I Need a Bigger Sack

10 April, 2014

I have rightly earned the reputation for being a gorron, or mooch, both here and in the USA. It is a gift. Somehow I am able to position myself to receive free stuff that other people happily gather on my behalf. It would be sinful for me to turn down their hospitality, so I humbly accept whatever comes my way. Evidence of this fact is that we have driven a car here in Spain for 7 months. Free of charge. We neither asked for it nor expected it, but there it is. What was I supposed to do? 

The same goes for fruits and vegetables. Sure we buy things at the market, but almost on a routine basis, somebody gives us a sack of something. Quite often, it's oranges.

Murcianos are very proud of their agriculture. They will tell you, without a shred of doubt, that their fruits and vegetables are better than anywhere else in the world. After living here for seven months, I am inclined to believe them. Two of their most ardent passions are lemons and oranges. Orchards stretch as far as the eye can see. Anyone with more than a postage stamp of dirt will have a tree, bursting forth with great globules of juicy sweetness. Every morning Susan drinks two oranges, fresh-squeezed. She has made some incredible lemon squares as well. The locals even sprinkle lemon juice on their potato chips and sliced ham. You just have to try it. 

Yesterday, a friend of mine gave me a big sack of oranges. I asked where he got them, and he said they came from an abandoned orchard. This blew me away, so I told him I wanted to go on the next procurement mission. And another adventure begins.

When we arrived at the orchard, I saw about 200 trees, full of oranges. Gonzalo asked me what I brought for a bag. My plan was to fill my backpack, and I also had a shopping bag. He chuckled and told me I didn't bring a big enough sack. Luckily he furnished one for me.

We picked oranges for about half an hour, and I came away with about 70 pounds of oranges and lemons, all there for the taking. Thousands of oranges lay on the ground. Many more still hung in the trees. The season is coming to an end, so they will probably just rot away.

The scene left an indelible mark on me. I started thinking about how God doles out blessings. My family is incredibly blessed, beyond measure. We have so much for which to give thanks. I am not speaking about material possessions. We gave up many of our "things" before we came to Spain, and we are better for it. I am speaking about intangible blessings like:

• Friends 
• Family
• Health
• Opportunities
• Mercy
• Peace

God has an infinitely large orchard and tells us to take all we can carry. I think he laughs sometimes at our bags. They are so puny, compared to the abundant harvest that awaits us. 

The tragedy is that most people don't know about the orchard and starve just outside its borders. I have a bag that is stuffed to overflowing, much more than my family can consume, so I am left with the happy task of finding other people who would like to share in the bounty. I am an orange/blessing missionary.

The truth is that the trees would produce even more fruit, if they were pruned and cared for. They actually respond better to being picked than to being left alone. The oranges need to be taken for the health and well-being of the tree. If we could see God's blessings rotting on the ground, due to our neglect and unwillingness to pick the fruit for others, I wonder if we would be more inclined to do the work. 

Of course the greatest blessing of all is salvation. I have neglected that part of the harvest while here in Spain, to my discredit and shame, choosing instead to keep all the fruit to myself. 

These were his instructions to them: "The harvest is great, but the workers are few. So pray to the Lord who is in charge of the harvest; ask him to send more workers into his fields. (Jesus. Luke 10:2)

I'd better get a bigger sack.

Valencia

6 December, 13

The girls had a puente, or bridge. That means they had a 4 day weekend, which means we gotta GO! Of course, we extended it another day, which they call an aqueduct. A big part of living in Spain is the ability to go to just about anywhere in Europe relatively easily and cheaply. I say relatively, because it is a little costlier and troublesome than we thought, but still very much worth the effort.

As a family we decided to go to Paris. The last time Susan and I were in Paris was for our honeymoon 18 years ago. I am not sure if Paris is the same, but I know we have changed quite a bit. My first experience in Paris was magnificent. The food was great. The city sparkled. The people were nice. Yep, the people were nice. I remember that I went out one morning for bread and ended up part of a protest march for or against something. It was hard to tell, because everybody kept speaking in French, but we marched in solidarity.

Both girls have been learning French. Katherine has been dying to order four croissants. Elizabeth’s hero is Coco Chanel. We were all a little giddy about the trip.

Susan did her usual magic and found some good tickets out of Valencia for half the price of Alicante. That meant an extra hour of travel to the airport, but we also got to see another great Spanish city. Our flight was for Friday evening, so we decided to leave school a little early on Thursday and take a day and a half to check out Valencia. Good decision.

It took us two hours to get to Valencia, and another two hours to find our way to the hotel. By now we are used to driving in the rabbit warrens Spaniards call roads, but Valencia takes it to another level. I kept looking for the Mad Hatter. We eventually got lost in the middle and just stopped at what happened to be some pretty important government building. We knew that because four cops started staring us down. This presented a great opportunity for some cultural interaction. It was basically like parking on the White House lawn and asking Secret Service for directions. I got out of the car and tried to remember not to put my hands in my pockets, while maintaining a large “I come in peace!” grin. Luckily for us, the cops in Valencia are very accommodating. We told them our predicament, and they were very kind. After several attempts to explain how to get to our hotel, the lead cop just gave up and basically said, “You can’t get there from here.” So he flagged down a police car, and we got a police escort right to the front door of our hotel. Now that is service. Try THAT at the White House!

When I say “hotel”, I really mean a retrofitted building, with nothing on the outside that would lead the uninitiated into thinking it was a place for overnight guests. We walked up to a big wooden door, circa 1250 AD, and rang the bell. I felt like a peasant walking up to the castle to ask for alms. The attendant buzzed us in. (Everybody has electronic locks here. It’s really weird.) Our flat was pretty modern, another commercial for Ikea, complete with a kitchen. It only cost about 50€, which is pretty decent.

I had to go park the car alone, which scared the crap out of me. Susan is my map, so I am lost without her. She has navigational skills that would make an general jealous, but I sallied forth like a brave soldier. When I found the parking garage, it was like descending into the bowels of Hell itself. It was dark and I had to go down two floors.  I kept thinking I was in a scene of “Fight Club”. I finally emerged and made it back to the hotel unscathed. Then Susan decided she wanted us to cruise the modern part of the city and find something to eat there. So I had to re-enter the abyss and retrieve the car. Evidently no fights were scheduled for that night, as I once again escaped with nary a scratch.

Valencia is the third largest city in Spain, behind Madrid and Barcelona. They went whole hog with the real estate boom of the last decade, and consequently have fallen further than other places as well. The benefits will outweigh the costs eventually, however. Valencia has an ultra-modern downtown, something that looks like a scene from the Jetsons. I am not much of a fan for modern architecture, but even I was impressed. We drove around the new sections and found a parking spot. I didn’t even get a ticket!

We were all famished, so we stopped at the first decent looking place we could find. Valencia is the birthplace of paella, so naturally I was looking for that. We ate at El Pavo Laqueado, which is literally translated, The Lacquered Duck. It was a sit-down Chinese restaurant with no buffet. They specialized in Peking Duck; hence the name. We got a fixed meal plan for 4 people. It was spectacular. A server came by and hand-rolled what we called Chinese burritos of duck and fresh cucumber and onion strips, with a peanut sauce. Then they brought out some beef. Then some seafood. Then some spare ribs. Then fried rice. The food just kept coming. After dinner, we went back to the flat and crashed.

Valencia has a lot to offer the tourist. Beautiful beaches, great food, Formula One races, old cathedrals, the largest aquarium in Europe, and much more. We didn’t have much time, so we shelved the aquarium and beach for a subsequent trip and opted for the historical parts of Valencia instead. It was a great decision.

The old city center is definitely geared towards tourists, meaning the food is way over-priced. We ate breakfast there for about 12€ each, which included a croissant, Valencian orange juice that is so strong it could cure cancer, a pastry and a hot drink. The girls both got sugar bombs. Murcia tends more towards the savory end of the gustatory spectrum. Evidently Valencia has a sweet tooth. After breakfast, we shopped at some of the tourist stalls and paid too much for a couple of trinkets. We also found a vintage clothing store that sold Levi’s Button-fly 501 jeans. I tried on a couple of pairs, but my family wouldn’t let me buy them. Evidently they are not as cool now as they were, when I was a teenager.

Next on the agenda was a tour of the Metropolitan Cathedral, which dates from 1238 and claims to house the Holy Grail, or cup that Jesus used at the Last Supper. Interestingly, the cup has been carbon dated to between 300BC and 100AD. It has been the official cup used by popes for several hundred years. The cathedral also houses the left arm of St. Vincent, who was martyred in 304AD. Aside from the strange and macabre, the cathedral is full of beautiful paintings and some magnificent architecture. Elizabeth, Katherine and I also climbed the bell tower and took some incredible photos of the city.

After the Cathedral, we visited La Lonja de la Seda, another building that was full of some cool geometric patterns that reminded me of the video game, Q-Bert.

We finally ate paella at La Ruía, a restaurant just off the plaza. It had that look and feel of a family-owned place that has catered to tourists for generations. The paella was excellent, though, so who cares? This one was chicken and rabbit. After eating, we dashed off to the airport to catch our plane to Paris!

God is not Santa Claus

11 November, 13

In America, especially in the South, we have churches on every street corner. If you are a Redneck, and you are not at a NASCAR race, you WILL be in church. Or else your mama will whup you with a fly swatter. You don't have to believe. You just have to go. We have a saying, "The undertaker always attends the biggest church." When he goes, he sees potential customers. I suppose it's the same way for insurance salesmen and the mayor, too. In black churches, it's an opportunity to wear fancy hats. I love attending black churches. They know how to do church! (It is ironic to me that the most segregated place in America is church on Sunday. Shame on us!)

All the churches in Hartsville are coordinated, to allow Mr. B's and Yogi Bear Honey Fried Chicken to serve the whole population, while avoiding those awful long lines. The Methodists get out first. If you are not out of a Methodist church by 12:00:25, you must be the preacher. George Atkins used to stand up at 12PM, whether the preacher was done or not. Sometimes the new guys needed a little training. Presbyterians follow about 8 minutes later, just so they can say they aren't Methodists. Southern Baptists are a little more disorganized. The ones in the back row closely resemble Methodists. Altar call attendees usually ate a big breakfast, so they can leave the church later, without too many hunger pangs. Then comes the Assemblies of God, Freewill Baptists and Church of God. They have to pick up all the bodies off the floor, which takes awhile. They are out the door about 1:15. Right about 2:30, the black churches come up for air. They have clapped, swayed, sung and prayed all morning and into the afternoon. I have profound respect for black churches and the sacrifice they make every Sunday, to allow white churches the opportunity to eat first. It is a true demonstration of humility and grace. To be sure, they will be at the front of the buffet line in heaven. “So the last will be first, and the first will be last.” (Matthew 20:16)

I am a washed in the blood, sprinkled AND dipped, once saved always saved, Christ follower. I have been since my sophomore year at Clemson. My life was radically transformed one night after a Fellowship of Christian Athletes meeting. 

This was a difficult and painful transition for me. I realized that I would have to walk away from many friends, good friends, because I was too weak to be around them. They weren't bad people, but they were practicing a lifestyle that I needed to leave behind. It was my problem, not theirs. Although salvation is a free gift, the subsequent life does come at a cost. That is when I realized church was something very different than my experiences growing up. It is more than a prelude to lunch.

My Christian walk has ebbed and flowed over the past 25 years. I have been a Bible-thumper. I have been a backslider. I have been conservative, liberal and moderate, sometimes all at the same time. I am a mess, but God loves me anyway. Thank you God!

The lifestyle here in Spain is nice. The people are kind and basically moral. They don't want to hurt anybody. Spaniards love their families and their friends. In this respect, they are just like most Americans, most people all over the world, really. There doesn't seem to be much interest, however, in having a personal relationship with God. He is relegated to festivals and cathedrals, but not very present in homes or daily life. He is more like Santa Claus. Fun once a year, but every week gets a little stale. Every day? Well that's getting into meddlin'.

Our family attended a small Southern Baptist church last night. It was in Murcia. Susan had been searching online for a place to worship and had narrowed down to a couple of choices. One day last week, I was getting gas for the car. There are no self-serve pumps here. You have to wait for an attendant. I struck up a conversation with the guy, and somehow we got on the subject of church. He must have brought it up. When I asked him where he attended, it was the same church that Susan had found online. Weird. This was the third gas station I visited that day. The other two were either closed or only had diesel. Weird. His name is Danilo. Weird. The pastor of the church is from Texas. Weird. Is God trying to get my attention or something?

Back at Thornwell Elementary School, we had a huge playground. We could run for days. There were shady spots and jungle gyms and a baseball diamond. It was big. Alongside the playground was a line of railroad tracks that led into Sonoco, the paper mill. All the boys used to gather around one spot in the fence that didn't reach all the way to the ground. You could easily scootch under it and go down to the railroad tracks. We had all that playground, yet we wanted to go play on the tracks. Every now and then a teacher would come along and shoo us in the right direction, thus avoiding any ugly confrontations with a freight train full of pulp wood. That is kind of the way God works in my life. He lets me live my life, until I walk up on the fence. Then he pulls me back over to where it's safe. He's been tugging for a while now, and although I don't always like it, I am thankful for His care over me. This Redneck needs a Savior. Not a Santa Claus.

En América, especialmente en el sur, tenemos iglesias en cada esquina. Si estas un Garrulo, o Redneck, y no está en una carrera de NASCAR, sin duda se encuentra en la iglesia. Si no, su madre le azotar con su palo. No necesitas a creer. Solamente va. Tenemos un frase, “El empresario de pompas fúnebres va a la iglesia más grande.” Cuando va a la iglesia, él va para futuros clientes.  En Estados Unidos las iglesias están separado por raza. Iglesia el domingo es el lugar mas separado en América. Esto es una vergüenza para nosotros. Los gentes negros saben como hacer iglesia.

Todos las iglesias de la ciudad en la que nací son protestantes y cada iglesia es poco diferente en la forma de hacer iglesia. Cada congregación termina sus servicios en momentos diferente. Eso es bueno porque después los servicios, todos comen en los restaurantes. Por lo tanto, no hay largas colas para el almuerzo.  A veces el congregación están pensado a comer, y no escuchan el sermón. Para muchos, la iglesia no es más que una formalidad. Van a iglesia sólo para ser vistos por otras personas.

Para mi, la iglesia es un parte de mi vida. Es más que un preludio de almorzar. Yo soy un seguidor de Cristo, lavado en la sangre de Jesucristo, bautizados en el Espíritu Santo. Me transformé completamente cuando fui en universidad. Mi caminar con Cristo ha ido y venido en los últimos 25 años. Ha sido un radical, un reincidente, un conservador, un liberal y un moderada. A veces al mismo tiempo. Soy un lío pero Dios me ama. ¡Gracias Dios!

La moda de vida aquí en España es muy simpática. La gente es amable y básicamente moral. No quieren hacer daño a nadie. Españoles aman sus familias y amigos. En esto respeta, son como Americanos, de verdad como la gente en todo mundo. No parece ser mucho interés en una relación personal con Jesucristo, sin embargo. Dios es relegado a festivales y catedrales pero no está presente en las vida cotidiana. Él es mas que Papa Noel. Divertido una vez al año pero cada semana es poco viejo y aburrido. ¿Cada día? Ahora que se está entrometiendo.

En la escuela primaria, tendría un patio de recreo muy grande, con lugares con sombre y lugares para correr y lugares para jugar. A lo largo de la zona de juegos,  en el otro lado de una cerca, había una vía para ferrocarril. Los chicos les gustaba jugar allí. A veces una profesora venía y los decía a jugar en otros lugares donde estaba a salvo. Dios trabaja en mi vida como un profesor en mi escuela. Cuando me alejo, se traslada a un lugar seguro. Ha estado tirando desde hace un tiempo, y aunque no siempre me gusta, estoy agradecido por su atención sobre mí. Este Garrulo necesita un Salvador. No un Papa Noel.