Bad drivers and a funeral

There was a parking problem when I was a student at UCF. For about sixty bucks, you could buy a parking sticker that enabled you to park on campus. The only problem was that there were probably about three cars for every one space. To solve the hassle of fighting for a space, I’d schedule my arrival at ten minutes before the hour when classes broke, and I’d stake out students leaving their classes. Once I found someone who didn’t look like a murderer, I’d pull up alongside of them and offer them a ride to their parked car. My young and reckless self would get a space and they didn’t have to walk, so it was a good deal for us both.

I’d forgotten how much I detest traffic and congestion until I returned Friday morning to Orlando for a funeral. It was downtown, and though I owned a house on the outskirts only six years ago, bad drivers still leave me with a headache. (One example, I avoided a head-on collision with a woman driving the wrong way on 417 talking on her cell phone. When she realized she was driving the wrong way, she pulled to the median, but continued her call like nothing happened and like sitting in the middle of the median going the wrong was is a perfectly natural thing to do.) I was plenty early for the funeral, but walked in late due to rusty parking space finding skills. I thought about my old UCF trick, but decided against it since I am a wife and mother now. People need me. Besides, now that I have children I think everyone could be a murderer, especially those who drive utility vans.

The funeral was for my cousin, unknown very well to me as our family’s long string of divorces keeps things complicated. He died from a head injury from a motorcycle accident. He popped a wheelie without a helmet on. He was 38.

The smell of hard liquor assaulted my nose as I filed into my seat. People had already begun their mourning early this morning. Being a lightweight, I held my breath since I still had to drive. Our commission from a mainline mega-church pastor was not to “repent and believe.” Instead, we were given an easy gospel (which is really no gospel at all): “Go and live an unselfish life, serve others” so you too can have the promise of heaven.

On a whim after the funeral, I tracked down the phone number of a woman who comments here as “Jo in Orlando.” Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves at a chain restaurant in the concrete jungle rhapsodizing about our agrarian dreams. I didn’t miss the irony of the fact that I was chewing cheap cheeseburger the whole time.

On my way out of town, I passed by UCF and didn’t even give it a glance. I figured I’d best just keep my eyes on the road.

Good baseball

We had a great game on Saturday morning. My son plays third base and shortstop, and the Scotts fill up the bleachers for every game.

So, we move into the last inning, trailing by four runs. We score two runs on a few nice hits and a couple of walks but we chalk up two outs in the process. So it’s two outs, with runners on first and third, still down by one run. The third base runner steals home while the pitcher is walking back to the mound. The other team protests wildly, but the ump knows the rules. So we’re tied with the winning run on second base. The batter, 0 for 2 on the day, steps up to the plate. Ball one low and away. Strike one on a swing and a miss right down the middle. Ball two comes on a bouncer in the dirt with a nice stop by the catcher to prevent the runner from advancing. Ball three is high. Strike two comes with another swing and a big miss on a nice pitch to the outside corner. Here’s the situation: 3 balls, 2 strikes, 2 outs in the bottom of the last inning. On the final pitch of the game, the batter sends a nice line drive between first and second base with just enough on it to bring in the runner from second base. We win by one run.

And that’s the way you play the game.

A good Lord’s Day

My husband rarely turns down an opportunity to preach, and so, we found ourselves at a little Associate Reformed Presbyterian Church yesterday about 60 miles away. Our home church pastor joked that we skipped this past Sunday because I needed to get out and hear a decent sermon. We enjoyed our time yesterday, and yet, it’s always good to be home too.

Monday

And to end my longest post ever, I want to leave you with my son’s Pathway Reader selection for today. The two sisters in the story are complaining about their work and so they begin dreaming of greener pastures. Their family raises layers (chickens for eggs), and their cousins raise brooders (chickens for meat). Each family decides the other one has the easier job. In the end, they learn that each task has its own trials and that looking over the fence just distracts you from the work that God has called you to do.

“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” said Dad. “They are just like the rest of us. They think other people’s work looks easier than their own. Ada and Elam have to learn just what our girls have to learn, too – that work is work, no matter what it happens to be. The best thing to do is tackle our work with a will, do it well, and do it without complaining. When we learn to do that, any job will be only half as hard.”

A very appropriate thought for a Monday, I’d say.