to climb up to the roof of the garage, house, car, whatever and just lie on my back, gazing up into heaven. I couldn't wait for night to fall in the Philippines. This close to the southern hemisphere, I figured it would look at least a little bit different.
Funny thing about monsoon season, though. The clouds don't leave the sky at night, and though I looked up for the first few nights, not a star was to be seen.
Sigh. I didn't feel sorry for myself, though. I was in the middle of the Philippine jungle. And if I couldn't gaze up, there was plenty to admire at eye level, or even downward.
Our weekend was filled with campers who came to the house and did crafts, games, swimming, manicures, spa treatments (the boys wrestled or hit each other with sticks or whatever boys do). We performed our dramas, talked about Jesus, got into conversations, camped out, took a trip to a beach that was the picture of paradise and simply invested in these kids. They left for home, and we went to work the next day as usual, then visited them again at night. It's been a packed time full of a little blood, a lot of sweat and a few tears. That's what made Tuesday all the sweeter.
At 4am we were up, dressed and on our way to find some dolphins. We ran out on a homemade boat for another island and floated about looking for dolphins. I was hoping for a whale, but I admit the dolphins were more of a thrill than I ever expected. For the last two years, our leader has made the same trip and not seen a single dolphin. Tuesday morning, though, we were met by armies of them.
Dolphin watching was followed by renting snorkel gear on a small island far out from the main land. This was the place paradise is photographed-- white sandy beaches surrounded by crystal clear water teaming with brightly colored fish, coral and all sorts of other ocean life of which I'm sadly ignorant. All I know is that diving down deep as close as we dared to the shelf and diving off the boat into water so clear you could see the bottom more than 12 feet down was more than perfect.
I can't imagine coming here and doing nothing but snorkeling; our day off was all the sweeter because we had been pouring ourselves out for children all week.
Oh, and, I finally saw the stars. They came out over the weekend. I glanced up and froze, awed by a sky I didn't recognize. I couldn't find a single constellation I knew. And it was perfect.

Foreign Lands

We flew over the typhoon plaguing the Philippines and landed safely with no more than a few jostles to our plane. The final leg of more than 24 hours of travel time consisted of landing at a tiny airport on the island, where the locals gathered to watch the excitement of white people landing on their turf. We piled onto a vehicle and set off for a long drive through the jungle.

So this is the Philippines. Thick vegetation runs the show, cut into by a civilization that places bamboo huts along the roadside, and every now and then a few sprawling homes of sterner stuff. Everywhere we see people working in the rice fields or lingering inside of stores that look at first glance to be abandoned and run-down holes in the wall. Advertisements for Coke and Sun Silk hang flapping over the buildings above concrete floors. And then the houses get fewer and fewer and we've moved beyond one town into the next. Nothing seems to demarcate one from the other. I spent our drive watching silently, enamored of finally being in a real jungle. We entered the barrio, where one lane serves for vehicles, mainly motorbikes, headed in both directions. The 'streets' are rough, rambling paths without names, cut deeply by wind and rain, crowded in on both sides by reaching trees, palms, frawns and a plethera of plants I don't recognize. I don't see signs, addresses, house numbers. Just houses built from whatever was at hand, set into their particular piece of land, beat into whatever shape it took to push back the jungle. Clotheslines, children, goats, cows, chickens, garden plots, jutting hills, babies, schoolkids, old men and women stooped over walking sticks-- they are all frighteningly thin, and they all smile, wave and stare as we drive past.
Our base is set at the top of a hill overlooking the island. I can see the sprawling jungle canopy stretching all the way to the sea, with a solitary river carved through the middle. It's hard to imagine so many lives are lived out under what looks like empty, untamed jungle.
Our work here is consuming. We spend most of our weekdays at different schools, playing as hard as we can with the kids for a few hours before sitting them down and performing a show that tells about Jesus. Our job is to introduce them to Him, and we do whatever it takes. We ask them to raise their hands if they want to know Jesus, and I hear the teachers reminding them to raise their right hand.
This is a Catholic nation by name, but the rules of man have taken over the focus on Jesus. We deal with kids who are under grave threats, rendered by their own parents, parents clinging to a version of religion that requires them to pass through a room of glass and fire (literally) in order to have their sins forgiven. The priest has the power, the rules are the saviors. Jesus, it seems, is a symbol, not someone to know. From the kids themselves we hear stories. They are afraid that someone will know they accepted Jesus. Their parents will 'punish' them. We see bruises or burns on some. We hear stories of rape.
So we create a safe environment for the kids, where they can play, go crazy, be a kid, have fun and meet Jesus. And hopefully they keep looking for Him, despite the disconnect between what we say about a relationship with Him and what others say about the requirements of religion.

Bushwa from the Best of Us

Weird moment of the week: At an improv audition, I was handed a script.
It's a fantastically worded thing, this script, set in the 1930s and providing me with my new favorite catch-phrase: "Hey, it's been a slice."
We did get to improvising, once the scripted part was over. I wasn't familiar with the game "Just a Minute" but apparently the English have been playing since the Dark Ages, when loads of knights used to sit around and invent games while they waited for the lights to come on. This particular game was a court favorite until a certain Charles got into a heated argument and lost his head. After that only paupers played "Just a Minute."
The premise works thusly: Three people are competing to be the last one talking. One starts on a random subject and can be interrupted by the words "just a minute!" at any point for repeating themselves, hesitating or getting off track. The interrupter then has the floor.
I discovered that if you speak quickly enough, with authority, nobody interrupts. You'd better be ready to go the distance, however, because each round lasts an entire minute. A minute when you're, say, eating breakfast or sleeping in, may not be much. But when you're making up a monologue on upholstery, one minute is an eternity.
Our topic on this particular round was Funky Town. I interrupted as fast as possible and laid it out. In the course of my oration, the crowd discovered that Funky Town was composed in 1832 but outlawed after the Mormons entered Utah-- where Salt Lake City was deemed not funky at all. It was preserved by its popularity in Europe, where it became a favourite of the Prince of what is now Turkey, who trained his poodles using the song Funky Town. Poodle shows were a national pastime and kept the song rolling until it was discovered that the nervous condition of the poodles was in fact caused by Funky Town. For this reason, the Russians took on Funky Town as the key to success in propaganda, thus inspiring Communism. During the Red Scare, the song made its return to the United States as a sort of anti-propaganda, but once again fell under suspicion for the same two-beat pattern that plagued Rock n' Roll with American distrust. This and toothpaste were soon deported.
By the time I got to toothpaste, I had to take a breath and someone jumped in with "Just a minute! Poodles were not brought to Turkey until it became modern day Turkey!" They had a point, and I lost the round.
Now you know the unbridled history of Funky Town. Maybe someday we'll publish our account of asparagus.
But not until the world is ready.