Preachy-Teachy Tuesday

It's 10 past seven in the morning, and NPH should be well into his reading routine. But he's not. Instead he's been adding blogs to his RSS reader, deleting others, and watching the minutes tick by. All is not lost, though; we came upon a really thought-provoking post here.

This morning we're going over to the Salvation Army to lead morning devotions for the staff. We have no idea what to expect, and so preparation has been minimal. Since worship and teaching at the church is centering on Micah during Advent, NPH will most likely use the first seven verses of chapter one or the first 12 verses of chapter three as a starting point, and try to engage participants in a conversation about the text. These are people who work for an agency in the center of the city that, especially at this time of year, sees tremendous need and works hard to meet it; NPH wants to hear their experience, to watch them connect that experience to the voice of the prophet, and to learn from them.

Hopefully we won't make a fool of ourselves. Or, if we do, it'll be for the right reasons.

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I Am Not My Father's Son

What was supposed to be a two hour break for sipping coffee and reading yesterday afternoon turned out to be a 30 minute coffee-break tacked on to the end of an hour-and-a-half exercise in auto mechanics futility. Let us explain.

On the way to church yesterday morning, NPH's wife was honked at by a fellow traveller to inform her that her brakelights weren't working; we've known one was out for some time. Then, later, she was pulled over by a police officer and told the same thing: both her brakelights were out. And while the officer was not going to ticket her, he pointed her to an autoparts store with a stern warning.

So we parked her car in the coffeeshop parking lot and got in the NPH mobile. At the autoparts store, NPH purchased two brakelights and a cheap screwdriver to do the job. Returning to the afflicted vehicle, we discovered that the brakelights are affixed not with a standard or phillips screw, but with star-headed screw. So, frustrated, NPH returned to the autoparts store, borrowed the proper tool from the sympathetice gentleman at the counter, and then twisted, scraped, pulled, and cussed his way through changing the two brakelights in sub 20's temperatures. Job done.

Not really. Because a triumphant return to the coffeeshop was spoiled when NPH's wife got back in the care, pressed the brake pedal, and viola: nothing.

The long-and-short of it is that NPH took his wife to work this morning, then drove the car to a mechanic's, handing the keys off with some self-assured recommendation about fuses, only to have the mechanic retrieve us a short time later with the news that fuses were not involved at all but . . . brakelights. That's right friends, NPH had replaced the wrong bulbs. He had taken perfectly good turn tailight bulbs and replaced them with, well, other perfectly good talight bulbs, leaving the brakelight bulbs untouched.

Cue the music. "Mwah, mwah, mwah, mwaaaaah."

The egg on our face is only now beginning to dry.

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Advent

The first Sunday of Advent found NPH at a church other than his own this year, taking part in a couple of really exceptional events. The first was the baptism, which NPH administered, of a child whose parents are very near and dear to us. To stand before a congregation of the faithful and ask these friends to profess their faith in Jesus, the faith of the church, and to promise to raise up their child in that faith, was something that fundamentally altered our relationship. In a good, good way.

We've come a long way from dormitories and a watermelon-colored theater.

Then NPH got to be part of the same friend's installation as pastor at that same church. Specifically, we were asked to give the charge, a brief bit of guidance or counsel to the newly installed. NPH does not presume to have much advice to give anyone, but we did the best with the task we were given and were truly blessed by the opportunity.

Thanks be to God for the embrace of friends and the even stronger embrace of God; this weekend the former mediated the latter.

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Last.FM

One of NPH's coolest friends recently awakened him to Last.Fm, the social networking tool based entirely on your music listening habits. And while the website is one of those technological innovations that has the ability to covertly steal away large portions of one's time and energy, it also may not be that. Much of what the tool does it does on its own, while you're simply doing what you do.

What's cool about last.fm is the creation and constant updating of your personal profile based on the music that you're listening to on your computer or iPod. It's called scrobbling. Once you've got the free software installed, every track you play gets sent to the last.fm website and fed into your profile. From this are generated charts that display your music listening habits: who are you most listening to? What tracks? Then the site develops your own personal radio station, makes recommendations of things you might like, and connects you to other users with similar music tastes. Best of all, it allows you to invite and add "friends," and then allows you to see what they're listening to.

Check it out. Then search for NPH under the email address rocky.meredith@gmail.com to be added as his friend.

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No He Did Not Just Say That

In a news story about an American Indian tribe's refusal to allow the members of Westboro Baptist Church (who, pastored by Fred Phelps, believe that soldiers' deaths are punishment from God for the country's tolerance of homosexuals) to protest outside the funeral of National Guard Cpl. Nathan Goodiron, the lawyer for the protesters said, "We don't go on private land."

He continued, "We don't get into anyone's private area."

NPH does't wish to make light of such ungodly hatemongers or the lawyers who represent them, but surely the irony of that statement could not be lost on Phelps and his flock of followers. "We don't get into anyone's private area."

Actually, y'all spend your entire lives in people's private areas.

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Kiva

One of the coolest things around is micro-lending, the making of small loans to entrepeneurs in developing countries. Frontline did a piece about it (a piece that NPH has not yet viewed), and one of our favorite bloggers has written about it.

NPH and Mrs. NPH are planning on using Kiva gift certificates as Christmas gifts this year. Watch your mailbox.

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It's A Bird, It's A . . .

"What is that noise?" is a question that NPH and his wife have asked one another over the last several weeks, with an increasing degree of annoyance. Every night these shrieking, cawing, ticking noises have cascaded down 48th street from the heights of one of the street's many trees. Our best conclusions as to the origin of the racket were that it was either a lovesick bird or a dying squirrel.

Well, last night NPH discovered this notice taped to the front door of our apartment building. It turns out to be not a bird or a squirrel, but a recording. That's right, the property company that owns the condominium building behind the tree has been piping the sounds through a speaker. For what reason? Who knows?

Anyway, the notice on the door gave the number of the company and urged residents to call and complain, which we promptly did. Yet, as he was listening to the seemingly endless mailbos options on the company's voicemail system, NPH suddenly wondered, "Why am I doing this? Why complain? The noises don't bother me that much; in fact, once inside my apartment I can hardly hear them. So why even bother with it?" In the end, he left a complaining voicemail anyway, if only because the thought of a realty company polluting the idyllic nightime soundscape on the Plaza with phony jungle bird noises is perturbing. What reason could they possibly have for doing that?

Any guesses? The most creative guess wins a prize.

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