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In the Bowers household growing up, one of the yuletide mainstays was Alabama’s Christmas album. It boasted such songs as “Santa Claus (I Still Believe),” “Joseph and Mary’s Boy,” and “Tennessee Christmas.” Our favorite tune, however, was “Thistlehair the Christmas Bear.” It’s a story about a bear named Thistlehair who lives in the woods and comes around at Christmastime to tell all the children what Christmas means. Here’s the chorus. I hope it’s as delightful to you as it is to me:
Oh, Thistlehair the Christmas bear
Spreadin’ the good news everywhere
About Christmastime and what it means
To all the children of the world
Every little boy and girl out there
Loves Thistlehair.
Crystal likes to make fun of this song. She thinks that it’s silly to sing a song about a Christmas bear. I can handle it better now, but early on in our marriage it was a touchy subject. In fact, during our first Christmas season as a married couple I played this CD once while Crystal was cutting my hair and actually started crying because of all the nostalgia of it all. Yeah, it’s embarrassing. But that’s okay. Thistlehair understands.
For Crystal’s family, Amy Grant and Point of Grace decked their halls. One of the reasons I’m okay with Crystal making fun of my Alabama Christmas CD is because it gives me some latitude to deride Amy Grant’s album. I realize I may alienate some of you by saying this, but I am of the persuasion that this CD could be erased from the public consciousness and we would all be better off. I cringe every time I hear “My Grownup Christmas List.”
Of course, all of this is in good fun. I’m glad Crystal and I get to share — and laugh about — our favorite Christmas music. Of course, we have some CD’s we both enjoy, like City on a Hill’s “It’s Christmas Time” and the music to “A Charlie Brown Christmas.”
What Christmas albums did you grow up with? What are your favorites now?
Today I’m heading out with the guys from TBI to travel to Providence, Rhode Island for the annual meeting of the Evangelical Theological Society (ETS). To be quite honest, I am more pumped than a pair of old-school Reeboks. The theme is “Text and Canon.” This will be my first time attending ETS, so I’m not quite sure what to expect.
One of the features of this year’s meeting will be the vote on a proposal by Denny Burk and Ray Van Neste to amend the ETS’s doctrinal statement. Right now, it only includes affirmations of the Trinity and the inerrancy of Scripture, leaving wide room for divergence on other matters. For more information, you can check out Burke’s explanation.
I have a post scheduled to be published for tomorrow since we’ll still be on the road then (it’s about a 22-hour trip). I’m not sure about internet access while we’re there, however. I’ll see what I can do.
Crystal and I went on a date to LeAnn Chin last night. If you had been sitting beside us, you may have been eating Orange Chicken like me. You may have also heard the following exchange:
Me: Now, I can’t pontificate on that…
Crystal: Whoa, whoa. Wait a minute.
Me: I mean, I can’t be dogmatic about that…
Crystal: I know what it means, but we’re at LeAnn Chin, not the White House.
BBC News reports that more than half of the babies (8 out of 15) born in a hospital in Kisumu, Kenya the day after the election were named either Barack or Michelle Obama. Kisumu is near the village where Obama’s father was born and raised.
Fortunately, I was not born after an election. I might have come out a Ronald. Or a Nancy. Thankfully, my first name is partially an inheritance from my father John, and my middle name (Edward) comes from my great-grandfather Edward Albert Zindorf. He asked that I be named after him before he died.
How about you? Where do your names come from?
Two stick out noticeably from my past. I remember the first for its infamy. The second was just awesome. When I was probably seven years old or so, I actually dressed up as Satan for Halloween. I had a freakish, horned mask and a plastic pitchfork. My grandma was living with us at the time because she had cancer and wasn’t doing well. She saw me wearing the mask in another room while I was playing with my brother and it really scared her. Let’s just say that costume won’t be resurfacing in future Bowers generations. At least not if I can help it.
All of that is only gloriously contrasted by the Halloween where my brother and I dressed up as Ninja Turtles. I was Leonardo and my brother was Michaelangelo. My super-creative mom made us shells out of cardboard that looked incredible. We had eye masks and belts and plastic weapons. It was turtleiscious.
How about you? What was your favorite costume?
I was sitting at my desk yesterday and Crystal was standing over me doing whatever wives do when they stand over their husbands sitting at their desks. She was kind enough to point out to me (again) that my scalp is shining a little more than it used to at the top of my head. This has set me to thinking. Given that I may very well lose some hair in the coming years, how does a man go bald with dignity? I see at least six options that don’t involve some sort of surgical or medicinal procedure:
- Buy a wig now so that people are used to it by the time I’m 50.
- Wear very tall shoes and refuse to sit down unless everyone around me is seated.
- Always wear a hat. Even when I’m sleeping.
- Grow a big, nasty beard so people don’t even think about my head.
- Sport a sweet combover with strategically-spaced, well-greased strands.
- Shave it all. Better yet, get it waxed.
What do you think? What’s the best way for a man to lose his hair in style?
My dog died yesterday. She had to be put to sleep because of old age and failing health. Her name was Mandy and she would have been 13 years old in a couple weeks or so. My brother and I got her as a gift on Christmas Day 1995. She was a fluffy golden retriever puppy and her breath smelled like graham crackers. That was fitting, because that’s exactly how I would describe what Mandy was like. A graham cracker. Brown and sweet.
She was my friend. Actually, she was a friend to the whole family. She nuzzled her way into our hearts with her big wet nose and just kind of laid down there for thirteen years, smiling, patient, gentle. And then she left. It’s hard to explain what that feels like. My heart feels like a couch where somebody’s gotten up after sitting there a spell. You can still feel the warmth and see the depression of the cushions, but no one’s there.
Of course, I wonder if I’ll see Mandy again. I know she was a dog and dogs don’t have immortal souls like humans, but I just can’t shake feeling like Mandy was more than a tomato plant. I tried looking up the word “dog” in the Bible, but I don’t think dogs were highly thought of then. Revelation 22 says that dogs will be outside the heavenly city along with the sorcerers and sexually immoral and murderers and idolaters. I think, though, that the dogs there are people, so I’m left with a hopeful ambiguity.
Will our favorite pets be on the new earth? Perhaps. I don’t think we can know for sure, but I do know that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God (Romans 8:21). God will release his saints from decay and he will do the same with his creation. Maybe that will include my sweet smiling friend. I sure hope so. Either way, I can’t wait to be with Jesus. He was the one Mandy was pointing me to all along, anyway.
I’d like to share with you part of a poem by John Piper from the book Future Grace. Whenever I read it, it makes me long for the day when God will restore all things in Christ. Mom mentioned it to me this morning on the phone. Piper is talking from the perspective of someone experiencing the birth of the new creation:
And as I knelt beside the brook
To drink eternal life, I took
A glance across the golden grass,
And saw my dog, old Blackie, fast
As she could come. She leaped the stream –
Almost — and what a happy gleam
Was in her eye. I knelt to drink,
And knew that I was on the brink
Of endless joy. And everywhere
I turned I saw a wonder there.
A big man running on the lawn:
That’s old John Younge with both legs on.
The blind can see a bird on wing,
The dumb can lift their voice and sing.
The diabetic eats at will,
The coronary runs uphill.
The lame can walk, the deaf can hear,
The cancer-ridden bone is clear.
Arthritic joints are lithe and free,
And every pain has ceased to be.
And every sorrow deep within,
And every trace of lingering sin
Is gone. And all that’s left is joy,
And endless ages to employ
The mind and heart, and understand,
And love the sovereign Lord who planned
That it should take eternity
To lavish all his grace on me.
O, God of wonder, God of might,
Grant us some elevated sight,
Of endless days. And let us see
The joy of what is yet to be.
And may your future make us free,
And guard us by the hope that we,
Through grace on lands that you restore,
Are justified for evermore.
(pages 381-382)
In my short life, I’ve done my fair share of sleeping in class. I’m not proud of it. It’s just the way it is. I don’t try to fall asleep; it just hits me at inconvenient times and I can’t stay awake. Unfortunately, I’m a big-time head-bobber, which means I don’t ever have the luxury of fighting drowsiness incognito.
This brings up a question. If a person is struggling to stay awake during a meeting of some sort, should he 1) throw in the towel and put his head down, 2) try to stay conscious, employing every strategy possible to convince others he’s really awake (stretching, shifting, propping his eyelids open), or 3) confess his struggle and stand up until he’s no longer tired?
CNN has an article on the increase of middle and upper-class customers who shop at thrift stores. Here’s an excerpt:
The Salvation Army store in Dublin, Georgia, located halfway between Atlanta and Savannah, has seen its sales increase by 50 percent this year, said store operator Gary Spivey. The comparative affluence of his new customers is obvious.
“We’re seeing a lot more middle-class and upper-class customers we haven’t seen before,” he said. “Without even asking, you can just look in the parking lot (at their cars).”
Savers Inc., a for-profit thrift store chain based in Bellevue, Washington, has had a 10 percent growth rate, said chief executive officer Ken Alterman. The company now has 220 Savers and Value Village stores in the United States, Canada and Australia, and expects to open 25 new stores in each of the next several years.
According to Alterman, 75 percent of the company’s customers are college educated, with an average income between $50,000 and $65,000. Thirty percent of its customers have household incomes exceeding $100,000, he said.
Some of the chain’s most successful stores are in Redmond, Washington, home to Microsoft; the high-end waterfront in Victoria, British Columbia; and the Hawaiian island of Oahu.
Do you shop at thrift stores regularly? If so, what have been some of your best finds?
I stumbled upon this t-shirt probably four years ago or more. We’ve become good buds.
When I was little, I dreamed that I would be a school bus driver. For me, it wasn’t a matter of wanting to serve the community or have an influence in children’s lives. I just thought the extendable stop sign was cool. Thankfully, that was a short-lived fantasy.
How about you? Any interesting ambitions?
I remember I was just getting ready to begin my freshman year in college. We were on a quarter system then, so classes didn’t start until around mid-September. September 11 was a Tuesday and I was supposed to move in that Friday.
That morning I was sleeping in bed when my mom came into my room to wake me up and tell me that a plane had flown into one of the Twin Towers. I remember acknowledging it but I just went back to sleep. (I know…that was pretty lame of me.) Later I found out that a plane had hit the second tower.
I can remember riding in the car with my dad later that evening and seeing gas stations backed up with lines of cars because there were fears that prices were going to soar. It was a surreal feeling.
What about you?
This may sound a bit trivial, but it is significant for me. I’ll explain:
If you were to ask Crystal one of the reasons she didn’t date me in high school, she would tell you it was because I wore pleated pants.
Thankfully, God helped her overcome that folded obstacle and marry me. However, this issue has continued to be a source of no little tension (albeit playful) in our relationship. I still own a pair of pleated Dockers khaki slacks which about make her gag.
The tension came to a head on Saturday when we were getting ready to go to a wedding. She had asked my advice on an outfit she should wear, and I gave it while wearing the aforementioned pleated wonders. She then gave me her unsolicited council about what I should do with my pants…like, throw them in the trash or something.
This comment spurred a string of playful banter on the inherent goodness and evil of pleated pants. The highlight of the exchange was a dueling parody of “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid (”Flippin’ your pleats you won’t get too far…”)
I wore the pants to the wedding, and we brought up the issue with a couple we sat next to. I pointed out that the husband was himself wearing pleated pants. Little did I know that I was about to embark into uncharted territory….
For the majority of my adult years (and perhaps longer), I thought pleated pants were pants that had a crease down the middle. Oh no. According to Wikipedia, a pleat is “a type of fold formed by doubling fabric back upon itself and securing it in place. It is commonly used in clothing and upholstery to gather a wide piece of fabric to a narrower circumference.”
All this time, I thought Crystal’s problem with my nerdy wardrobe was the crease down the middle of my pants. This could not have been further from the truth. Her problem was and is the bunched up and folded fabric around my waistline.
The effects of this revelation have been almost Copernican for me.
But it still doesn’t settle the issue entirely for me. I’m not convinced that pleats are altogether bad in a pair of dress pants. Crystal is sure almost all women disdain them.
So here is the question: Ladies, do you prefer pleated or flat-front in men’s fashion? Fellas, do you have anything to say in my defense?
This past year I have had the privilege of teaching a Sunday School class for older folks at Bethlehem. They are called “The King’s Friends.” The title is a vestige from an older era at Bethlehem, and I’ve been happy to serve under it. After all, Hushai the Archite was the king’s friend (1 Chron. 27:33). More importantly, so were the disciples (John 15:15).
This Sunday marks my last day teaching the class, as I will be transitioning to a different pedagogical post in the fall. In their honor, here are nine reasons I love my elderly friends:
- They remind me that the world got along just fine before 1983 (the year I was born).
- They lived through a lot of the stuff I read about in school.
- Most of them have walked with Jesus longer than I’ve been alive.
- Death is a more pressing reality for them. Going to be with Jesus isn’t an abstract concept they consider in pensive moods. Many of them will see him in ten years. Some even sooner.
- A smile on their face is - in some ways - more profound than a twentysomething’s grin, because it can’t be attributed to painless joints, career advancement, or an iPhone.
- They’ve had room in their hearts for a young whipper-snapper like me.
- They know how to cook.
- They love my wife.
- They consistently remind me that my youth is not perpetual.
Praise God for his aged saints. They have unique capacities to display Jesus’ worth, and I am thankful they let me share their Sunday mornings with them.
- You can get married at the church where you first met each other ten years before.
- You can honeymoon in the same town your families visited together when you were a freshman.
- She doesn’t have to tell you what she was like in high school. You already know.
- She knew you when you were a nerd.
- You’ve seen her make foolish choices.
- She’s seen you do the same.
- Your in-laws live twenty minutes away from your parents.
- You’ve seen God purify her faith in the crucible of deep tragedy.
- You’ve gotten on each others nerves way before your first date. That’s a good thing.
- You get to marry a girl who has already had a decade of experience being way out of your league.
Happy anniversary, sweetheart. I’m so glad you’re mine.
Johnathon
When I was a young pup, I watched the first Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie incessantly. In fact, I had many of the lines memorized (weird, huh?). Anyway, there was a Pizza Hut commercial at the beginning about a not-so-talented boy that stunned his teammates by catching a fly ball out in right field:
I say all this because I played in my second softball game of the season last night. Once again, I was confronted with my skinny-white-boy-ain’t-got-no-softball-skills status. My position? You guessed it. Right field.
But you know what? I’m glad I stink at softball. It can be a humbling gift from the Lord if I’ll receive it.
C.J. Mahaney writes as much in his book “Humility: True Greatness.” Although his humbling sport of choice is golf, I feel the counsel still applies:
“When you aren’t exploring the attributes of God, the doctrines of grace, and the doctrine of sin, try these surefire methods for cultivating humility and weakening pride. First, play golf as much as possible. Yep, golf. In my athletic experience, I don’t think there’s a more difficult or more humbling sport. Rather, make that humiliating — because if you play at all, you know all about those shots that result in laughter from your partners and humiliation for you. No one escapes them — not even Tiger Woods, and certainly not me.” (pg. 94)
What’s your favorite humbling sport?
My wife’s birthday is tomorrow. She’ll turn a ripe 24. Given that birthdays are special days, and special days inspire special plans, and special plans upset established schedules, Crystal asked me the following question yesterday afternoon:
“So are we going to church Saturday or Sunday, since it’s my birthday?” (Our church has services on both days).
Wanting to sound decisive and manly, I said “Saturday.” And then, feeling especially pious, I added, “What better place to be on your birthday?”
“Heaven,” she said.
“Touché,” said I.
I was talking with my wife a few minutes ago, and she told me it would be a good idea to throw up a personal post about us and what we are doing right now.
I am currently enrolled in an apprenticeship program at Bethlehem Baptist Church called The Bethlehem Institute. I go to class on Mondays and Thursdays with eight other men. We sit in a circle and discuss everything from participles to poverty. It has been a mercy from God to be here.
Crystal, my wife, works part-time as a pediatric hemotology/oncology (blood diseases and cancer) nurse at Minneapolis Children’s Hospital. She goes to work three days a week with about eight other people. They neither sit in a circle nor debate participles. However, they do get to see poverty first-hand.
We have been married for two years, nine months, and twenty-six days. I love her two years, nine months, and twenty-six times more than I did the day we wore a tux and a white dress.
Random fact: Crystal likes to sew potholders, and I was wildly obsessed with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles as a boy:
