Arrow of Light

Eli earned his Arrow of Light for Webelos Scouts last week. It's the highest and last step in Webelos. The Arrow of Light patch is the only Cub Scouting insignia that can be worn on the Boy Scout uniform. Eli worked really hard to earn the extra steps required to make Arrow of Light, on top of being a Webelos Scout. Pop-pop and Mammy came up for the ceremony.

A couple of years ago when I was a den leader in Richmond, I asked dad to come up and talk about Scouting from his perspective (he's been involved in one way or another for more than 50 years). I billed it to the boys in my den as a visit with the "oldest living Scout!" Maybe not the kindest appellation, but heart-felt indeed. The nickname stuck. The is my dad and my son at the recent ceremony.

Busy Weekend

The past few weekends have been really busy, but have given us a chance to get some great photos. This weekend Bud and Gloria are here for Eli's graduation from Webelos to Boy Scouts. This evening when they are arrived, they brought gifts, which gave Briggs a chance to show off for the camera. He was really crazy. Here is a video of him dancing to the music coming from one of Calvin's new toys. You can catch Bud singing the tune in the background. Here are some other pictures from the weekend.

Eli and Briggs are delighted to have a young protege to share the world of rescue vehicles and Legos with; in the photo above Calvin is getting his first taste, literally, of Plamobil!

Baptism

Calvin is going to be baptized this Sunday, and right on time John M. Buchanan at the Century had a great first-person on his grand-daughter's baptism:

On the third Sunday of Easter I was in La Jolla, California, for the baptism of a granddaughter. If there is anything better than witnessing and participating in the baptism of a grandchild, I don't know what it is.

I'm told there are never unpleasant days in this part of the world. April in Chicago testifies that T. S. Eliot was right when he called April "the cruelest month." Perhaps Eliot had watched a baseball game at Wrigley Field with the temperature at 37 degrees and a 30-knot wind blowing off the lake. There are no days like that in La Jolla.

Baptism Sunday arrived sunny, warm and clear as a bell. The sanctuary buzzed with greetings, conversations, laughter. The church followed a traditional liturgy—somewhat unusual these days in Southern California. The organist chose Sowerby for a prelude, J. S. Bach for the postlude, and Sowerby's "Behold, God Is My Salvation" as the anthem by the choir. During the prelude, the three-year-old big sister of the one to be baptized walked down the aisle to light the candles. It was a bit of a stretch, even with the long candlelighter. The young woman accompanying her resolved the matter by lifting each brass candle holder from the altar and holding it down for Fiona, who took her responsibility utterly seriously. As she accomplished her mission a broad smile appeared on her face.

This baptism was logistically complex, since both grandfathers are clergypersons. (Both grandmothers are named Sue, which made the choice of a middle name quite clear.)

The intercessory prayer was my responsibility. I asked God's nurture, grace and protection for Eliza Sue, who had suddenly ceased her mild protestations and squirming and had settled into her mother's arms. Her other grandfather assured her and the rest of us that Jesus Christ came into the world for her, lived and demonstrated God's love for her, died and rose for her. And then, breaking a rule or at least a protocol, we each dipped a hand into the water and placed it on her head. I was reminded again that it is the church's sacrament, not the minister's. Then the presiding minister carried her up the aisle and reminded us all that Eliza was connected now not only to the faithful who were present that sunny California morning, but to the holy catholic church and the faithful of all times and places.

It was a communion Sunday, and again the connection between what we were doing in that small sanctuary and the life of the whole church of Jesus Christ was clear. "Because there is one bread, we who are many are one body, for we partake of the same loaf. The bread which we break is a sharing in the Body of Christ," the minister said, and it surely was.

When I worry, as I often do, about the future of mainline churches, I will remember that Third Sunday of Easter and a small congregation of faithful men, women and children—and the thousands upon thousands of others like them—keeping the faith, holding on to one another, baptizing infants, being the church. *

Baptism has always been the most moving rite of the church for me. Even before I had kids, I would get weepy baptizing children in the congregations I served as preacher. I told the choir last night just to ignore me this Sunday if (when) I begin to tear up. As we did at the baptism of Eli and Briggs, I am having the choir sing John Yvislaker's "Borning Cry," a tear-jerker if ever there was one. By the way, several in choir were teary-eyed as we finished practicing it last night.

We were delighted that we could celebrate the baptism on Pentecost Sunday; we worried that folks might think it a bit much on an already busy day. Like they did at the Buchanan family service, we'll celebrate communion also.

Because I'll be so verklempt, I will not on Sunday be able to articulate nearly so well as Dr. Buchanan has here what baptism means to me (and all of us Christians). Thanks, brother, for putting it so well for me.

*Copyright 2008 CHRISTIAN CENTURY. Reproduced by permission from the May 6, 2008, Volume 125, No. 9 issue of the CHRISTIAN CENTURY. Subscriptions: $49/year from P.O. Box 378, Mt. Morris, IL 61054. 1-800-208-4097

Cute baby alert

Calvin learned to grin a couple of weeks ago, and will do it if you tickle his lips. He also this week started grinning just for the heck of it at Eli. Go figure. Here's one. Here are a few more.

And one more flora shot

I think I kept mowing over these last year and we never saw the blooms. Three 8 inch clumps in three different places in the back yard. The leaves by themselves look dangerously (for them) like wild onions, so I whacked them down every chance I got. we haven't taken time to look up in the garden books to see what they are; feel free to weigh in with your opinions.

This year, Libby begged for mercy to see what they might do. Low and behold, they have really pretty, dainty flowers. Still looks like a weed, but I've transplanted them to one mower-safe locale.

More flora

I don't remember how ferns got connected to my dad so firmly in my mind, but they are forever linked. I seem to recall him being fascinated with them especially when they were in their very early stages of leafing out. We saw this last year, long after it had sprung up. I remembered it this year early and have been keeping an eye on it. I think we caught this plant at the perfect "fiddlehead" stage of leafing out. (Ignore the weeds.) Enjoy, Dad!

Flora

Last summer at our open house Charlotte S. and Betty H. gave us a gift certificate for peonies from their yards when transplanting time rolled around in fall. We transplanted 10 plants over winter. They all seemed to survive. We also discovered this spring an unusual (to us) variety of peony that did not bloom last year. Three nice blossoms this year. Several of the plants that Charlotte and Betty gave us have buds, though none have bloomed yet. We'll update when they do.