The Eulogy I Gave at My Grandpa's Funeral

John Vivian Reimer was born January 26, 1923 in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. He was third in a line of 8 children. He grew up in Ontario during the depression and yet, his childhood seemed happy. He has told many stories of playing with his friends in the bush, which was a protected wilderness area. His friends called him Viv, a shorter version of his middle name. He thought this was his real name for much of his childhood.

John eventually joined the RCAF, royal Canadian air force, during WWII, and was an Air Force Pilot and Gunner. He served his country while stationed in Canada and England. John was in the Air Force from Oct. 13, 1942 – February 25, 1946. He left the Air Force with an Honorable Discharge and a rank of Flight Sergeant. He was awarded the Air Gunners badge on September 10, 1944. his medals included a Canadian Volunteer Service Medal with Clasp, and a War Medal for the years 1939-1945. While stationed in England, John had one episode of hand to hand combat. He was on guard duty and a drunk, allied soldier trespassed where he wasn’t supposed to be. John warned him to leave and the man walked into John’s bayonet. The man survived.

His brother Ken had a friend Art with a beautiful sister, Margaret. The two friends thought their siblings would hit it off as a couple so they arranged for a blind date. John and Margaret went to Casa Loma, a beautiful Castle in Ontario. There was a dance that night and they were to attend. John fell in love at first sight. The two corresponded while John was shipped out. John was head over heels and it took Margaret a little bit longer to make a decision, but on February 14, 1948 they were finally married. Their love affair was one for the story books.

After John got back home he attended the Ryerson Institute, where he studied to architectural drafting. After school he got a job at the T Eaton co in the heating and furnace dept since architectural jobs were hard to find. He also worked in his brother Ken’s jewelry shop.

In the early 1950’s Diane was born. The family decided to take a trip to CA and they liked it so much, they decided to stay. They moved across the continent to Long Beach. They began to attend First Presbyterian, which later became Faith OPC. They were both active members, John was ordained as a deacon and helped to remodel and maintain the church building.

Soon another daughter, Carol, was born. She was brought straight from the hospital to their new home, a Cliff May ranch-style home by El Dorado park. The young family continued attending the same church. Grandpa worked as a draftsman for Moffat and Nichol Engineers in Long Beach for 34 years where he was able to use his architectural skills, amazing creativity and careful precision in his designs and plans. They added two more children to their family with the births of Nancy and David.

My goal today is to honor my grandfather. He was a genuinely good man. I’ve just read some of the facts about Grandpa’s life, but I also want to share with you some of Grandpa’s qualities, his personality. There isn’t near enough time, space, or words to express all of the wonderful things that made Grandpa unique, but I will try to do him justice.

First of all, Grandpa was a dreamer. He was always planning, always drawing, always designing. He was always so generous with his time and talent. It was his pleasure to help anyone with remodeling and design. All you had to do was ask, and Grandpa would create several plans and options and beautiful drawings. He was a dreamer who was actually talented enough to follow through with his dreams. He designed additions to his home, he drew up plans for remodels on the church, he designed an exterior light fixture for his house that required three different perspectives and a cost summary, he designed a castle for me complete with secret passages. He was so creative and so capable. He was always dreaming about the ‘what if’.

On driving trips, if we passed a field of land Grandpa would say, “I would love to buy a piece of land like that and design a home for each of the kids and then we could all live their together. Wouldn’t that be nice?” He would have explained his idea with a little more detail than I did, but that gives you a picture of his mind. He was never tired of thinking, planning, and dreaming.

He was an easy man to rile if you knew his triggers. Just mention Frank Ghery or post-modern architecture (as if he thought there was such a thing) and you could get Grandpa talking with passion. Grandpa was an architect and an artist. He liked architecture that was elegant, functional, and naturally beautiful. He liked all things that were elegant, functional, and naturally beautiful, just look at the woman he married. Grandpa admired Frank Lloyd Wright and encouraged all of us to have an eye for design.

Grandpa loved his work and did it well. As times changed and computerized drafting was introduced as a replacement for hand drawing, Grandpa took the course offered by his employer. He studied hard and even studied after hours and was the only one of his company to graduate from the training. His title was draftsman, but his heart was in design and often he was able to do both. He designed marina’s, villa’s, and even condo’s in Colorado that won awards.

Part of what made Grandpa so good at his job was his precision. Grandpa was precise in everything he said and did. He earned the inspector’s stamp of approval on all of his blue prints quite quickly. Every detail was accurate and with out excess. This could sometimes be a point of frustration when talking with Grandpa because he would often pretend to be confused by your lack of precision. Grandpa would often question a statement someone made by saying, “What do you mean by ‘pencil’?” and he would force you to precise even if he knew what you were saying.
He was careful with details and took his time measuring, calculating, making decisions, and even when speaking. Although this could sometimes be frustrating, it often made for great results.

The other reason why Grandpa was so good at his job was because of his artistic skill. Grandpa could sketch anything. He often sketched portraits for school projects for his kids and grandkids. Teachers were so amazed at his pictures, some would confiscate them and use them in their classrooms. Grandpa could always be found sketching something. A pencil and a scrap of paper was all he needed to create his constant flow of drawings.

Grandpa was not only good at his job, he was a family man.

Grandpa came to everything. I mean everything. There wasn’t a hockey game, soccer game, volleyball tournament, academic competition, spelling bee, concert, school play, musical, track meet, awards ceremony, graduation, presentation, wedding, birthday party, going away party, welcome home party, or any other event that he missed for all of his children and grandchildren and even great grandchildren. He was a family man extraordinaire. His love and devotion for his family not only rested with his children, but filtered down the generations. He babysat my brothers and me when our mom was sick. He drove us to school and then to the hospital day after day. He babysat his great-grand kids once a week and they loved him as much as he loved them. He and Grandma have shown each of us the importance of family and what it means to put your words of love in action. He gave us faithful devotion and sacrificed hours of his time and he did so with joy. He loved us all so well. He told us in words and in actions and not one of us ever doubted it.

One of my favorite memories of Grandpa was an Easter week in Doheney. Our family camps at the beach during Easter vacation and one year vacation fell the week after Easter. This meant that the Payless drugstore had a 90% off sale on their Easter candy in an attempt to clear it out and we bought a lot. It was a great day just because of that, but Grandpa secretly purchased a large amount of candy and put it in a box. He buried the box in the sand in a section that we called our island. It was just a pile of sand that was surrounded by the incoming tide every night so that it looked like an island. After burying the treasure, he painstakingly drew a treasure map on a piece of paper, burned the edges, rolled it up like a scroll and gave it to his grandchildren saying that he had discovered a treasure map. We followed the map to our “island” and dug to find the box of candy – our own treasure. That was Grandpa.

Grandpa was an encourager, but not in the same way as the rest of the family. Grandma tells you that everything you do is wonderful and amazing – because she really thinks it is. Her love for us blinds her to our faults. Grandpa didn’t pour out compliments, but that made the ones he did give extra special. He wanted everyone to do their best and motivated them to do it. You knew that if he said he liked something you made or did, he had examined it to its finite details and after his careful and knowledgeable inspection, he had approved. His praise was worth earning.

Grandpa loved my grandma. If anyone ever doubts the existence of true love, they just have to look at my grandparents. They could always be found holding hands and displaying affection. I can just hear that tone that Grandpa would get in his voice when he’d talk about, “mummy”. It was like a boy in love who couldn’t believe that a beautiful woman would fall for him. All you had to do was bring up a love song from an old movie or mention the picture of Grandma on the bridge and he would gush. Even as he was getting an EKG in the hospital, he asked the technician, “How can I have a heart? I gave it to my wife 61 years ago!” He shared his food with her, walked her everywhere while holding her hand, cared for her in little, tender ways. He is an example to all men of how to treat women and especially how to treat their wives. Grandpa never made it a secret that he loved his wife and his love and respect for her taught us all how to love and respect her. It is because of Grandpa that I know what it is to be cherished.

My Grandpa was quirky, in the best way. Grandpa was a saver. He saved a lot of stuff. He saved notes and papers and articles and he could find them to share with others. He gave me a map of Africa that he had saved since the 70’s. He was famous for saying, “Whatcha gonna throw that out for? It’s still good.” I’m sure this stemmed from growing up during the depression, but the best part was that Grandpa did actually use the things he saved. Grandpa saved every letter of correspondence that he and Grandma exchanged while he was away in WWII. They are in two beautiful boxes on their hearth at home. I was only ever allowed to read two letters from those boxes for a project in school. All I can say is he was just as smitten with her then as he was 61 years later.

Grandpa was a talker. He was famous for his cornerings. He would get talking on a subject and physically corner you until he was done. He could talk to anyone about anything, and he could talk for hours! He certainly had a lot of experiences and I don’t know if he ever told me the same story twice. What was amazing was his memory during these stories. He knew the first and last name of every teacher he ever had and each of his childhood friends. He knew details about things that happened decades past. He had remarkable recall. On a trip back to Toronto, we were walking down the street of his childhood home and he was telling us a story about some of the kids in the neighborhood and when he looked across the street at an old man he said, “That looks like Fudgie, the younger brother of my friend.” We all thought, “Sure, Grandpa, it’s been sixty years and you can recognize your friend’s little brother.” But Grandpa shouted, “Fudgie!” and the man turned and said, “Viv?” which was Grandpa’s middle name. We never doubted Grandpa’s memory after that.

Grandpa was narcoleptic, but only when sitting down. He could sleep anywhere at any time. If you caught him at it he would say, “I was just resting my eyes.” You could tell if he was watching a tv show he liked because he would stand up with his hands resting on his knees in an effort to not fall asleep, he was sometimes successful.

Grandpa was strong. Grandpa could run and lift things and move like an athlete. He redesigned his front patio and the family was helping him pour the concrete. Grandpa told Paul that he was disappointed in himself that he could only carry one 50 lbs sack on his shoulder instead of two like Paul could. My grandpa always expected a lot out of his body. My dad says that he was remarkably made. As a boy growing up, his father taught all of his son’s about boxing. Grandpa was good, really good. After he beat all of his brothers, their friends would try to beat him and soon he garnered a reputation as the best. It was always fun to watch him as he watched a boxing movie, he would bob and weave with the actor and jab at the screen.

Shortly after Grandpa enlisted, he and some buddies went swimming in a lake in Canada. Grandpa dove in and hit his head. When he surfaced, he told his friends that he had broken his neck. They thought he was wrong, but took him to the hospital anyway. He sat in the bed of a truck and rode the whole bumpy ride holding his head up with his hands. When he got to the hospital they took x-rays and had him wait in the hallway. Because of how calm he was, they were sure that he could not have actually broken his neck. They thought he was just trying to get out of serving in the military. After the x-rays were developed, a medical team rushed into the hallway shouting at him not to move. They casted him right there because he had, in fact, broken his neck. As a side note: when they removed the cast sometime later, Grandpa had grown a beard, it was bright red and the nurses laughed at him. I guess we know where that red hair in the grandkids comes from. Anyway, that was the strength of my grandpa. He was so strong and so active. Although he was 86, he acted more like a man in his 60’s.

God is good because Grandpa was used to being strong and healthy. God willed that my Grandpa would leave this Earth quickly and without knowing weakness. On February 26, 2009 Grandpa went home with loved ones near and scriptures in his ears.

John is survived by his loving wife, Margaret. His brothers Kenneth and Walter and sister Ramona. His children Diane, Carol, Nancy, and David and their spouses: Michael, Dal, and Erich. His grandchildren: Paul, Erin, Dann, Brenda, Kenneth, Kevin, Sami, Tim, Melody, Wesley, and Erich and his great-grandchildren: Madison, Michael, Natalie and Karis as well as extended family and friends. All who knew him are going to miss him.

There are little things we’re going to miss. I’m going to miss his hands. His very strong hands that would sometimes hold my arms as he was telling me something. I’m going to miss his whiskers on my cheek when I would kiss him. I’m going to miss his fishing hats he wore everywhere. I’m going to miss how he always cut his juice with water. I’m going to miss how loudly he sipped everything (he said it was an expression of appreciation to the chef.) I’m going to miss his phrases like, “I trust so,” as a response to “see you tomorrow” or “We love you too,” in response to “I love you,” or “bye for now” or “What do ya say?”. I’m going to miss his humming and whistling songs especially when Mom, CC, and I are practicing for the Christmas Eve service. He always overlapped our singing with his own that was sometimes half a beat off. Sometimes he’d sing an old love song and belt out a beautiful chorus. Afterward he would almost shiver in joy and say, “Oh, that’s a good song.” I’m going to miss his stupid puns. I’m going to miss his urging me to be a better writer. I’m going to miss his stories, even the long ones. I’m going to miss the way his voice deepened as he prayed. His tone in prayer was of humble and sincere reverence.

I am so thankful that I was blessed with such an amazing grandfather. He was such a wonderful man. He was able to make us all feel so loved, so beautiful, so important to him. I am thankful that he knew how much we all loved him. I don’t think that he ever doubted our love either. Especially in the end. In the first few days in the hospital he was able to know that his entire family was there to support him. I am thankful that each of his children and grandchildren have inherited a little something of him. Whether it be art, design, construction, a love of books, grammatical precision, or the ability to love steadfastly and whole heartedly.

There is so much more that I wanted Grandpa to do and so much more that he wanted to do: like fight off the boys from his beautiful great-granddaughters [and he would not allow any other words to be used to describe them, not pretty or cute, only beautiful], finish editing my novel, redesign parts of the church, parts of his house, attend the weddings of his grandchildren. And even though we are all shocked and saddened by the loss of the strongest man I knew, I am so comforted by the fact that my dear grandpa is in heaven now. His journey is done and he is home. And I don’t say this as some trite expression of comfort – ‘he’s in a better place’ and such – I say it as a solid fact in which I can hope. My grandpa was not a perfect man, he was not a sinless man, as great as he was and as much as I loved him – he did not deserve heaven. Yet my grandfather trusted in the salvation of Jesus and he was true to that calling to the end. This is his greatest legacy. He showed us what a blessing life can be when one’s priorities are straight: serve God, love your family, and enjoy the blessings of life. I am honored to be his granddaughter and to follow in the path that he has created for his whole family.

True Love

Today is Valentine's Day and this is a special holiday for me in general. Although I don't think people should be forced to show affection to each other because of one specific day, I do love the idea of showing people how much we love them. It is mostly special, because my grandparents were married on this day 61 years ago. They have always been an example of love to me. My grandfather cherishes my grandmother and my grandmother is devoted to him. Their example of steadfast love has been a vivid reminder of what love is about.

And this Valentine's Day is one where this reminder is especially strong. I am reminded that love in all of its glory and romance and goodness is also about pain. Love means taking a part of yourself and giving it to someone else. Love means attaching your happiness with another's so that their joy is your joy and their pain is your pain.

My grandparents are spending this anniversary in the hospital where my grandfather is clinging to life. As we sit in the small waiting room, I realize what a gift love is. It is because of love that we weep and ache and are so drained. It is love that draws us to the dark waiting room. It is love that wakes us from our sleep and in our own sicknesses brings us to this place. It is love that causes us to have this pain. It is 61 years of devotion and building a life together that causes my grandma to struggle with contemplating a life without him. It is this life they have built that has led to four children devoted to their parents and nine grandchildren and 4 great-grandchildren and numerous in-laws and church family - all who love and all who ache.

So is this love worth it? By all means! It is this love that we share that allows us to hold each other up in our shared grief. It is love that has given us so many great memories and made us the people we are today.

We love my grandpa. We love him so much and we want him continue sharing his love with us. The part that gives me hope is that God loves him more. As we weep, God weeps. Each tear He holds in His capable hands. God loves us and loves my grandpa and unlike us, God is powerful to effect change. God has a plan and loves us.

So here is my valentine's challenge. Tell people that you love them. Tell them now, tell them why. Be specific, be genuine. Do it again tomorrow, and forever. Don't let a day pass without the people you love knowing that you love them. Surround them with it so there's never a doubt. And even when that love causes pain, for whatever reason, it will be there firmly planted. Love is never without pain, but pain can be endured with love.

The Mendelssohn Effect

I was home alone the other night. I don't do well with that. I am an extrovert in the truest sense. I can sit and do nothing. I can be still and be quiet. I just want someone else there doing that with me. I hate being alone for extended periods of time - especially when I don't have a project to complete.

So I was sitting at home trying to watch pointless TV (my favorite kind) and I was feeling down. I was thinking about all the things wrong in the world (this is what I do when I'm home alone) and I was starting to get to a bad place. I shook myself, figuratively, and said, "You are an independent and free woman. You have a free night, so spend it as a free woman should. Go out and do something. Go alone. Have fun!" I listened to myself and changed my clothes. I didn't look particularly cute, but I didn't look like I had just come from my dark room with my thirty cats, either. I decided to go to Barnes and Noble (one of my two 'happy places') and either spend my gift certificate or just browse. I like to get lost in the shelves and feel the books. I like to see the Cheesy Christian Romance Novel section and realize that I've read every book in it. I like to calculate the percent of the books I've read on the 'classics' table (is that double nerdy or triple?).

I felt like an independent woman and I congratulated myself for my positive courage. I got in my car feeling strong and ready to face the world. My radio came on and the beginning of Mendelssohn's Wedding March from Midsummer Night's Dream came trumpeting through my speakers. I laughed so hard I had to stop driving. Courage came crashing down as I continued driving. "Laugh it off, you can blog about it."

I made it to Barnesy and I started perusing. I went to the teen fiction section and avoided the temptation to talk to strange teens about book choices (I do this a lot. I have in fact recommended the Twilight and Uglies series to several kids that I didn't know). I wandered through Christian fiction (I did call my daddy just to hear a friendly voice). I heard an author talk about how he got into writing as I looked at the math section. But as I exited my safe harbors, I discovered that Valentine's day had struck a magic decorating stick on the rest of the specialty tables. The cooking section was all about pink hearts and cooking for two. The movie section was classic love stories and music for the mood. The children's section had kiddie versions of Corduroy's Valentine's day and the all time classic, "I'll love you forever." A woman opened a book and it played music - that's right, Mendelssohn's Wedding March!

I decided to check out my cousin's picture of her cake that was recently published in a prominent magazine...a wedding magazine. I picked up the Knot and decided not to buy it. After an hour of meandering, I decided to drive home. I felt good about my night of independence. I shopped alone and made a fun night out of it. I am woman, hear me laugh heartily at Mendelssohn.

Girlish, churlish, screams

or how I went from being "one of the guys" to the girliest of girls.

I grew up with only brothers and only boy cousins. I was and am a tomboy princess, as my sister-in-law likes to call me. I learned that crying was for wimps and nothing really hurts as much as someone else could make it hurt. My brothers would tell me to stop crying after they hit me or did something mean by saying, "Wonderwoman wouldn't cry." And I agreed and toughened up. I learned to be strong.

If I did girly things like squeal or get grossed out by snot or farts or licked fingers in my ear, it would only get worse. I learned to tough it out. I also learned that the only way to be included was to participate in boy things. I did yard work and construction and car repairs and boxing matches and video games and paint ball and I blended in. I was still a girly girl (pink hockey socks), but I was one of the guys.

Last Saturday, we had a great day at the Kellar's house. They are a couple at our church who are going to sell their house and needed some help doing some landscaping...major landscaping. We're talking tree removal and dumpster filling work. I was there early and left late. I was right there with the boys pulling weeds, working electrical trimmers (which I gladly handed over), climbing into the dumpsters again and again and again to dump the trash can of leaves and debris. I jumped out of the way from a falling limb and landed in a cactus. Did I complain? No. A little blood and scratches add character. I got pricked through the glove with a thorn that bled a lot. I sucked on the blood and moved on. We had work to do.

Near lunchtime, I helped my uncle move a table from the back yard to the front. We lifted together and I walked backward. There was no question of, "Can Brenda handle that heavy lifting?" I just grabbed it and we went. I looked over my shoulder as we were exiting the gate and I noticed a giant black widow crawling on my sleeve. Without thought or hesitation, I dropped the table, danced over to my other uncle and screamed, "Get it off, get it off...please!" I turned to him and he swiped at my shoulder a couple times and let it hit the ground. "I got it." "Thanks," I calmly responded and I picked up the end of the table to resume my walk.

Yesterday, while going through my sweaters in my closet, I decided to take everything off the top shelf to find a sweater I had misplaced. Somehow, that disturbed a resident that I did not know we had, a small mouse. I saw it from the corner of my eye as it scampered under my bed. I gasped (did not scream) and jumped on my bed. I giggled at myself, but I still couldn't move. "Julie, there's a mouse in my room!" I screamed to my roommate. She had an equal amount of girlish fear. I set traps which have yet to be visited by the new house guest, but I have to dispose of the potential dead bodies and I feel a visceral sense of dread.

When did I become such a girl?

World of Strings makes world of difference

In the previous blog, I wrote about a rather discouraging interaction with the slightly stoned and incompetent worker at Whittaker Music. Well, here is the complete antithesis to such melancholy drama - the World of Strings.

I found the store and entered through an old doorway into what might be a stringed heaven. Dana, my trusty sidekick, joined me as we walked past guitars and music books. A somewhat stringy haired young man made eye contact with me and asked, "What can I do for you?"
"I need a new string for my dulcimer," I replied as I lifted my case slightly.
"Ok, do you need a full set or just one string?" I held back the shimmering tears as I said, "I just need the bass string."
"Well, let's take a look. Do you have the old string?"
I tried to old back the growl as I said, "No, the first store I tried lost it."
"Ok," he was totally mellow too, but in a non-annoying and productive way. He looked at my manual and saw the range of diameters and said, "Yeah, 21, that will be fine." I followed him to the string drawers as he searched for my string. "This so much better than my last experience..." I proceeded to tell him about my last experience and he laughed a little. "Yeah, that store's gone downhill since they changed owners." He knew exactly what kind of loop I needed and said, "I don't have a 21 but I have a 22 and the difference won't be that noticeable."

He then restrung and tuned my dulcimer while I looked at dulcimer books and bought some ukulele books for my grandpa for his birthday. I walked into a room that was all string basses (I drooled for one, but I can't buy one until I have room for it).

Overall, the experience was joy-filled and so rewarding. I now am learning new ways to play my dulcimer (with awesome fingerings that the guy showed me) and better chords (I've been guessing this whole time). I will go back to World of Strings anytime I have any instrument issues (or when I want to drool over some uprights). Thanks, World of Strings, for putting my faith back in music stores and mellow musicians.

The Congregational Meeting

I found this in my "edit" box and realized I had never published it! So even though it was written in January of 2009, I'm posting it now:

When people hear of a two hour meeting on a Friday night about the happenings and finances of a church, most don't think, "Oh, fun!" and mean it. But I also think that those people have not been to our church's congregational meetings. If you keep the right perspective and know what to look for, these meetings can be more entertaining than an episode of Gilmore Girls.

It begins with the arrival, as many things do. We all pull into the parking lot around 7:30 or 7:35 for the meeting and find our seats. I always like to sit next to a commentator. A commentator is a person (usually my dad or Uncle Dal or Uncle Dave) who will whisper jokes, comments, or sidebars during especially funny or boring moments. Tonight, I pulled up a chair next to Uncle Dal in a row inhabited by some of my other family members, ensuring plenty of running commentary.

Then we sing as a group. We sing a hymn and it ties us all together and reminds us of why we're there - to worship God in all things. We then pray to remind us again, that this is God's church and that all of our planning and preparing is nothing if God is not with us. I sometimes forget at work meetings that we don't start everything with prayer and it surprises me when our principal just up and starts talking during the meeting. And sometimes I bow my head in a Pavlovian response when we get to the end. Years of church training, I guess.

Then everyone talks about the reports of different committees and councils. This is where the love-fest begins. "Are their any questions about the youth ministry report?" "We love what they are doing!" That's it. That's how most discussions go. They are filled with thanks for what people have done and efforts made and how God has blessed us.

This evenings love-fest ended with Rev. Kellar (a retired pastor who fellowships with us) standing and speaking about how blessed we are as a congregation that we can meet peacefully, how our pastor is a peacemaker, how my dad, Mike, does an unusual ministry with the youth (that sentence drew snickers from our row...). How our music ministry and Diana Curtis are about worshipping God and not glorifying our abilities. How the instruments assist in worship rather than distract from it. Have you ever had your heart fill with love so that it is almost palpable? I get that way sometimes when I am with my church family and this was one of those moments. Rev. Kellar was praising God for our unified and blessed church and the blessed members were joining him. It was a good way to end the first half of the meeting.

The two halves are separated by the serving of pie in the kitchen. I get to help and I love seeing everyone and catching up. Maddie, who's 6, gets to tell me about how she plans on eating her pie from the inside out. Helen Hayden, who is one of the founding members of our church, selects a piece that she'll take home to save for later. We joke about how everyone is voted in unanimously to any position that we vote for. I whisper to my Uncle Tim, "I voted for you!" Which is true...Uncle Dal did too and added smiley faces and hearts to his ballot.

The second half is laborious but fun as we watch Dave Gekler try to speed it up as much as possible and then talk about potential changes that could be made to the church - each of which I am horrified by. The night usually ends with the statement, "Not until Brenda gets married!" Tonight's was talking about changing the lights in the sanctuary. "We can get rid of those ugly chandelier things." I gasped in horror and my thought was, "But they've been up there forever! They were up there for my parents' wedding and both my aunts'. They need to be their for mine!" and Uncle Dave came to my rescue by saying, "Not until Brenda gets married!" and we all laugh.

I think I love them because we all love each other so much. I know that I am related to so many of the members there, but they all feel like family. We know each other by face and name. We express our love for each other and we share in our desire to serve God most faithfully. What a great way to spend a Friday night.

Mellow Musicians Make Me Mad

I play the dulcimer. It's a beautiful wooden instrument with four strings. It's easy to play and is a great American instrument. No one knows what it is. Well, almost no one. My father attempted to build one for my mother and it ended up being a catalyst for their relationship. My mother purchased one for my father on their 25th wedding anniversary and I stole it. A month ago, I broke the bass string on this instrument. I was advised to go to a music store and buy a new string.

I preface this with one addition, I am well aware of the rarity of my instrument and that my restringing a dulcimer is probably something few people who work at a music store have done. And still, I am peeved.

I entered Whitaker's music store with my broken string and my manual that described the range of diameters of my bass string. The only person in the store was the clerk who strummed his guitar, playing no song in particular. He smiled politely as we entered and continued his strumming. I walked toward him with determination and said, "I would like to replace the string on my dulcimer. This is the broken string." He continued strumming and smiling vaguely to himself. I waited and he didn't respond so I continued, "The manual says it should be between, .014" and .021"." No response.

Finally, he put down his guitar and said, "Sure, a dulcimer, uh yeah." His sarcasm was dripping from his lips and I handed him my string. "Huh," he eloquently commented. "It could be like a guitar string, but does it have to have this loop thing at the end?" I agree that this is a valid question and one to which I did not have an answer. So I went back to the car and brought in my dulcimer. Before I continue, I feel the you cannot understand this experience if you are not reading his words in the proper tone. You must imagine every surfer/hippie that has ever been parodied and mix that with early twenties garage bander, then slow it down twenty fold. This is our guy.

"Oh, yeah, of course a dulcimer," he said as he took it from the case and screwed up his face in confusion. Yeah, I get that it's a strange instrument. Get me a string. "So what made you pick up this?" "It was a gift from my mother to my father and I stole it." "Stealing is good," he smiled as he tried to place the dulcimer on some sort of stand and as it slid off the stand, he removed it.

We spent the next 10 minutes with him trying to replace my string. If I interjected anything, he would get confused and need to start over. He paused once to help another customer and then returned with my broken string in his hand. He seemed to have forgotten what he was trying to do because he tried to restring it with my broken string. "Nope, that won't work. Oh, wait, what am I doing? That's your string you came in with." He then tossed my string over his shoulder and tried to attach a violin string. He unwound it and realized it was too small. "Maybe we could try a cello string?" He looked to me as if I was the one who knew what to do. I shrugged and did not hold much hope. He walked back toward his cabinet of strings, did not pull out any more and said, "I don't think I have any strings long enough. Did you try online?" "No," I replied, thinking I thought a music store might be a little more helpful that the internet.

I packed up my instrument and asked for my string back. "Uhh...huh, that's weird. Where did it go?"

"I saw you throw it over your shoulder."

He looked up in utter dazed astonishment, "I did? No."

"Yeah, remember you accidentally tried it back on my dulcimer and realized it was the wrong one and threw it over your shoulder."

"Really? That's weird." He then looked for it for another 5 minutes.

"That's ok. I'll just go."

"No, this is really ********. You like come in here all wanting help and stuff and not only can I not help you, I make it worse by losing your string. {expletive}"

"It's fine."

We left the store and my friends and I just started laughing. "Wow," I said, "that would have been the biggest waste of time, except I write a blog and that made that experience awesome."