Overhand or Underhand?

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Two young baseball players, new to the team (if not quite to the game) found themselves in deep disagreement one day over the proper way to throw a baseball.

 

“Overhand!” insisted the team’s new shortstop. “That’s the best way – the only way. It gets there faster, and you can throw it farther. Underhand just doesn’t cut it.”

“Underhand is best!” argued the second baseman. “You’ve got more control. It goes where you want it to, and it’s easier for your teammate to catch.”

Neither would give an inch.

“Overhand!”

“Underhand!”

“Overhand!”

“Underhand!”

This went on for some time.

At last, the coach had reached her limit for unreasoned discussion – or, well, argument. She told the players to take to the diamond for some fielding practice. As the infielders and outfielders took their positions, she told one of the other players to stand on first base.

“Here’s the situation,” she called to the team. “We’ve got one out, and there’s a runner on first. That could be the tying run in this game. So we’ve got to get these runners out!”

She stepped up to the plate with bat and ball, and hit a scorching ground ball between second base and third. The shortstop ran to intercept it, caught it neatly, and she looked to where the second basement was running to cover the bag as the runner took off from first.

The second baseman was close. Really close. So the shortstop – the overhand thrower – tossed the ball underhand to the second baseman just as his foot tapped the bag. One out.

Now the second baseman – the underhand thrower – spun to look toward first base. The coach was sprinting down the base path, making for first. So he cocked his arm back, and fired a fast straight throw (overhand!) to the first baseman, who caught it just before the coach’s foot could come down on the bag.

Double play!

All the players hooted and hollered their congratulations, and the coach walked over to the wondering pair who’d just reversed their argument in a fraction of a second.

“It’s not about one way to do things,” she told them. “There’s a place and a time for underhand, and a place and a time for overhand. You just need to learn which is which.

“Now, play ball!”

Baseball image by Hector Rodriguez – originally posted to Flickr as Baseball, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10178609

With a Grateful Heart

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The youth rejoice.

In company with many of my fellow citizens, I’ve felt a lot of sorrow this week, and a burden on my soul. The deaths of Alton Sterling, then Philandro Castile, then Lorne Ahrens, Michael Krol, Michael Smith, Brent Thompson, and Patrick Zamarripa, came as a relentless beat of violence. They laid bare once again how incomplete is America’s effort to eradicate racism from its society, and how overly ready we are to turn to force – deadly force – when fear and rage drive us.

 

On Saturday, I took the road south from Hilo to another UCC church, Kalapana Mauna Kea First Congregational Church, as they were celebrating their 193rd anniversary and holding a Ho ‘Ike, a musical celebration including musicians from a number of congregations around the island and a 90-person group of young people doing service projects at local churches across Hawai’i.

As I was watching liturgical hula for the first time (video below), I felt my soul rise. It was exactly what I needed.

Later on, I joined the kahu (pastors) and other church leaders in the house for an impromptu rendition of a Hawaiian song. Well, I’ve only been here three months, my Hawaiian can be generously described as minimal, and I simply didn’t grow up with the songs – but when you don’t know the melody, you can harmonize, and when you don’t know the words, you do your best with the vowels as they come along.

So thank you, Kalapana Mauna Kea, Kahu Mike Warren, and all the leadership and musicians of the day that made it so special. I’ve been richly blessed. May God bless you even more.

I Wish…

IMG_1082I wish I had words to express my sorrow.
I do not.

I wish I had words to express my anger.
I do not.

I wish I had words to persuade the world.
I do not.

Only tears gathering at the corners of my eyes,
Tears insufficient to cleanse the bloodied shirts
Which could not shield the ebon bodies
Desecrated by lead.

I wish I had words to speak the bullets back to the chamber,
The fingers off of the triggers,
The guns back into the holsters,
The fear out of the hearts,
The aggression out of the speech.
I do not.

I wish I had words so all the world would know
And act as if it knew
That #blacklivesmatter.

But I do not.

In anger and in sorrow at the deaths of Alton Sterling and Philandro Castile.

‘Apapane Pride – And Hubris

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An ‘Apapane and nestlings, courtesy National Park Service

If you were very lucky, and found the right tree, and if you stood in the right place where the branches weren’t too think, and if you looked at the right place, you might see the ‘Apapane nest high in an ohi’a tree.

There were three chicks in the nest, about 2 weeks old, they were hungry all the time, and they had grown feathers – so they were starting to think about flying.

Birds grow up faster than people.

One of them, who might have been the oldest but they all hatched at the same time so who knows?, was sure that he was ready to fly. So when his mother had flown off to get some food – did I mention that they were hungry pretty much all the time? – he hopped up on the side of the nest, spread his wings, and launched himself into the air.

Well, I’m afraid he didn’t get far. Those new feathers weren’t quite grown out, or his wing muscles weren’t quite strong enough, or some combination of the two, and he was lucky to find himself grasping a branch not far below with his wings all a-flutter and his heart racing.

And that was before his mother got back and hounded him along the branch he’d landed on to the tree trunk and then some hopping and frantic fluttering to bring him back to the nest at the top of the tree.

Quite aside from all the air she blew at him with her wings, she gave him The Look.

You know The Look, right? It’s the one your mother gives you when she’s Just Had Enough?

I know The Look.

And likewise this little bird got to know The Look.

Two days later, though, all their wings were stronger and now the mother thought they were ready to fly – did I mention that birds grow up faster than people? So the mother nudged them onto the edge of the nest one by one. Our proud chick went first, and sure enough, his wings were ready and he flew off. But I’m afraid he still had more pride than wing strength, so when he tried to fly farther than the next tree he found himself on the ground a little ways past it. It took some time before he was rested enough to come back to his home tree.

The second chick, I’m afraid, let his fears get the best of him. He’d watched his brother do badly, of course, but even without that, he wouldn’t believe he could do it. His mother nudged him up on the edge of the nest, and there he stayed, even when his mother gave him The Look.

You now The Look, right?

I know The Look.

And this little bird got to know The Look.

When he still wouldn’t take off, his mother finally resorted to pushing him right off the nest. He frantically sawed the air with his wings, and to his surprise, found himself flying right over to the next tree, where he perched with his heart pounding and his mind soaring.

Then came the last one. He stepped up, and looked at his mother, who nodded. He spread his wings, and looked at them carefully, to see all the feathers were in place. He thought they were, but he looked at his mother, and she nodded again. He flapped his wings a couple of times, just to feel how the air pressed against them, and one last time, looked at his mother. She nodded once again.

So he stepped off into space, let his wings descend and rise again…

And he flew.

Say Their Names

Say their names.

It was Saturday night in Orlando.
The night was filled with dancing,
Music whirling bodies merrily about the floor,
Laughing with loved ones
In common sanctuary,
When Death arrived, spinning bullets
Striking spinning dancers to the stone.
Rainbow festival yielded to one color, crimson.
Their names, accented with the Spanish
Of Caribbean islands or of South
American towns, spill haltingly
From my awkward tongue,
Because my voice is choked
With tears.

Stanley Almodovar III, 23
Amanda Alvear, 25
Oscar A Aracena-Montero, 26
Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, 33
Antonio Davon Brown, 29
Darryl Roman Burt II, 29
Angel L. Candelario-Padro, 28
Juan Chevez-Martinez, 25
Luis Daniel Conde, 39
Cory James Connell, 21
Tevin Eugene Crosby, 25
Deonka Deidra Drayton, 32
Simon Adrian Carrillo Fernandez, 31
Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25
Mercedez Marisol Flores, 26
Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, 22
Juan Ramon Guerrero, 22
Paul Terrell Henry, 41
Frank Hernandez, 27
Miguel Angel Honorato, 30
Javier Jorge-Reyes, 40
Jason Benjamin Josaphat, 19
Eddie Jamoldroy Justice, 30
Anthony Luis Laureanodisla, 25
Christopher Andrew Leinonen, 32
Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21
Brenda Lee Marquez McCool, 49
Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez, 25
Kimberly Morris, 37
Akyra Monet Murray, 18
Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo, 20
Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez, 25
Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, 36
Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32
Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, 35
Enrique L. Rios, Jr., 25
Jean C. Nives Rodriguez, 27
Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado, 35
Christopher Joseph Sanfeliz, 24
Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, 24
Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34
Shane Evan Tomlinson, 33
Martin Benitez Torres, 33
Jonathan Antonio Camuy Vega, 24
Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, 37
Luis S. Vielma, 22
Franky Jimmy Dejesus Velazquez, 50
Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, 37
Jerald Arthur Wright, 31

As their friends and families mourn their murders,
Say their names.

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Root and Branch

Kilauea Iki

 

An ‘ohi’a seed fell into the soil, and it found good soil, soil it liked immediately. So it did what seeds do: it sprouted. Two shoots emerged and began to grow.

One said, “I’m going up to see if I can touch the sky!”

The other said, “I’m going down to explore the rich earth.”

And so the two shoots separated. The lower shoot indeed explored that rich soil (and even some hard rocks it found). It became the root, and it spread smaller roots through the soil and around the rocks. 

It had little notion of what had happened to the shoot rising up, but the root would collect water and minerals from the soil, and send them up that rising shoot, which called for them. The root was glad to have food and energy come back down from above, but that was all it knew.

Sometimes everything would shudder, and the root wondered what was happening above even as it gripped more tightly to the earth to keep everything from falling.

One day, a heavy rain came through, and rushing winds, and suddenly the root found that a portion of itself was no longer sheltered in the earth. The flowing water had washed its soil covering away. It looked around in wonder at the surface world that it had never seen, and then it looked up. 

Soaring high above, it found that the upper shoot had become a grand tree, festooned with branches, bearing upon some of their tips the scarlet flowers of the ‘ohi’a. It was nothing like the tiny shoot that it remembered.

“You look wonderful,” said the root. “Did you find the sun?”

“It shines on me almost every day,” said the tree.

“I’m sure you’ve forgotten me,” said the root, “as grand as you’ve become.”

“Not for a moment,” said the tree above. “I’ve grown and changed, but you’re my root. You hold me fast when the winds would blow me down. You send me food and water from the ground that I could never find. You’re where I’ve come from, and where I am, and together we approach the sun.”

That’s what our families, our ancestors, do for us. They are the root. We grow and change, and they sustain us through the high winds of life’s troubles. They feed us as we stretch toward the people we’ll become. They give us what we need so we can grow.

We will blossom and flower because we have our roots.

I Guess it Needs to be Said

Liliuokalani Park, Hilo, HI

I guess it needs to be said: 

You don’t get to kill someone because they’re different. God made LGBTQ folks. Muslim folks. Black folks. Brown folks. You don’t get to kill them because of any of that.

You don’t get to kill people because you’re angry, or scared, or offended, or embarrassed. You don’t get to kill them out of resentment or a sense of betrayal. You don’t get to kill them out of privilege or pride. You don’t get to kill them. 

When the sword flashed in the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus said, “Enough of this.” 

Two thousand years and millions of dead later, haven’t we had enough?

Windswept

IMG_1033In shock and horror,
outrage at the murder of so many
(one would have been too many)
targeted
(is there a more appalling word
to use for people?)
because they loved another human being
whose gender was their own,
I joined companions in a search for peace
atop the mountain summit,
Mauna Kea, snowy peak amidst the tropics,
holy summit for a thousand years.

I searched for peace, but found a mountain grieving.
The howling wind re-echoed with the cries of loss.
The streaming clouds wept hail upon the slopes.
The broken peace so far away
will not be mended from a mountaintop.

No, we must mend it from the valleys;
we must heal it in the plains;
we must nurture peace wherever human beings
hate each other for their skin, their past,
their faith, their loves.

Only then, perhaps, may we return
to Mauna Kea,
lay our peace upon the ahu,
giving thanks to God that we
have finally
attended to the prophets,
to the Christ,
to the truth-tellers and the songs,
and now can come to worship.

The Ocean Comforted

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Ala Moana Beach – Photo by Eric Anderson

This story begins with a little girl and a big ocean.

This little girl loved to play on the beach. She loved to watch the waves roll in, and the changing colors of the water. She loved to see the waves leap up from the rocks in great fountains of spray, and she loved to see them slide up on the sand. She loved to build sand castles, and watch the rising tide fill her moats with water. She loved to see the waves wash up over her creations, and slide back into the sea leaving the sand smooth and bare, as if nothing had ever been there at all. She’d laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

She’d swim, and dive, and watch fish. She even tried to surf.

The ocean made her joyful, and the ocean smiled to do it. But the ocean never really believed she’d do anything for it. Oceans are big, and compared to an ocean, this little girl really was quite small.

One day, while running along the beach, she noticed a plastic cup floating in the surf. Not far away, she saw a plastic bag. Then she spotted a lost pair of sunglasses. And it went on and on.

To the ocean, these bits of trash feel a little like something stuck under your fingernails. It didn’t like the feeling, but it was kind of used to it. Certainly there’s a lot of it about.

The little girl didn’t leave the cup where it was, or the bag, or the sunglasses. She picked up all of them, and everything else she could see, and took them away.

Every time the ocean saw her after that, she brought a bag with her, and filled it with those bits of flotsam trash she found. And she’d swim, and run, and build sand castles, and laugh, and laugh, and laugh. And she’d clear away all the trash she’d collected.

It’s a big world, and a big ocean. She paid it a favor that was small in some ways – but you’d better believe that the ocean was as grateful for her gift to it as she was for all its gifts to her.

This Man Demands

Bernardo_Strozzi_-_Prophet_Elijah_and_the_Widow_of_Sarepta_-_WGA21919One meal remains, just one
To comfort us, my son and I.
I search the barren ground,
Aching for rain,
To find the fuel to bake
That last pathetic cake
For our memorial feast.

And, of course, he comes to me
Asserting hospitality’s demands.
Some water (in a drought, no less!):
All right, the well provides
(How long, I ask, how long?).
But then, another call
For bread, that he may eat.

I have no bread, demanding man.
I am a corpse too stupid to stop walking.
I have the makings of one meal
To bring brief comfort
To my son and I
Before the pangs of hunger
Take our lives.

What matter if I feed this man?
Our fate is written; we are bound for death.
So, I suspect, is he,
Fool foreigner demanding bread.
One meal alone I’ll share.
Perhaps he’ll linger long enough
To watch me die.

Hospitality demands.
Our straight poverty demands.
Time of drought demands.
Arrogance demands.
Death’s imminence demands.
This man demands.
This man’s God…
Gives.

Based on 1 Kings 17:8-16