12 Kids ... And Counting?

Sunrise in Murrells Inlet, South Carolina

2011-12-21T09:42:00.002-05:00

A few minutes before sunrise this morning I snapped this photo at Morse Park Landing in the coastal town of Murrells Inlet, South Carolina. I had Judah in the backpack -- he thought 6 a.m. was wakeup time this morning so we decided to take a drive -- on a pleasant 52-degree morning, on a day we're heading for the 70s. On Dec. 21, no less.

We are vacationing down here for the week at a resort with an indoor pool, a 9-hole putt putt golf course, running paths and a nearby state park with a splendid beach on the Atlantic Ocean. It's a lovely spot and we are thoroughly enjoying our vacation, even if the putt putt golf is getting quite competitive and my team lost 6-5 to the vaunted trio of Abram, Madeline and Eli at a nearby soccer field yesterday.

It never ceases to amaze me the beauty of God's creation. The sun rising beyond the Atlantic Ocean over the salt marsh in a quiet little fishing hamlet was perfectly peaceful. Thanks Judah, for giving me a spectacular early start to the day.

Wiffle Ballapalooza: East vs. West

2011-09-14T12:15:00.007-04:00

Brenton Sabo

Parker Smith

Taylor Sabo

Matt Sabo

Ethan Sabo

It was late August on a sultry afternoon with a slight breeze rustling the leaves of the trees above us when two irresistible forces of nature collided in Gloucester. Perhaps you're recalling how the 5.8 magnitude earthquake and Hurricane Irene struck just days apart, rending earth, trees and homes alike. You would be thinking flat wrong. It was no force of literal nature that collided, but rather forces of unnatural strength, power and dizzying speed that crossed paths. It was the long anticipated matchup discussed literally for years, talked about by pundits, dissected endlessly by commentators and broken down at length on the cyberpages of Facebook. Yes, it was the vaunted "East Vs. West Wiffle Ball Matchup of the Century" at Sabo Field at Courthouse Square. Gloucester may never be the same.

The game was in a round-robin format, mano a mano, pitcher vs. batter with 2 fielders. The friendly confines of Sabo Field would settle once and for all who plays the better brand of Wiffle ball. Would it be the newcomers from the West, who talk smack with the best of 'em and had to beef up their lineup by taking Brenton Sabo on loan from the East? Or would it be the vaunted team from the East featuring a player in the twilight of his career and two young, stout arms in the prime of their youth? The matchup consisted of the aforementioned power-hitting Brenton Sabo and his trusty slinging-n-hitting sidekick Parker Smith, a brawny young man better known perhaps for his starring role playing the prophet Habakkuk in a production that can still be seen on Youtube (Google "Sesame Street Habakkuk" and you'll be in for a treat). Facing them were yours truly, a 42-year-old soft-tossing, wily veteran who's been playing Wiffle ball for 35 years or so and the dynamic brotherly duo of Ethan and Taylor Sabo with electric arms and dazzling bats.

Every player faced every other player as both hitter and batter. The game featured Gold Glove caliber fielding, jaw dropping bombs rocketing off the bat (Sorry neighbors!) and pitching that, in some cases, defied the laws of physics to the point that MIT is sending down a team of top-notch nerds armed with video cameras, slide rules, laptops and pocket protectors to determine how exactly some pitches literally enter new dimensions of time and space.

In the end, it was something of a draw, as the top two run-scorers were from the West and East. Some things are indisputable. Brenton and Old Man Sabo scored the most runs. But they also gave up the most runs. Brenton can still wield a mean glove in the field. So can Ethan. Taylor swings for the fences. If he connects, look out. Parker wields a strong bat and the East teamers grudgingly admit he can pitch.

We do, however, hold these truths to be self-evident:

1) Brenton may look funny at the plate, but leave the ball up at your own peril. Brenton at the plate is a cross between Kevin Youkilis and Craig Counsell. He holds the bat high, wagging it around as he sort of wags his hips, then comes steady as the pitcher hurls the ball at him. Hitting left-handed, Brenton launched one shot into straightaway center that nearly hit the roof -- of our neighbor's house. I'm sure I heard someone say, "Houston we have liftoff!" He, uh, struggles at the mound, however. There's a divot about 20 feet in front of home plate where Brenton routinely drilled the ball into the ground as he was pitching. One time Ethan hit a nice rocket into center field off one of those bounces.

2) As noted before, Parker can pitch. His slider is pretty nasty. He's deceptively fast. For a beefy guy, he's more a slap hitter and uses his surprising speed to motor around the bases. But make him labor as a pitcher and he can get in trouble. He's not an innings eater, but is pretty solid for 1-3 innings. The East players freely admit that if he comes up in free agency, we'd snatch him in a heartbeat. That's about the highest compliment a West Coast player can get, in case you're wondering.

3) Taylor has struggled this year finding his release point and pitches. When Taylor can locate and has his pitches working, fuhgeddaboutit. He did seem to have some elbow issues, until he popped some ibuprofen during the middle of the game. He seemed to get more life on his fastball after that and started inducing grounders. At the plate he swings for the fences. He's not looking to stroke a single anywhere. He wants to tear another hole in the ball. Unfortunately for me, sometimes he actually succeeds.

4) As for me, well, I'm just hanging on. If my forkball isn't working, I'm in big trouble. Taylor and Brenton each scored 5 runs off me in one inning, I believe. I had to go to the chiropractor the next day because my neck was so sore from watching balls fly over our roof.

5) Ethan is absolutely dominant on the hill. It's not even close. He put up some pitching statistics that absolutely boggle, stagger and even blow the mind. Try this one on for size, for example: In 10 innings pitched while the West Coast team was in the 'hood, he did not give up a single hit. Not one. The only thing I can compare that to is Don Larsen's perfect game in Game 5 of the 1956 World Series. Ethan registered more than 20 K's. We had so many forward and backward K's hanging on the fence that makes the short porch in right field we had to run to the store to get more paper. Parker thought about retiring at the top of his game after he simply put a ball in play against Ethan. I would have loved to have put a ball in play against him. The challenge for the MIT guys will be figuring how Ethan's fastball gets so much giddyup on it as it crosses the plate. That thing literally comes in fat and then jumps out of the strike zone as if it's possessed with some sort of bat-avoiding properties. It's like fishing with dynamite. It's not fair. Then he has this changeup that pretty much stops in front of the plate. I threw out my back once waving at it.

In the end, it was determined that nothing was settled. The only thing settled was that a rematch looms in the offing.

Judah Benjamin Sabo Then And Now

2011-09-02T21:39:00.003-04:00

On May 6, Judah Benjamin Sabo entered the world. He's been a pretty popular guy around our house ever since. His birth was a miraculous event, in my estimation. He's the product of a very difficult pregnancy for Julie, marked by gestational diabetes, insulin shots, sleeplessness, stress ... and at the end a very difficult birth. She began bleeding the night of May 5th. Nothing too serious, but worrisome nevertheless. In conversations with the doctor he at first advised her to stay home and rest. But I believe it was around 1 a.m. or 2 a.m. -- maybe a little later; at that time of night what's really the difference between an hour or two? -- that she woke me and said it was time to go to the hospital, even though she wasn't in labor.

We arrived at the hospital at 3 or 4 a.m. and she was doing fine for a while. So was Judah. The plan was for Julie to go ahead and have Judah naturally and to let the birthing process take its course. But around 8 a.m. suddenly things went downhill. Judah's heartbeat couldn't be found and Julie crashed as well, going faint. It seemed an eternity as nurses and doctors rushed into the room and an oxygen mask was placed on Julie that we couldn't hear Judah's heartbeat. It had been so strong at 138 beats a minute, a steady pulsing that signified a healthy baby. Minutes seemed to go by and I watched it at the end of the bed, out of the way of all the commotion, my own heart fluttering and a sense of dread. I did what only I could do in that moment and that was to pray.

I remember praying that I knew God had a plan in all of this but I told Him I didn't know if I was strong enough to face losing my son. And as I watched Julie as she appeared to be in a fog I asked God to save them both. In the scramble suddenly I heard Judah's heartbeat, about 70 beats a minute, weak but a sweet sound. The doctor came to me and told me they were taking Julie in for an emergency c-section. He thought things would be fine and that it appeared Julie and baby were stabilized. They wheeled her away and I waited, alone in prayer.

Maybe a half-hour later the doctor reappeared. Another Sabo had entered the world. He told me that the umbilical cord was wrapped around Judah's neck and in a knot. As he was descending in the birth canal, the cord was stretching and the knot was tightening. If he had been born vaginally, he wouldn't have made it, the doctor said. Julie had her own complications. She hemorrhaged in the recovery room and had a reaction to the anesthesia. For hours the nurses had to keep waking her up because she would fall asleep and quit breathing. It wasn't until about four hours later that I was able to see her. She was still groggy and twice while I was in the room with her she fell asleep and quit breathing.

The doctor, when he was speaking to me just after the birth, told me how another 20 minutes and we might not have either Julie or Judah with us. He told me how lucky we were. No, it wasn't that. "I was praying," I said.

Julie is doing just fine. She's as busy as ever and Judah keeps her quite occupied. Judah is growing into a stout young Sabo, or as stout as a Sabo can be. He's starting to laugh and is reaching out for things. This evening I was holding him and went in the back yard with the little boys and Olivia. Eli started kicking a soccer ball around. Judah watched him and started laughing. Then I joined in and started playing a game with Eli and Gabe while still holding Judah. We've never heard Judah laugh so hard.

A Sabo Sampler of Summer Photos & Thoughts on Irene

2011-08-30T08:51:00.009-04:00

Here we are a couple of days after Hurricane Irene blew through Gloucester. We did just fine and praise God it wasn't as powerful as advertised. Brenton is visiting and brought a friend with him from Oregon, Parker Smith, we have Lauren Mealey (a 22-year-old friend from Corvallis) living with us this summer, and Anna joined us for the hurricane party. So if my fingers and toes are correct, that was 18 people under one roof for Hurricane Irene. What a night. I am quite positive I wouldn't want to be around for a category 2 or 3 blow. Three trees went down in our vicinity, including one on the neighbor's roof, but major damage was avoided and no one was hurt. We lost power for 14 hours -- fortunately we are on the county water system and have a gas stove and water heater -- and everyone slept downstairs because I was worried about trees falling on our house. Literally, the floor was covered with people on mattresses.

As you can see, Judah is with us. He's a splendid chap, quite popular with his brothers and sisters, and is just now starting to laugh and jabber somewhat in his own distinctive lingo. He was born May 6 under traumatic circumstances, for both him and Julie. God is good, however. At one point the doctor told me that if Julie hadn't had an emergency c-section, we may have lost both of them in another 20 minutes. Julie is doing well, as you can see, and so is Judah. He spends a lot of time being carried around, believe it or not.

Last week was quite crazy. We had an earthquake that struck about 80 miles or so from here -- a 5.8 temblor -- on Tuesday, that rattled the house and nerves. I was in the courthouse and at first thought the folks at Camp Peary across the river (a mysterious CIA camp) were blowing up things again. But it kept shaking and in fact shaking more vigorously. When I poked my head out the door I saw people running for the exits and hollering something about an earthquake. The last quake of note in Virginia occurred in 1897, to give you an idea of how infrequently these things happen here. Then Irene blew in on Saturday. I went shopping on Thursday in advance of the storm and it looked like there had been wide scale looting in the store. No water was to be found anywhere, entire shelves were cleaned out, the place was packed ... it was wild. The gas stations had long lines of people filling up containers for fuel for generators (a staple for homeowners in these parts) and by Friday you could see people hauling furniture and family belongings out of low-lying areas along the rivers.

Irene proved to be a lot of hype, however, and not nearly as destructive as feared. I am thankful for that. My prayer throughout the hurricane, which started blowing in earnest Saturday morning and continued to about daylight Sunday morning, with continuous sheets of rain, was that the Lord would keep us safe, not allow any trees to fall on our house, and to keep our neighbors and those in our community safe. My prayer was answered.

Of Snowstorms And Thieves

2010-12-26T21:15:00.000-05:00

An epic snowstorm hit us yesterday, Christmas Day, with the first flakes falling about the time I was barbecuing steaks for Christmas dinner. It's been snowing since yesterday afternoon and we have 8 or 10 inches of snow on the ground, making for an interesting trip for Brenton as he was trying to fly home to Virginia from Oregon. He flew out of Portland last night, made it to Chicago early this morning, then to Philadelphia later this morning, only to find out all the planes in the City of Brotherly Love were grounded today. So two people he was in line with at the airport trying to find flights to Richmond -- it wasn't going to happen until tomorrow -- talked him into renting a car to drive from Philly to Richmond. We rendezvoused with him in Richmond about 6:30 this evening and made it home safely through all the snow, praise God.

So we get home and are all gathered around talking and laughing and catching up. Then stories start spilling out and I have to say I'm amazed at what goes on in this house, right under my feet. It turns out that Ethan is an accomplished thief. You see, the kids play this elaborate game called "Town" which I've described before where all the kids have businesses and operate like a real-life city. Well, their cousin and my nephew Killian was in town this summer and playing the game and Ethan quickly marked him. Taylor was the banker and everyone had bank accounts, complete with fictitious names, pin numbers and a special identification word that was a particular Monopoly piece. Well, when Ethan saw Killian opening an account in line he jumped in behind him to see what information he could glean. He heard Killian receive the "name" on his account, so he had the first piece of information. Then he saw Killian put his pin number on a slip of paper in his coat pocket.

So he started visiting Killian's place of business, a gun shop, and during the course of his friendliness asked if he could buy Killian's coat. He caught Killian by surprise and he asked Ethan why he wanted his coat. Ethan told him that it looked so good on Killian he hoped maybe it would look good on him too. So Killian sold him his coat and voila, Ethan had the second piece of information. Ethan sauntered over to the bank, but not before finding out from Killian his secret Monopoly piece (the boat) and how much money he had in the bank ($580). When Ethan got to the bank he said he needed to transfer $580 from an account into his account, provided the banker with all the necessary information and walked out $580 richer. But not before he rolled around on the floor laughing for a while. Later in the day, Taylor said, Killian walked in and wanted to withdraw $20 from his account. Taylor said Killian was quite surprised when he was told he had insufficient funds to receive $20.

So I'm wondering, do I ground Ethan for identity fraud, embezzlement, theft and assorted other charges in a game they were playing? These are big questions. Then I find out what happens when the kids do business with Ezra, who owns a store. The kids say they usually buy in bulk because when Ezra asks for money for the items purchased, his "customers" hold out money and hope he takes ones. Sometimes he takes the big bills, however. But Ethan said he likes to buy big items and give Ezra three one dollar bills. The thing is, Ezra always asks if his customer wants change back. "I always say, `Yes,' " Ethan said. "Sometimes something will cost $20, and rather than give him a 20 I give him three ones because Ezra thinks the three bills are more money than one bill, even if it's a 20. Then he gives me change back." As Ethan is telling this story I find myself laughing with the rest of the family. Then I find out the town had its own mob that had hired guns knocking off stores, there were hit men and assorted other criminal enterprises and I'm thinking, `What on earth is going on up there?' Until, music to my ears. MerriGrace became a cop, started flashing around a badge, writing up search warrants, confiscating guns, threatening jail time and basically cleaning up the town. Believe me when I say I'll sleep better tonight. Hopefully she locked up Ethan for a long time.

Winter Solstice In Virginia

2010-12-21T19:34:00.000-05:00

As the sun dropped behind the York River on the First Day Of Winter, I headed out to Cappahosic -- one of my favorite places -- with my trusty new camera. I like my camera. All the kids were out in the yard playing "Medieval" -- the older kids want to be sure that I mention they were doing it to make their young siblings happy -- (even if it looked to me that they were having a good time, including Ethan/Claudius) and I was tempted to shoot photos of them. But I was told in strict terms by, hypothetically speaking, two cardboard box sides/shields-carrying sisters who might have been carrying battleaxes and who might have possibly been named Evie and MerriGrace, not to take photos of the battle. Lest the photos end up on Facebook. And I was pretty sure Ethan/Claudius and Taylor the Barbarian (it may have been Romans vs. Barbarians) were having a really good time leading their young charges in battle formations, ambushes and other very violent forms of warfare involving very frightening and brutal tactics that led to horrible, agonizing maiming, disemboweling, even death and the like.

So I headed out to Cappahosic to capture the sunset on the shortest day of the year, a frigid day that actually brings me warm feelings because I know we are one day closer to summer. The long shadows cast by the sun's low orbit across the southern sky will shorten, ever imperceptibly. I was the only one out there on the beach at Cappahosic landing, believe it or not. A cold wind swept off the river, numbing my fingers. The tide was going out and it appeared as if the tide today had been exceptionally high, scrubbing the sandy beach firm. It was a fine afternoon and a lovely sunset. Enjoy the photos.

Taylor Arrives Home From Oregon

2010-12-18T13:07:00.000-05:00

This morning I returned from a short trip to the gas station with Olivia and as we walked up to the porch a small plane flew overhead. Olivia looked up and pointed. "A plane!" I looked up at the Cessna, or whatever it was buzzing overhead. "Yeah, a plane," I said. Olivia smiled. "Taylor's in it," she said. Well, not quite Olivia. Taylor was already in the house. We picked him up at the Richmond airport last night a little after 9 o'clock and everyone stayed up until midnight catching up with him. He's been away the past 3 months at Cornerstone School of Ministry in Corvallis where he's growing in wisdom of the things of the Lord. He's home for 3 weeks, a stay that everyone has been looking forward to for, well, 3 months, even if it will be woefully short.

A little while ago Taylor was playing the guitar and singing a worship song in the living room and Madeline was in the kitchen doing dishes. "It's better with Taylor here," she said. Yes, it is. Not just because when he got up this morning he did the breakfast dishes -- before he even ate breakfast. And not just because he's doing the laundry right now, or because he's already played "Battle" with his little brothers and sister and died several gruesome, protracted deaths that confirmed their superior battle skills. (Yes, that's Eli up there doing a front-flip off the footstool onto the couch during one of the battles. His mama wasn't home is all I can say.) Ethan smiles more. The girls laugh more. Julie glows a little brighter. Our house is a little closer to complete when Taylor comes home. Brenton comes home the day after Christmas for around 9 days. I imagine things in the Sabo house will be complete then.

Snowfall In Gloucester, Va.

2010-12-16T21:33:00.000-05:00

Snow has this unique quality of combining peace and electricity ... the peace of frozen water in remarkably unique flakes that fall silently from the sky covering everything in a white blanket ... and the electricity that comes when kids in the house realize it's snowing outside, prompting a mad dash to pull the boxes full of the winter gear out of the attic or garage. The snow gear is pulled out by little hands looking desperately for matches -- a mishmash trail of mittens and boots leads to the door -- before they are yanked on in the mad dash to rush outside to play in the fresh snow. The end result is a gaggle of kids in boots and coats and wool caps building snowmen and throwing snowballs and piling up snow in snowy slides before coming back inside, shivering with rosy cheeks and numb fingers and toes and leaving a pile of soaked coats and mittens and snow-covered boots on the floor. Now it's late and the coats and boats and mittens are drying out and the worn out kids are chattering about the day in bed and wondering if tomorrow brings more snow and more fun. And outside the snow reflects the Christmas lights hanging from the houses, leaving the neighborhood aglow.

The Sleep Chronicles, Vol. I

2010-12-14T21:09:00.001-05:00

A more appropriate title for this post would be "The Lack Of Sleep Chronicles, Vol. 6,283." Or something along those lines. With kids, sleep is frequently something to dream about. You know what I'm saying? Here's how my "restful" night went last night. I drifted off to sleep somewhere around 10:30 or so, which is fairly early, generally speaking. But I was still catching up to Saturday night, when for reasons I won't go into I was awake and tossing and turning for most of the night. Some personal trauma I was dealing with and I'll just leave it at that. So last night started off so pleasant ... sleep came quickly. Don't you like those nights? Me too. Then at 11:30 the phone rang. I awake with a start and think, `You've got to be kidding me.' It turns out, Julie's sister in Canby, Ore., wanted to check in. I'm thinking, uh, you know that whole time zone thing? ... Anyway, Julie happened to be up, got the phone and started chatting away (she loves her sisters, even at 11:30 at night) and so I tried going back to sleep. Emphasis on try. At some point after midnight I succeeded. I remember that because I recall glancing at the clock and seeing it was 12:01. At last, though, sleep came and it was lovely.

Until 3:27 when I awoke and wondered who was in our room. And why. It was Eli. I have no clue what brought him to the foot of our bed. I mean, he didn't have any aches or pains, no discernible lingering fear from a bad dream, I don't recall him hitting the bathroom to tinkle ... he just wanted company? Egads. At some point I managed to fall back asleep ... until 4:30. That's when Ezra arrived in tears and complaining about a leg ache. Some children's Tylenol was appropriated and he was situated on the floor next to Eli and still the whimpering continued. I thought maybe he was cold so I headed upstairs, fetched his blanket and returned and covered him up. Amazingly, Eli slept right through all this.

You know how when you are awakened from a blissful slumber quite frequently you can't return to that state of blissful slumber? That was me. To top it all off, one of those wonderful little Sabo boys kept kicking our bed ... I'd get all drowsy and then whack! I know I went to sleep at some point because I woke up again at 5:30 ... then 6:05 ... and finally 6:45. There's a reason I was tired this afternoon. Here's what gets me though. Eli is usually up by 7 o'clock, sometimes earlier, especially on the 2 days a week when he gets to play video games. Then he is up at the crack o' dawn doing school or whatever to take advantage of his precious video game time. This morning? I didn't see him until well after 8 o'clock. And Olivia, who is usually aroused sometime around 7, didn't make an appearance until somewhere around 8 o'clock as well. Same story for Ezra. Isn't that how it goes? The one morning everyone sleeps in, I can't sleep in. And to think another baby is on the way.

A Dozen Christmas Stockings On The Fireplace

2010-12-09T21:58:00.000-05:00

Kudos to Julie's Aunt Judy back in Oregon who has labored over Christmas stockings for wee Sabo kids for more than 20 years. She's sent 12 of them to us over the years, and here they are in all their glory. Next year we'll have to make room for a 13th stocking. I was looking at the fireplace and imagining what it will be like when we start having grandkids and everyone gets a stocking. The fireplace will be covered. So will the wall. That's going to be pretty cool. Until you know who gets to fill all those stockings. Yowsa.

I managed to squeeze 58 percent of the Sabo kids in this photo this morning before we trundled them off to Miss Jen's house where they spent the day making gingerbread houses. Yes, Miss Jen invited them over. On purpose. Said it was "fun" even, if you can comprehend that. So nine Sabo kids made the trek and they each made one gingerbread house. It was quite an affair of candy, gingerbread, frosting, and snacking and they had a great time. Best of all, you can eat the work. If you're looking at the photo and wondering why every one's hand is raised, I was asking them who was a good kid this year. Hardly objective answers, however.

Gloucester County, Late Fall

2010-12-03T21:48:00.000-05:00

We had our first frost of the end of the growing season on Monday after a protracted, lovely Fall and for me it was like a day of mourning. I'm not a cold weather guy. Had enough of that growing up in Bend, Ore., the land of eternal winter some years. Just to show you how abruptly the seasons change here, I believe it was Wednesday it was upper 60s, a warm wind blowing in from the south. Now they say it might snow this weekend. I have my doubts, but you never know. The cold winds have blown in from the north and dusted most of the leaves off the trees. The coats have come down from the attic, the shorts are being retired for the year and the canister of hot chocolate mix sitting in the pantry is already empty.

Here's some shots of Gloucester Court House. At top is the obligatory monument to the Confederacy and the men of Gloucester who lost their lives in the war that tore the nation asunder. It numbers more than 100, I believe, which is an extraordinary toll on a small, rural county. I'm reminded as I study the monument that no self-respecting Southern community lacks a monument to the Confederacy. I thought it framed up nicely between the two bare trees. There's some symbolism in there somewhere, but I'm too shallow to figure it all out. Maybe you can make hay of it. The shot below it is Gloucester's Colonial Courthouse, built in the 1760s and still in use today as a public meeting house. It's amazing to think that troops mustered there during the Revolutionary War. Then again, Gloucester County dates to 1651 so there's no shortage of history around here. When my folks were in town four weeks ago I showed them a house built in 1750 that's only a couple of miles from where we live. I bumped into the owner of the home at a gas station and she said it's been quite a labor of love to fix it up. Christmas is around the corner so Merry Christmas. Tomorrow is the Christmas parade in Gloucester. Should be fun.

When Brothers Are Separated

2010-11-30T21:52:00.000-05:00

Tonight I had read a bedtime story to Gabe, Eli and Ezra and said prayers with them and was downstairs in my "office" studying Matthew 13. I can hear them talking up there from my "office" and caught wind of a conversation they were having with Claire. Then, inevitably, someone asked her for an apple so she headed downstairs. I asked her what was going on up there and it was something about Brenton not being someone's brother. So I headed up to investigate. As expected, Ezra was at the center of this conversation. I walked in and asked the boys what they were talking about. It turns out, Ezra doesn't think Brenton is his brother. I asked Ezra if this was true. He nodded. I asked why. "Because he doesn't come home," Ezra said. "So he's not my brother." I asked Gabe and Eli if they thought Brenton was their brother. They said he was. And is. Gabe tried to explain to Ezra that even if Brenton isn't here, he's still his brother just like Brenton is still my son even though he's not here. Ezra would have none of it.

"He's not my brother," he said. I believe he even gave a nice harrumph for effect. I asked him if he thought Taylor was his brother. Ezra nodded. Apparently Taylor hasn't been gone long enough -- he left in the middle of September and is coming home for 3 weeks on December 17 -- for Ezra not to consider unbrothering him. That's a good thing. I tried to explain to Ezra that Brenton is his brother regardless of where he is, but I might as well have been trying to explain the nuances of brush strokes in impressionist paintings. I tell you. When Ezra gets his mind set on something, he's hard to budge. Brenton is due to come home the day after Christmas and will spend about 10 days with us before he heads back to Corvallis. Hopefully he'll get some good bonding time in with Ezra and become Ezra's brother again. Ezra and I talked this over for a while but everything I was saying seemed to fall on deaf ears. Finally I asked him if he would go to the airport with us to pick up Brenton. He shook his head no. I asked Gabe and Eli if they would go to the airport with us to pick up Brenton. They seemed excited about it. So I asked Ezra again if he would go with us. "He has to," Gabe said. "Everyone is going." I wanted Ezra to answer the question, so I asked again. Slowly Ezra nodded. I told him that would make Brenton happy. Maybe Ezra is coming around. Maybe his two older brothers, the wise sages in that room, will be able to convince Ezra that Brenton is his brother. Maybe Ezra will just sleep it off and wake up talking about his brother Brenton. I think Ezra just misses Brenton and doesn't know how to handle it. Hey Ezra, it's okay. We all miss Brenton.

KLOVE's Mike Novak: Compensation Tops $500,000

2010-11-28T20:30:00.000-05:00

About a month ago the omnipresent Christian radio station KLOVE wrapped up its fundraising drive. You probably heard it, too. Pleas went out for more funding and you had kids giving their allowances, businesses committing, single moms pledging, families pledging, the works. God bless 'em if that's how the Lord is leading them to spend their money. The radio in my Volvo doesn't work anymore, one of the effects I suspect of a vehicle with 323,000+ miles on it, so I don't listen to KLOVE as much as I have in the past. I do spend more time in the Volvo praying, which is a good thing. KLOVE is about our only option out here in Gloucester, Va., as far as Christian radio, so we listen to it in the van. I'm really not sure where I stand on KLOVE ... I appreciate the effort to bring Christian music to the masses on a platform that literally stretches across the country. But I hear the same songs over and over again and many times I'm looking for something fresher and seem to hear songs I heard 10 years ago again and again. As I said to Ethan a week or so ago while we were riding in the van, "Is no one making any decent Christian music anymore?" That being said, I decided to take a peek at KLOVE's books as I did about a year and a half ago on this blog. Let's just say being one of the bigwigs at KLOVE pays off handsomely.

As I mentioned, KLOVE stretches across the country and has radio stations and transmitters all over the place, so it's a big business from that standpoint with lots of employees. The parent organization of KLOVE, Educational Media Foundation, reported revenues last year of $88.2 million, according to forms filed with the IRS. Total payroll, including benefits and taxes, topped $25 million and net revenue was $16.7 million, according to the forms filed with the IRS.

I'm sure you've all heard the voice of KLOVE President Mike Novak, especially at pledge time, and last year (2009) his total compensation was $506,198, according to documents filed with the IRS. Think about that for a minute ... wow, that's a ton of money. It takes 12,655 people pledging $40 a month just to cover his compensation. Is he operating Christian radio stations or working on Wall Street? He received $343,792 in base compensation (that's $28,649 per month) and "bonus & incentive" compensation of $110,000 (A lot of us got bonuses on par with that last year, right?), other reportable compensation of $9,628, retirement & deferred compensation of $22,549 and "nontaxable benefits" of $20,229. The big question to me is what is acceptable for a guy of Novak's position and stature? Is $506,198 acceptable, considering there's no disclaimer come pledge time that 12,655 of you monthly pledgers are just paying for Mike? As the guy who runs what essentially is a national organization, is he deserving of that paycheck?

Here's a couple of head-scratchers from the IRS forms. Dick Jenkins, the former president who is no longer with KLOVE, received $300,000 in "other reportable" compensation and another $13,196 in nontaxable benefits. That's only 7,830 $40-per-month pledgers to pay for a guy no listed as the "former president." Speaking of guys no longer with the organization ... former radio personality and programming director Jon Rivers left KLOVE in early 2009 and earned $261,543 in "other reportable" compensation and $3,659 in retirement and other deferred compensation last year, for a total of $265,202. Rivers subsequently attributed his departure to an addiction to prescription painkillers and maybe there was a contract or something that KLOVE couldn't get out of. Who knows. All told, KLOVE listed 14 people earning a minimum of $114,000 or more last year on its IRS forms. Not bad for Christian non-profit work.

Don't be fooled. "Christian ministry" often seems to be simply big business operating as a "non-profit." Sure there's plenty of good hearts out there at KLOVE with a desire to serve Jesus Christ and play Christian music and the like. But when and where does "Christian ministry" blur the line between personal gain? I think whether you are a pastor at a church, a CEO of a Christian "non-profit" organization, a missionary, or in whatever capacity you believe the Lord is calling you and leading you and directing you, when it comes to money the question always boils down to whether or not the Lord gives you a peace about your paycheck. Is there any check at all on your heart? When you read the Bible every morning (hopefully you're reading the Bible ...) are you paying attention to what is being said about money? How do you justify these paychecks? The Apostle Paul had something to say about this: "For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil, for which some have strayed from the faith in their greediness, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows." (1 Tim. 6:10 NKJV) Jesus, the ultimate authority, weighed in on this: "Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal; but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." (Matthew 6:19-21 NKJV)

Thanksgiving & Black Friday

2010-11-26T19:08:00.000-05:00

We're giving thanks that Thanksgiving went off without a relative hitch, with just a few mishaps in the kitchen that didn't really amount to anything. The croissants didn't quite pan out, so to speak, and our turkey pan leaked in the oven, causing a very minor disturbance in the oven that only added a hint of smoked turkey to the dinner. But the ladies on the cooking team -- Julie, Anna, Claire, Evie & MerriGrace -- did an outstanding job and we've unanimously concluded that we will invite them back next year to cook up another dinner. Most importantly, we are really stoked already about next year's Thanksgiving dinner. The turkey turned out scrumptious, nice and moist and the spuds, gravy, sweet potatoes, Jell-o dish and whatever else was put in front of us was downed in remarkably short order. To think there was still dessert! Apple pie, pumpkin pie, cheesecake ... wow. The little kids worked off dinner, as you can see, with some "horse races" upstairs. I think my belly would have dragged on the floor, otherwise I would have joined them. I took the photos instead.

Unlike most of the country apparently, the entire Sabo clan, plus Anna, skipped the Black Friday shoppingpalooza -- sleeping in until 7:30! -- where Americans exercised their right to act like knuckleheads and spend money that probably a lot of folks don't have on things they don't need. That's so American, eh? I'm really struggling with the whole Christmas spending season this year. We have plenty. Our kids have plenty. They have toys they don't play with, we've got enough TVs to start an alcohol-free sports bar (Hmmmm. What exactly do you call an alcohol-free sports bar?) and then I watched a video today. It's always good to have perspective.
The video is of Matt Megill, who we met during our 3-weeks of training at Serving In Mission this summer. He's a doctor who was on his way home for a respite from serving at a hospital in Galmi, Niger. Here's a link to some information on the "hospital." http://www.sim.org/index.php/project/84400

And here's the link to the video. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QPo620kV_Ig

So the question for us, in light of this need in Niger, is what would God have us do financially this Christmas season?

A Tragedy Unfolds In Gloucester

2010-11-24T21:20:00.000-05:00

As you can see from the above photos, it was river city in Gloucester tonight. Olivia was downright inconsolable. I managed to capture the raw emotion of the moment on film, so to speak, and I hope these images don't make you break out into tears. You see, here it is, on the eve of Thanksgiving with so much to be thankful for, and Olivia is sad. Really, really sad. I'm not sure what exactly made her so sad, whether it was Julie leaving with all the other girls to go to a movie or whether it was the prospect of staying at home with four brothers and Dad. Maybe a combination of the two, perhaps? I think it was mainly Julie leaving, because as soon as she caught wind that her mama was going somewhere without her, the pity party started in full.

What was fairly remarkable was that right after I snapped these photos I asked her if she'd like to see them. "Yeah!" she said, somewhat giddily, the tears and mournful expressions disappearing in what I would almost call `glee.' As soon as she was done viewing herself in such a pathetic, sad and sorrowful state, Olivia promptly resumed her former pathetic, sad and sorrowful state and started crying again. It's an amazing ability to be able to turn on and off the tears like that. Is it genetic? A learned trait? A product of the immediate environment? Further study should shed some light on it. And I don't know how to break this to my sweet Olivia, but there may be plenty more tears ahead. There's the tears for the dreaded "Bad Hair Day" and tears for the "These Jeans Make Me Look Fat" moment and, more immediately, tears for the "Ezra Isn't Sharing" frustrations and tears for the "I Don't Want To Ride In My Car Seat" fit and the "I Want To Sit In A Booster Seat" kerfuffle and even tears for the "I Don't Want My Diaper Changed" act up. Now the diaper thing always throws me. I always think, `Girl, do you smell yourself? I'm going to get fined by the DEQ for violating odor pollution standards!' The emotional roller coaster of a 2-year-old is almost too much sometimes. Throw in the emotions of 8 eight other siblings living at home and things can periodically get out of whack. Not that it makes me want to cry or anything.

Fall In Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia

2010-11-22T17:47:00.001-05:00

Today I had to run into Williamsburg, Va., to Massey's Camera Shop to pick up a memory card for my newfangled digital camera. I've been looking to score a step up in the camera department from my point and shoot for some time, both for work and play and finally pulled the trigger on one ... only to order it online and when it arrived find out it doesn't come with a memory card. Which makes it hard to take photos that are a step up from my point and shoot. The folks at Massey's were excellent, and I highly recommend them for all your photography-related needs. If you're in Williamsburg. And need a camera. Or camera equipment, gear, paraphernalia, etc., etc. You get the idea. (Editor's note: You'd think Massey's Camera Shop was paying you for advertising. Author's reply: Now there's an idea! Shameless blogging name-dropping for dollars!)

So I walk out of the store and my Volvo (more name-dropping!) is parked down there and as soon as I hop in there I have to drive home -- albeit down the Colonial Parkway (www.nps.gov/colo/parkway.htm ... cha-ching!), which is particularly splendorous at the moment with the trees all ablaze in color, hardly any traffic -- and go to "work" writing a story about road construction in Gloucester (complete with photos!)...hmmmmm. Or I could take a walk into Colonial Williamsburg (www.history.org) proper on a 70-degree Fall day and, uh, you know, "test out my camera" to make sure it works properly with my new excellent memory card from Massey's Camera Shop. I'll give you one guess which route I took. Boy it was a beautiful day to walk around Williamsburg and "work" the kinks out of my new Sony (bet you knew that was coming, eh?) digital camera that I bought from B&H Photo Video Pro Audio "The Professional's Choice" (a credit on my account is forthcoming, I'm sure.) and had it shipped via UPS, where "We Love Logistics" (maybe they'll let us ship something free to Brenton and Taylor?).

As you see up there, I snapped some photos of the Colonial Williamsburg scenery, getting the bugs out of the camera. Everything went very well and I'm pleased to report my camera seems to respond just fine, despite the limitations of the shooter. This whole adventure raised a troubling ethical question, however. Tomorrow is Nov. 23, at least on my calendar. The temperature here is supposed to hit 75 degrees. Seriously! I mean, isn't it snowing in half the country? And it will be warm enough here to play in the sprinkler in the yard! Here's the dilemma. On what may be the last beautiful day of the year in our neck o' the woods, and considering I have no personal days or vacation days left, at what point is it unethical to "come down with a fever," or to have a "migraine," or to have "some sort of bug," that requires me to stay home from work? Well, technically I work at home so it makes it even doubly tougher not to work, even when sick. I'm not saying I would do something like that. No sireee. I'm just saying that I can see how the average American worker could be faced with the dilemma of being "sick" on a day when it would be so much finer to take the family on an outing and, uh, you know, work out the kinks in my camera and practice in a real-life situation so I would be ready to use it for work. Or something like that.

The `Family Plan' & Working At Home

2010-11-19T20:26:00.000-05:00

Today I took our fourth child into the Verizon store to get a cell phone. Brenton has his own plan, Taylor and Ethan are on the plan with me already, so Claire is the third child to go on the "Family Plan." It's like 10 bucks for another line, unlimited texting and Claire babysits so much I think she's in my tax bracket -- minus the dependents -- so I think she can swing it. Generally in our household when the kids get of age and enjoy some income we try and have them pay their own way for things like phones, car insurance, Busch Gardens tickets ... basically things beyond the necessities in life. That's one reason why our kids generally start driving later than most other kids. We want them to save money they would spend on car insurance to salt away for college, or in Taylor's case the School of Ministry in Corvallis. Taylor didn't get his license until he was well past 18. I think Brenton was 19. Brenton paid for all his school himself. Praise God, eh? And here's another thing. There's nothing wrong in my mind with hauling kids around town, even though I might think it's a hassle plenty of times. I know that I'll miss the time spent with Ethan in the car driving him to or from a baseball game. I miss the times driving Taylor to or from work or wherever he's going. With our teens the alone moments in the car are precious, particularly with all the demands on us in this casa.

Speaking of demands, I hope my editors don't read this blog because sometimes work gets in the way of life. I fix about half the dinners around here and tonight I was on so I was rustling up some chili when an editor called wondering about this story I was supposed to file ... um, well, didn't I do that? Pause, and then came the answer: `No.' Really? So literally while I was spooning out beans into my pot of chili I learned that I needed to "clock back in" so to speak and write a little ditty about a dude who won a million bucks on a scratch lottery ticket. Piece of cake, right? Except that I figured I'd check out Facebook while I was "working" and noticed that Julie was online. Hmmmm. She had been doing school all day, I was "working" in between taking Claire cell phone shopping and cleaning out the grocery store (I still can't get over the Christmas tree that showed up in the store like the day after Halloween, but that's another story... and the kids are watching the Grinch on TV right now ... ) and here was a big chance to talk to her. "Hey babe," I typed. "You need something?" came the reply. Ahem, I thought, not exactly, "Hi my wonderful, doting husband! I was just thinking about you!" but it's a start. Then Taylor texted me from Oregon. Somehow between Facebooking my wife in the next room (Believe it or not our cyber conversation picked up and we decided to make it movie night! Yesssss!), Taylor texting me and Olivia sitting on my lap asking if her hair looked pretty ("So, so pretty Olivia. So pretty."), I managed to write something that somehow passed for written English with complete sentences, correct use of punctuation and lovely, stylistic presentations of present participles (Or something like that ... it sounded good when I just wrote that. I'll have to go back and read the story and see if there were indeed one or more lovely, stylistic presentations of present participles. But you get the idea. It will be a major upset if that little story doesn't win a Pulitzer.)

And now, as I'm blogging, comes music to my hears. I hear Julie telling the 20 little kids in our house to get ready for bed. OK, OK, it's only, uh (counting with my eyes closed using my fingers ... 6!) six little kids (Our 2 biggest kids are in Oregon and another 4 kids are at a Bible study.), but sometimes it feels like 20. You know what I mean? Soon, Lord willing, it will be quiet in our house, no one will be needing anything, no errands to run, no meals to fix, no diapers to change, my editors won't be calling wondering what happened to the story I was supposed to write ("Hey, I'm busy here, you know!" How do you think that would fly?), the house will be quiet and it will be oh so peaceful and pleasant and relaxing. Just me, my wife, a movie ...

The Chimichangas Are Hot? Really?

2010-11-16T16:45:00.000-05:00

It is hard to put into words how remarkably lovely this Fall has been in Gloucester, Va., where as you know the county motto is the "Land of the Life Worth Living." It sure has been this Fall. We're still getting samples from the garden, as you can see, and no frost is in the forecast through Thanksgiving. That's a growing season, baby! The leaves have all turned, as is obvious from the photo above, and we still have a few flowers abloom, and I've got some gorgeous plump tomatoes that are green that I'm hoping to make the turn to ripeness before the inevitable frost hits. We made it through October without turning the heat on in the house ... I'm not sure if we ever made it through a summer in Bend, Ore., without turning the heat on at some point. I remember watching the fireworks show off of Pilot Butte on our roof in the comfort of a down parka, sipping hot chocolate and singing Christmas carols. Well, maybe the last part wasn't exactly true, but you get the idea. I remember fishing at a lake somewhere west of Bend up toward Mt. Bachelor with my man Chris Hamilton and getting snowed out ... on June 30. So spending an afternoon like today outside with 5 of my kids playing soccer in the back yard in shirtsleeves is absolutely remarkable.

Perhaps one of the downsides of this extended Indian Summer is that the garden is still producing. I say that tongue in cheek because some members of the Sabo household aren't sharing the same level of enthusiasm for the bounty, the fruits, the produce from our garden. The main culprit is that our "Fish" pepper plants are still producing. For the uninformed, the "Fish" pepper is a pre-1870s African-American heirloom, according to my packet from Seed Savers Exchange (http://www.seedsavers.org/). One of my homies in Corvallis, Sean Buckout, ordered me up a packet and God bless the man for thinking of his dear brother in Gloucester, hard on the shores of Chesapeake Bay. The plants produce unique peppers that ripen from cream with green stripes to orange with brown stripes to all red. They were traditionally used in oyster and crab houses in the Chesapeake Bay, so they are like homegrown here! My batch of Fish peppers had a homecoming! But here's the thing. As you can see from the top photo, the pepper plants are still producing. These peppers are described as "medium hot, perfect for salsa." So naturally I think they go with anything. As has been noted previously on the pages of this blog, I like my Mexican food with a kick. Not everyone in the Sabo house is on the same palate as yours truly, however. But they don't cook dinner. Bwaahh-ha-ha.

I rustled up some chimichangas the other night and threw all the Fish peppers I had in the batch. Creamy with green stripes, orange, red, whatever, in they went all chopped up and ready to spice things up! If it looked like a pepper, smelled like a pepper and admitted under waterboarding torture it was a pepper it went in the pot. Alas, the "medium hot" label might be a little misleading, some in the Sabo household would say. Abram was chowing down and enjoying the quality and exceptional taste of his chimichanga when suddenly he paused midchew, got this little facial tic and his face reddened up. Next thing I know he was drinking water like he'd been in the desert with nothing to drink for a week. He wasn't the only one who had a run-in with a spicy bite of chimichanga. I played dumb. "The chimichangas are spicy? Really? Interesting. Must be the seasoning." (Wink, wink.) Everyone seems to have recovered alright, no hospitalization needed. And I'm still scrounging up a few Fish peppers.

Team Sabo In Norfolk, Va.

2010-11-14T19:20:00.000-05:00

Grandma and Grandpa Sabo are in town for several days before they ship out to the Middle East for a couple of weeks. On a glorious Fall day when the mercury scared 70 degrees, we trekked down to Norfolk to check out some joint that invented the waffle cone. We managed to arrive at the exact location where the waffle cone was reputed to be invented, but just one small problem. The place was closed. D'oh! We went with Plan B and headed to the Norfolk waterfront, where we quickly spied a behemoth with big guns ... no, it wasn't Ethan, who benched 170 lbs. the other day even though he weights just 125 lbs. It was the USS Wisconsin, a battleship sporting 16-inch guns that battled the Japanese in WWII, the North Koreans in the Korean War and even got in the scrap known as the Gulf War. Back in the day, the battleship could launch a one-ton shell up to 23 miles. That's range, baby! Now the USS Wisconsin is moored at the Norfolk waterfront and is open for tours as a floating museum. One small detail is the cost. For the 15 of us to see the Wisconsin, it would have cost approximately $1,785. Well, maybe not quite that much. But with prices starting at 12 bucks for an adult, I would have had to take out a second mortgage to finance it. We passed on the tour, unfortunately.

So we went with Plan C. We let the kids crawl around an anchor from the USS Antietam, an aircraft carrier, in a nearby waterfront park. The anchor, in a word, is h-u-g-e. Then we hit an indoor mall a half-mile or so away, where we cleaned out a Hershey's ice cream stand on the food court. Grandpa's retirement fund took a big hit by the time we finished with Hershey's. The kid with the ice cream scoop saw us coming and called the headquarters hot line looking for emergency supplies. I think they sent someone to the nearest Wal-Mart. As you can see from the photos, the ice cream was good, real good. After wrapping up the ice cream fest, we piled into a nearby bookstore. After some quality book window shopping, we launched on the journey back to the van, zigzagging through downtown Norfolk, which is always an adventure when you're herding 2 dozen kids! Well, maybe not quite that many kids. But with Ezra on the run from the time we got out of the van, and some other kids scrambling around a bit oohing and ahhhing in the "big city," it felt like I was trying to herd cats. Ezra is a flat out runner. The kid just loves to run. A chip off the old block, I reckon. I'm happy to report that not only did we make it back to the van, but we also brought back 10 Sabo children ... the same number we left with! Amazing!

One more little detail. To get to Norfolk from Gloucester we have to bisect the James River. If you think the Willamette River, or the Deschutes River, or the Columbia River is a halfway significant body of water, you ain't seen nothin'. The James River at its mouth is 5 miles wide. To get to Norfolk, you go over the James River part way, then you go under the James River the water in a 2-lane tunnel (one way) ... then back up and over. It's the first time Grandpa and Grandma Sabo had made the trip through the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel. They thought it was pretty cool, especially when you see 3 aircraft carriers berthed at Norfolk Naval Station off in the distance.

A Zoo In The Van

2010-11-11T20:23:00.000-05:00

Julie arose at 5:41 this morning to prepare for a grand adventure. She was heading to the National Zoo in Washington D.C. with the 5 youngest Sabo children and a friend and her 2 daughters. What a noble cause! Today would hit 60 degrees here in Gloucester, about that in D.C., a crisp gorgeous Fall day with leaves aflame, the sun orbiting lower on the horizon but shining bright, nary a cloud in the sky...lovely, just lovely. A perfect day to hit the zoo. Now mind you, this is no small feat for Julie, a third of the way through pregnancy and energy-challenged by the seed growing in her womb. What a trooper, though. What a dedicated mother! Such maternal instincts to desire to drive her young children 2 1/2 hours into the very teeth of our nation's capital, to treat her progeny to the sights and sounds of gorillas, pythons, hippos, giraffes, crocodiles, monkeys, zebras, polar bears, Democrats and whatever other unusual species inhabits the National Zoo. The plan was to leave at 6:30 a.m., and departure time was actually 7 o'clock. So not too bad in that department. But things got interesting.

Alas, a slight hiccup as it were on the journey north. About halfway to D.C., Olivia decided it would be a good time to test the very limits of her ability to projectile vomit. Let's just say the results were impressive. Somewhere on Route 301 northeast of Tappahannock, Olivia hurled in a sudden, unexpected fury the likes of which, thankfully, have not been witnessed in the Sabo Family Truckster for quite some time. No warning, no time to don protective plastic wear ... just one big urp. Julie pulled the van over for the inevitable cleanup. And what a chore it was, I'm told. We're still unsure what prompted the hurling fit because afterward, she was quite chipper and showed no ill effects of flu-like symptoms the rest of the day. Was it a bad granola bar she had gotten into on the road? Was she merely car sick? The genesis of the mysterious vomiting sickness remains a mystery.

We do know this. Ezra had a solution to the problem. Not knowing whether Olivia was genuinely taken ill and intending to vomit repeatedly, the agonizing decision was made to turn around and head home. Now mind you Ezra woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. You can't blame the dude, because 6:15 a.m. comes awful early, especially for Ezra. He refused to get dressed and when he was finally coaxed into getting into a shirt and given the option of 4 -- yes 4 -- different pairs of pants, he decided to have a protest. No pants were going on him. It's unclear why he was protesting, it's just that he was. Possibly because he equates getting dressed after breakfast, but that's just a guess. Various methods of "coaxing" were unsuccessful. Until it was announced the van was leaving to go see the wildebeests, lions, tigers and water buffalo without Ezra. Then we saw some action. The nearest pair of pants were donned in record time. Anyway, for a guy who didn't want to get into the van, he sure had a change of perspective along the way. When told after the Olivia incident the trip to the zoo would have to wait, Ezra said, "Can't we just leave Olivia here?" Uh, on the side of the road, in her diaper? Julie broke it to him gently that they couldn't just leave Olivia on the side of the road. Then he suggested leaving her with Daddy. Apparently he was under the impression they could just drop Olivia off with Daddy and hit the zoo. The 1 1/2 hours in the van just to get to the spot where Olivia hurled must have flown by for Ezra.

Imagine my surprise to see the van pull into the driveway, just a few hours after departure. We can report with certainty that the kids were troopers and made the best of it. Julie made the best of it as well. She managed to get a nice nap in today, which made me happy. I know how hard these pregnancies are for her and how tired she gets and sick she feels. Not enough to go all Olivia on us, but we do appreciate that she was willing to take them and came home laughing about it. As for Ezra, I just asked him if he still wanted to go to the zoo. "Yeah," he said. "Maybe some other day when Olivia doesn't throw up. If Olivia wants to go we can still bring her. And if she doesn't throw up we can still take her." What a guy.

A Great Cosmic Mystery

2010-11-09T21:43:00.000-05:00

See this kid here? Yeah, right up there with the blue eyes and easy smile. Dude's got issues. He's going through this phase lately where he harrumphs and announces rather menacingly that he's not eating dinner, doesn't like dinner and wants something else. So there. This new 'tude erupted out of the blue one night and he's been on a kick lately, doing this every few nights. We have no idea where it came from, the cause of it -- did he suffer a severe case of indigestion after a recent meal that aroused his anti-dinner antics? -- and when it's going to end. I wasn't home for dinner tonight due to being in Newport News working late on a story with another reporter about a 71-year-old woman who's been married at least 10 times, sometimes without the proper divorcing proceedings occurring before the ensuing marriage, and has left a slew of angry ex-husbands, not to mention she now faces charges of bigamy, perjury and theft. Look for the story in the paper soon.

Anyway, back to Ezra. Julie reported to me that he once again refused to eat dinner tonight. He stood there, lip thrust out, arms crossed and 100 percent attitude. So he got sent to a room until his attitude improved, with the warning not to dare come out until he was ready to grub or he was likely to have a cheeky encounter with Mr. Spoon. After a while, he made an appearance and slinked out of the room before eventually sitting at the table. He still refused to eat, however. Everyone else finished the chicken and rice casserole, the plates were cleared off the table, the kids who dutifully finished dinner headed off to play ... and there sat Ezra. He was relentless in his determination to show everyone that eating is a sign of weakness, the consuming of food the mere Achilles heel, or soft underbelly, or shortcoming of lesser 4-year-olds. Ezra was in for the long haul, his commitment evident in his steely glare. This fast was on!

Until, out of the corner of her eye as she busied herself in the kitchen, Julie thought she spied a fork lifted to a little boy's mouth ... could it be? Did Ezra just take a bite? She approached the stalwart young defender of the Principle of the Matter -- that principle being that sometimes a boy has to stand for something he believes in, that something being in this case the right to decide whether or not he need partake of the nightly sustenance. Did you just take a bite? queried Julie. The look on Ezra's face can only be described as scorn, as if to say, "How dare you even suggest I would lower myself to take a bite of dinner, demeaning the very essence of my being. You may as well dress me in a frilly pink tutu and curl my hair with curlers and have me prance around. I may be 4, but I have principle." She pressed him on the matter and his brow furrowed more deeply, the squint of his icy glare becoming more fierce. She urged him to open his mouth so she could see for herself whether he took a bite. He relented and slowly his lips parted, his jaw slackened and it was revealed at last the truth of the matter. Julie peered in his mouth. She saw rice. And chicken. "You did take a bite!" she gushed. "I knew I saw you!"

Ezra smiled. Then he proceeded to wolf down his chicken and rice as if he had not eaten even a tiny morsel all day. The storm had passed. The mysterious force that erupted in such sudden fury with extraordinarily severe consequences disappeared as suddenly as it had reared up. The sky cleared, the sun shone brightly, all was good again. In the end, only one small detail remained. It was the vexing question that haunts every parent, a mystery of untold depths that sometimes comes in staccato bursts, depending on the child and the circumstances and whatever else causes this cosmic behavioral quirk to burst forth like a supernova: What on earth was that all about?

`Red Dragons' Are History

2010-11-07T20:22:00.000-05:00

In case you've been wondering, and frankly I can't imagine a scenario where you would be, I'm happy to report that the "Red Dragons" got into the win column this Fall. We didn't exactly light up the win column, but we battled to the end of the season and finished with 2 victories. Against 9 losses. Somehow some other coach got the league's coach of the year award. I will say, however, that those 2 victories were very glorious, no doubt about it. One of the games was a victory against the dread "Cookie Monsters," a team that had beaten us on two previous occasions. In what can only be described as the biggest sporting victory on American soil since the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team victory over the Russians at Lake Placid, we trounced the Cookie Monsters 2-0 in a game I may never forget for the way the Red Dragons battled, fought and got every ounce of ability out of themselves to defeat what had been up until that moment a superior opponent. (Of course, it helped that during the match one of our players sent the other team's best player to the hospital when, during a collision when both players were going for the ball, he landed with his size 9 cleat on the back of the other player's hand, crushing it.)

You can see here a photograph of our team in between a couple of our tournament losses on Saturday. We played three games, lost all three by a combined score of something like 15-3 ... but look at these kids. Smiles! They're having fun! Even while getting beaten to a pulp! I'm not sure whether that's because we just got done feeding them pizza and handing out trophies to them or whether they're smiling because they knew the season was, mercifully, almost over. Whatever the case, several of the parents and players asked me when it was all over if I was going to "coach" again in the Spring. They thought it would be good to keep the team together.
I wasn't sure how to answer that. Yeah, I had a great time and it was fun coaching the kids and they were a great group of kids, but it is a pretty big commitment. And there's probably someone out there who could actually teach these kids something about soccer. You know, maybe coach them up to at least 3 or 4 victories. We'll see. Maybe between now and the Spring season I'll pick up a few soccer strategies. Gain some insights. Understand the nuances of the game, such as the difference between "indirect" and "direct" kicks and "offsides." I'll just put this out there right now. Gloucester Parks and Recreation 9- to 11-year-olds watch out. The Red Dragons might be back. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

28 Weeks To Go ... Time To Pick Names!

2010-11-05T19:09:00.000-04:00

Julie went to the doctor on Wednesday for an ultrasound and brought home a snapshot of a healthy little baby boy or girl in her womb. Baby appeared to be waving, sort of letting us know every thing's fine and it's nice and snuggly in there. We have no clue if it's a boy Sabo or a girl Sabo percolating in there. That's another 8 weeks off before we get that photo confirmation. If, that is, we decide to find out if it's a boy or a girl Sabo. I'm not sure if I want to know. Surprise is good, though I'll be 42 when baby is born and I'm not sure if my heart will be able to handle all the excitement at that ripe old age.

We've been tossing around names here at Sabo central. We're experienced at this. I must say, though, this seems to be the first time we've been seriously kicking around baby names this early in the game and possibly even settled on a couple. There's some logic behind this. Our experience is that traditionally our babies have been born rapid-fire. Sort of the Uzi of baby birthing ... one right after the other. (Was that a good analogy? Could I have chosen a better one?) I have barely had time to get the last baby's name down pat before the next one is upon us. Who has time to pick another name?

This one is a little different. With a full 2 1/2 years since the last Sabo baby exited the womb, there's been plenty of opportunities to name drop. We have some pretty serious candidates at the moment, as far as names go. That's good because it will give me plenty of time to practice remembering the baby's name when the need arises to remember said baby's name at critical junctures, such as when someone inevitably asks me baby's name. I've actually had some rather embarrassing moments lately when someone asks me the name of the kid who is with me and I give them a name. You know, just sort of throw one out there without thinking about it too much. Then the kid gives me a strange look and I suddenly remember, `That's not Ezra! That's Gabe!' I quickly correct my mistake, uttering the disclaimer, "I was just making sure Gabe knew his name. Heh-heh." The person usually gives me the `Yeah, right!' look, followed by the look that says, `Egads! Someone pull his parenting card! He can't even remember his kid's name!'

Here's the thing. As a parent of 12 kids, I have to remember 24 names -- first and middle names -- not to mention the occasional mother's maiden name I have to remember to fill out certain important documents, as well as my own names, my wife's names, my wife's maiden name and on top of all that now I'm coaching a soccer team with 12 kids on it and I have to remember their names (at practice the other day I just randomly started calling some kid on my team `Bob'; he thought it was funny but the truth is I couldn't remember his name) ... can you give a brother a break? And I'm not even getting into birth dates, anniversaries, social security numbers, pin numbers, addresses, passwords ... what's really frightening is when my kids start getting married and there's spouses names to remember ... and then they start having kids! What if there are 20 grandkids! What if there's 40! What if there's 60! Don't be surprised if when the Sabo grandkids start appearing I just make everybody wear nametags. And one other thing. If we do have 60 grandkids, what's Christmas going to be like?

Warning: Little Boy In Bathroom

2010-11-03T22:42:00.000-04:00

You're probably looking at this photo and thinking, `What a cute photo.' I look at this photo and think, `Claire just peeked into the bathroom after one of these little boys came out of it.' It's a look of horror, in case you're wondering. I've had it. I'm tired of having to put yellow police tape over the door of our bathrooms after one of the little boys exits it. Don't get me wrong, I love our little boys. But mercy sakes, can you aim sons? It's like a firefighter who can't handle his hose in there! Maybe it's just our house. Maybe I'm a bad dad who hasn't taken the proper time to cover the subject of "Toilet: The Hows and Whys of Proper Aim" with his wee lads. All I can say is that it seems like every time one of the little shavers walks in there it's going to be a seat-soaking, wall spraying, floor warping experience.

One thing that doesn't help is the wait-until-the-very-last-second habit of some of our unnamed little boys. Instead of taking care of business at the first inkling of a full bladder, they wait until the full bladder is about to explode and the end result is the tinkling turns into a jet spray horror show. I can see it coming, too. The little potty dance jig that sometimes includes full-blown crotch grabbing to stave off an "accident" is something I can spot out of the corner of my eye. As soon as I see the potty dance I "encourage" the little lad to get into the bathroom to take care of bidnis ... and we all know what happens next. The bidnis starts before the britches are properly dropped and the seat properly lifted and you have the equivalent of the Bathroom Armageddon.

Somehow we'll survive all this. I'm sure I'll laugh about it. Someday. When we're not wiping down the seat, mopping up the floor and giving the wall a good cleansing. Until then I'm investigating the costs of 6-foot-high urinals. The kind with a little faux fly painted on it at the bottom. Seriously. I, uh, saw one of those recently. Believe me, everyone I know tried to hit the fly. I can only hope that it would work in our house.

She Said What?

2010-10-26T23:25:00.000-04:00

The other day Olivia was upstairs eating Doritos. On the carpet. That's a no-no in our house. So Claire called her on it and told her she needed to go downstairs and eat the chips in the kitchen. Olivia looked at her, licked her lips and said, "I'm busy." Then she proceeded to eat her chips. We have a wee lass here, just 2 years old, with a "Princess complex" and that is not a good thing. This morning she was wearing some new hand-me down pants that looked great on her. Fit nicely, didn't sag anywhere, not too short, not too long. Just right. She walked up to me and wrinkled her nose. "These don't fit," she said. I tried to convince her that, au contraire mon ami, they look great on her. I was half-expecting her to say, "Do these make me look fat?" Needless to say she went in the bedroom and changed her pants.

The other day Olivia said to MerriGrace, "I'm funny." MerriGrace said, "No you're not." And Olivia said, "I'm funny." So MerriGrace told her to tell her a joke. Olivia said, "Your life's a joke."
Um, where does she learn this stuff? I've said for quite some time that I have my work cut out for me with this sweet little girl. It's going to take some doing. Prayer is appreciated. We've also said for quite some time that one cure to the Princess complex would for her not to be the caboose of the family, so to speak. But the Lord has had other plans for us as far as having the No. 13 Sabo baby. Until quite recently. A shocking development has occurred in the house o' Sabo: Julie is pregnant. The ultrasound shows a healthy little one growing in her womb with a heartbeat Julie got to hear tapping along at 170 beats a minute. Julie's 11 weeks along and we're praying for a healthy baby in the middle of May (Let's see, what is it about August? We have Taylor's birthday on April 29, Brenton's and Madeline's on May 1 and Claire's on May 17 ... ). It would really be helpful for me if the baby was born on May 17. Since that's Claire's birthday it's easy for me to remember. So perhaps the solution to Olivia's Princess complex is just months away.

Wanted: Soccer Coach

2010-10-10T23:56:00.001-04:00

Somehow this Fall soccer season I got roped into coaching the 9- to 11-year olds team that Madeline and Abram are on. It had probably been somewhere around eight years or so since I coached youth soccer, back when Taylor and Ethan wrought havoc in the Corvallis league. The rust shows, as far as my coaching ability. I have a great group of kids who are fun to coach, but they're probably wondering if they're going to win a game this year. Our record at the moment stands at 0-4, with some of those losses pretty ugly. But it's not about wins or losses, right? I sure hope so. In my defense, the last game we played, on Saturday, was a very winnable game. But our best player was lost for the season two games ago -- his neighbor's dog bit his hand so hard it fractured a finger and he's in a cast and can't play -- and one of our other top players went on a fishing trip to Tangier Island (it's out in Chesapeake Bay and worth googling; oddly enough, ESPN is featuring the island in a commercial during this college football season) and missed Saturday's game. We lost 4-2, but Abram scored a nice goal and you can see him in the photo standing in front of me describing the look on the goalkeeper's face when Abram hammered the ball home into the net. Madeline is on the right, mostly obscured but slightly visible in a goalkeeper's jersey. She allowed no goals in her stint as goalkeeper in the 3rd quarter, in case you were wondering, though she did have one mental lapse when she tried to pick up the ball in the box while defending the goal. That was fine, except that was when she wasn't wearing the goalkeeper's jersey.

None of the kids on my team, called the Red Dragons, seem too upset over the mounting losses. I don't know what it is with kids these days. Am I the only one losing sleep over this? Am I the only one breaking out in hives as we occupy the cellar of the Gloucester Parks and Recreation 9- to 11-year-olds Premier League? Am I the only one trying to e-mail Landon Donovan for some soccer tips and to see if he could swing by Gloucester for a clinic? I'm thinking of extending practices for another hour. Maybe having them run a lap around the entire field for every goal that's surrendered. WWVLD? (What would Vince Lombardi do?) Somehow these kids are having fun. They smile and laugh! During the games! Sometimes even after the opposing team has scored 3 goals! In the first quarter! One kid came up to me after the last practice and asked if I was going to coach again in the spring, and if so he wanted to be on my team! This kid is crazy! He might go a whole year without winning a soccer game! If I use one more exclamation point, I might go crazy! Anyway, perhaps these kids are on to something. I think I'll give this whole exercise of losing but having fun a good think. In the face of all these defeats, these kids keep coming back. Despite the coaching.

So Long Summer

2010-10-05T00:31:00.000-04:00

Here's a couple of reminders of summer, Gloucester style. Or at least Sabo Gloucester style. The shot at the top was taken at a Peninsula Pilots baseball game. Ethan's in uniform because while playing for the Gloucester American Legion junior team he was named to the All-Star team. The All-Stars were honored by the Peninsula Pilots and we had an awful good time going to the game and watching college kids play in a wood bat league. It was made even more enjoyable by the fact that a couple buddies from metropolitan Yorktown, Steve Mezzapesa and Brian Horner, went to the game. Ethan had a fine summer playing for the Legion team, batting leadoff -- hitting over .400 -- and playing mostly in the outfield and at third base, with occasional catching duties. Now he's back playing fall baseball for the Gloucester High School, preparing for the spring season.

And then we have a sunflower that MerriGrace grew in our raised bed in the back yard. Her flowers turned out splendidly, as you can see. It was the hottest summer on record here in Hampton Roads, and that means something out here. It was a relentlessly hot, sweaty, sticky summer, marked by a noticeable lack of summer thunderstorms. Ezra never really had to worry about anyone letting the thunder in. Even at the end of September we had temperatures in the mid-90s. Last week, however, the rains fell in earnest -- at one point our 24-hour rainfall total topped 4.5 inches -- and the coolness of Fall has set in. What a relief. We still have tomatoes in the garden and I mowed the lawn the other day, but it's the time of year when the kids can play outside all day without coming in all purple and the air conditioning isn't running nonstop. The kids, and my wallet, like these days.

Missing Taylor

2010-10-04T08:45:00.000-04:00

Three months between blog posts? We apologize. If anyone out there in cyberspace is still reading the Team Sabo blog, we bring you an update. Taylor is now in Corvallis, Ore., attending Cornerstone School of Ministry and living with Brenton. He's having a blast. But boy howdy do we miss him. In so many ways, among them hearing him playing worship songs throughout the day around the house, sometimes with Olivia accompanying him on the Cajon (called "the box") as you can see in the photo.

Ethan is sure feeling the departure of his brother. When Taylor left, he passed the mantle of the Friday night youth Bible study teacher to Ethan, just as Brenton passed the mantle to Taylor when he left for Calvary Chapel Bible College. Taylor timed his departure perfectly, leaving after teaching in Genesis 37. That means Ethan got to pick up right where his brother left off ... in Genesis 38, the story of Judah and Tamar. Lovely. The next week Ethan got to break down Genesis 39, the story of Joseph and Potiphar's wife. Ethan thinks Taylor planned that on purpose. But we've heard good reports of Ethan's teaching, so praise the Lord for that. And this past Friday we had something like 50-55 teenagers at our house for Bible study ... an amazing work God is doing here.

Taylor will be back home for Christmas, but other than that he will be out in Oregon until early June. We allowed him to go to the School of Ministry on one condition, and one condition only: He comes back. It's hard enough having Brenton 3,200 miles away. We're hoping he comes back soon as well. Who knows. Maybe he'll drive Taylor home in June -- and stay.

General Ezra

2010-07-09T20:10:00.000-04:00

Ezra turned 4 on June 23. Happy birthday big fella. With the new advance in age, it apparently came with some additional authority. Let's just say Ezra is flexing his new found 4-year-old muscle. For his birthday he received money from grandmas and grandpas (Thanks!) and so we trundled off to Wal-Mart to let him pick out a gift. He settled on a Legos Star Wars set and when we got home he instructed Ethan and Taylor they needed to put it together for him. He would be more than happy to play with the finished product, but putting it together took some advanced Legos skills he doesn't quite possess. They were more than happy to take care of it. What great brothers. Alas, it took some doing, perhaps a little longer than initially suspected. Ezra retired to the kitchen for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich -- crunchy peanut butter with the crust off on a plate. After wolfing down his sammich, Ezra climbed the stairs to the loft where his brothers were trying to finish up the Star Wars warship.

Ezra: "Aren't you guys done yet?"

Ethan and Taylor: "We're getting there."

Ezra (He frowns. He's clearly miffed.): "I'll be back in 20 minutes," he said, wagging his finger at them. "It better be done."

And with that he marched back downstairs. I think his brothers got the message. After they started laughing and wondering who put Ezra in charge.

Do I Know These Kids?

2010-06-09T23:18:00.000-04:00

As you can see, the Team Sabo dress-up bin is loaded for bear, full of sartorial splendor and outfits for any make and model of child. Take, for example, this bottom photo of a boy we'll call "Abram." At least I know him as Abram. When he's not a cross between Jack Sparrow and a Jedi warrior. We can certainly appreciate the imagination that goes along with donning, in Abram's case, random clothes and paraphernalia and murses and pulling it off. At least I guess he pulls it off. What's important is that Abram thinks he's pulling it off and seems pretty intent on conquering Courthouse Square or whatever adventure he's going to tackle. At least he's dressed for success. We also note that Madeline really pulls off that white dress look, eh?

It's Only June, Right?

2010-06-07T10:07:00.000-04:00

Last night I had a nightmare. It was a very vivid dream. I dreamed that it was the end of September, the mornings were crisp, cool weather was in my future ... it was awful. I remember thinking, `Wait, I haven't had summer!' I want to sweat! I haven't enjoyed my little garden! I haven't barbecued ribs in the blazing heat while sweating profusely! The torture of reliving my dream is almost too much to write about ... what would it like to be without summer? Oh, that's right. I'd live in my hometown of Bend. Didn't it snow there last week? Eeech. So I woke up this morning and hustled out to the kitchen where I took a good long look at the calendar and to my pleasant surprise discovered it's still only June 7th. I have plenty of time to drop 5 lbs. sweating through a rib barbecue. The Wiffle ball season is still young so I have time to drop my ERA below the price of a steak dinner. The little cantaloupe plants abloom in my raised bed will grow luscious little melon treats. Oh, the joy of it!

I snapped a couple of photos of our little raised bed garden back on June 3rd and I'll update the progress through the summer. As you can see, things are looking good, as Olivia will attest with her delightful little garden smile. Last night we had one of those Virginia rainstorms complete with falling tree limbs -- Julie and I were out to dinner with some friends and saw an entire beech tree drop across the street in a vacant lot -- and surely an inch of rain or so. The garden appreciates the rain. We should be eating green beans by the end of the week so we're excited about that. I'm sure my dad's green beans in Bend, Ore., are about ready as well. Oh, wait. Today it's supposed to be slightly warmer in Bend than Anchorage, Alaska. The beans may have to wait. Was it last year my sister's garden in Bend got frosted out on June 20th? Sheesh. Where's global warming when you need it, right Sis?

Yes, We're Still Blogging

2010-06-03T12:54:00.000-04:00

It came to our attention that it has been like 5 weeks since we filed a blog post. We apologize. So for our friends out in Oregon, we interrupt the constant rains to bring you up to date on the Sabo family with some random recent photos. As you can see from the photo right up there, it's sunny, warm and the pool is open here in Virginia. Taylor is working on his tan, as are his sisters, so you won't have to wear shades to look at our handy dandy blog. Fortunately it's been so warm lately -- upper 80s, chance of thunderstorms again today -- that it shouldn't take long for Taylor to look a lot less white and you can put the shades away when perusing the 12 kids blog. In gardening news, we're a couple of weeks from harvesting our first batch of green beans from the raised bed in the back yard and the peas have been tasty. The tomatoes are stretching out nicely and we're looking forward to some heirlooms here in a month or two & for some tasty salsa. I can spy little bell peppers on the pepper plants so that's very encouraging. We apologize for lack of news on the blog. We have been extraordinarily busy here at Team Sabo headquarters. May was an absolute blur and I was alarmed to learn it's already June. We had 3 birthdays in May -- Brenton and Madeline on May 1 and Claire on May 17 -- and Taylor hit 18 on April 29. For his birthday he decided to take the whole family bowling. Showing what a hospitable, kind husband I am, I let my beautiful wife beat me in bowling. What a wonderful husband I am! (Editor's note: If I remember correctly, I caught you clapping when I bowled a gutter ball. How is that wonderful? Author's reply: Well, um, my love, I think actually I was, well, technically I wasn't clapping in the sense of applauding a sudden downturn in your bowling fortunes. It was actually a form of encouragement in the sense of trying to encourage you to overcome this sudden little blip in your bowling success because clearly you're a tremendous natural bowler with extraordinary bowling talent. My love.)

Anyway, Taylor prevailed in the bowling tournament although Eli had a nice showing, even if he had the bumpers. (Editor's note: Which you could have used. Author's reply: Cheap shot! I'll have you know I beat Ezra!) For Claire's birthday she decided to have a slumber party and invited something like 9 of her friends to spend the night. I had to get a permit from the county to operate my house as a hotel for the night because we surpassed the local housing capacity ordinances. I'm telling you, things can get crazy around here. On Memorial Day the whole family except for Claire went to Busch Gardens to ride roller coasters and such. It was in the low 90s, as humid as a sauna ... sounds like fun, eh? The kids had a blast and I kept my lunch down so all in all it was a grand day. Basically, we survived. We took 10 kids and came home with 10 kids and had only a couple of relatively minor fits from tired little kids to deal with in the closing minutes of our time at Busch Gardens. Finally, in closing, we pledge to write more blog posts.

"Daddy Say 'K"

2010-04-22T17:59:00.000-04:00

This is Olivia, as you may be able to tell from the photo. As you can see, she likes chocolate. She's trying to smile while mowing on a beater lathered up in some sort of chocolate concoction. She is very 2ish, with all the baggage that goes with being a post-toddler child thinking the world is theirs for the taking and that whatever her long-lashed eyes spy is, in her words, "mine." This morning she bit Eli, I immediately caught wind of it and Olivia was soon made to understand this doesn't qualify as playing nicely. She refused to say, "Sorry" to Eli, (Hmmmm Eli, where do you think she learned that?) but after some not so gentle encouragement eventually ponied up with the word of apology. She also is understanding the art of deception. Or maybe it's lying, but I'm not really sure if her newly minted 2-year-old mind understands that concept. You see, yesterday I was downstairs working on a story and she was upstairs with Claire and some other kids. My office is right at the foot of the stairs so I can hear everything going on up there -- for better and worse. (For example, today the little boys and Olivia were upstairs playing when they decided they didn't want to play Ezra's game and walked out of his bedroom. "Well," Ezra said very loudly, "everyone is stupid." That qualified him for some behavioral reformation remediation efforts.) Anyway, Olivia is who we're talking about. So I hear Olivia ask Claire if she can watch a movie and from the sound of things she's holding a DVD.

Claire: "Go ask Daddy."

Olivia: (Walking to the top of the stairs) "Dada, can I watch movie?"

Before I can answer, Olivia turns around to Claire.

Olivia: "Daddy say 'k."

Then I hear Claire laugh. I have to admit, I found it amusing as well. I can only shake my head and think I have my work cut out for me already. Kids are fascinating creatures. She's learned to put words in my mouth at 2 years old. This could get interesting.

Another Ezra-ism

2010-04-19T21:34:00.000-04:00

Some people have uncanny abilities to do great things. Like the woman who holds the world record for bearing children. In the 18th century in Russia, Mrs. Feodor Vassilyev birthed 69 children. That is not a typo. That's 69 children...from the womb of one woman. Talk about a fertile Myrtle. Sheesh. Imagine the blogging that woman could have done, calling it "Sixty-nine kids ... and counting?" So Mrs. Vassilyev had 27 pregnancies, birthing 16 sets of doubles, seven sets of triples and four sets of quads. An impressive feat, no doubt and something that qualifies as an uncanny ability to do great things. Imagine family reunions in the Vassilyev clan. Christmas must have been a hoot. Or something like that.

Anyway, enough about Mrs. Vassilyev. Let's get down to the nitty gritty. We're here to talk about Ezra and the uncanny verbal greatness about him. It's something that comes naturally. You can't teach it. He's a child prodigy of the spoken word. Among his more infamous utterances include the time he shut the door during a thunderstorm: "Don't let the thunder in!" he said. Or his defiant statement when he's making a point: "That's just how it be's!" His latest gem of the tongue came the other morning when he and his younger brothers and sisters were outside riding bikes. Ezra hopped on his trike, but lo and behold the seat was wet. Whe he got back up and ran around a bit he stopped and scrunched up his face. "Hey," he said in his wet britches, "someone peed in my pants."

Isn't It Just A Game?

2010-04-14T21:45:00.000-04:00

The 15- and 16-year-old boys on the Gloucester High School junior varsity baseball team filed off the bus single file toting their baseball mitts, bats and bags with their heads down. They hardly said a word to each other. Julie and I were sitting in the van waiting to pick up Ethan watching them walk to the Gloucester High School locker room. "Look at them," I said quietly. "You would think they lost." The JV Dukes had traveled to Newport News to face Woodside's team and prevailed 6-2. It wasn't necessarily a pretty win. Mistakes were made but Gloucester did plenty of things right as well, obviously. You would never know it from the coach, however. After the game I was chatting behind the dugout with a couple of other fathers after the game when the coach walked nearby. "I hope they get some TLC from you all," he said. "Because they're not getting it from me."

Ethan and the rest of the team played a solid game overall. Good pitching, some timely hitting, some plays were made when it counted. The kids came through. Ethan batted leadoff and went 1 for 2 with a double and RBI. But he also reached base on an error, drew two walks and stole three bases, though he did get thrown out once on what I would say was a disputed call at second base. In the field he played third base and fielded two grounders, throwing guys out at first base both times. He also had one error when he threw a ball into centerfield and another inexplicable play when he fielded the ball hit to him and stepped on third base -- except it wasn't a force out. He knew right away he had blown it. No one needed to tell him that because he's hard enough on himself. So how did his coach handle it? Here's what he said to Ethan afterwards: "Ethan, you're a genius in the classroom, but an idiot on the field. You'll never play an inning of varsity baseball doing that." He had plenty more to say to him, but that was the lowlight.

The coach ripped into everyone he could. One kid walked away from the field in tears. Ethan took it well; a lot better than I'm taking it. I talked to Ethan on the walk to the bus after the game and told him he played well. "It wasn't good enough," Ethan said. I told him he got on base all four times. "It wasn't good enough," Ethan said. "You made a couple plays at third. Had a real nice tag on that kid trying to steal," I said. "It wasn't good enough," Ethan said. We talked about what the coach said and I said to pay no attention to him. If the coach wants to give him pointers on fundamentals and actually be a coach, that's one thing. If the coach wants to be a raving, abusive idiot, just block that stuff out of your head. We got near the bus and our paths diverged. I told him he played well. Ethan shook his head: "Imagine if we had lost."

I don't understand this style of "coaching." I get that there are times when you need to crack down on the kids and get their attention or point out the mistakes they made and get them to understand how to make the play correctly. It's one thing if the kids aren't playing hard, or as some say, "disrespecting" the game. That's not the case here with these kids, it looks to me. They play hard. They're not perfect. Excuse me, but baseball is a game where it's considered a success if you get a hit every three or four times at bat. You can get your message across without getting personal. Without demeaning them. Without calling them idiots. A good coach can demand a lot from his players, but still have their respect. A great coach prepares his team to succeed on the field and his players play hard as much as for themselves as for their coach. When winning a game isn't any fun, something is wrong. Hey coach, it's a game. A game played by kids who are playing because they love the game. And who are hoping to have some fun.

A Blur

2010-04-09T07:48:00.000-04:00

These days are a blur. Whether it's because of the explosion of pollen or the fact that we have so much going on -- in addition to all the regular activities, the 4 kids playing soccer and Ethan playing baseball and shuttling Taylor back and forth to work, it's kind of crazy around here -- I can't be sure. Olivia turned 2 on March 30 and she was going around the house in the days leading up to her birthday singing, "Happy day, happy day!" And she kept trying to show how old she was going to be by holding up two fingers but always had her thumb sticking out. The hand coordination thing is a work in progress. It was a grand birthday party and at some point we'll track down some photos of it. You see a couple of photos up there of some folks rather dressed up who appear to be "dancing." Several weeks ago we attended a "Sweet Sixteen" party for two local young ladies who are close friends of the family and someone caught some of us on camera in a "dancing" type of activity. Taylor and Claire were looking sharp, eh?

We went from winter to summer in about a day this year. It was a long, hard winter with record amounts of snowfall around Virginia -- parts of Northern Virginia had more than 5 feet this year -- and then one day it was 75 degrees. Then 85 degrees the next day and 91 the next day. It was crazy. The kids have been running through the sprinkler every day this week, the pollen was so thick I about needed a snow shovel to get it off the cars and the air conditioning units were roaring. Spring? A fleeting thought at this point. But I woke up this morning and it had rained all night and cooled things off. It's supposed to be upper 60s this weekend, which should make perfect soccer weather. Eli has proven to be a goal-scoring machine. He had another 2 goals last Saturday, the second time he's done that. Madeline is a crowd favorite and Gabe has shown amazing improvement on the pitch in just a few weeks. He's been playing a lot of soccer in the back yard and it's paying off. Abram scored a goal this year that was really cool. Usually he plays a lot of defense but when he got his chance he put one in the back of the net. It's great stuff.

Washington D.C.

2010-03-28T21:33:00.000-04:00

Last week Aunt Annie took her son, Killian, and 25 percent of my kids (Taylor, Evie & MerriGrace) for a day trip to our nation's capital. That's a benefit to living here -- it's a 2 1/2-hour jaunt up to D.C. The kids and my kid sister had a great time up there. It was a gorgeous spring day in the upper 60s, the cherry blossoms had poked out and they were able to meet a real-live U.S. senator. In this case it was Oregon Republican Greg Walden. Annie has a former volleyball player who is a page for Sen. Walden and Cassidy hooked up my crew, getting them a tour of the Capitol, letting them hang out on the Senate floor to hear some debating and even some personal time with Sen. Walden. My kids sure enjoyed meeting Sen. Walden -- "He's a nice dude," Taylor says. "Real genuine and friendly." -- allowing them to see the words 'politicans' and `snakes' (Or worse!) can be mutually exclusive. I hope Mr. Walden appreciates being known as the "nice senator dude." As you can see, they also toured a bit of D.C., hitting the Vietnam, Korean and World War II war memorials. The ever-present Washington Monument was in the background and they hit the Lincoln Memorial. After Cassidy got off work they treated her to Mexican grub at a restaurant near the Capitol. All in all, good times. Thanks Aunt Annie!

Attack Of The Killer Mantis

2010-03-23T21:32:00.000-04:00

I know what you're thinking. You're looking at this photo and saying to yourself, `Dude, how is that rototiller driving itself?' It's pretty amazing, isn't it. Well, the truth is that someone is steering that little two-stroke bad boy, aka a Mantis rototiller. If you look closely, maybe you can see Taylor there manning the Mantis. See? The blond hair ... right there between the big pine tree and fence ... Yeah, you can? Now I know what you're thinking: `Why is Taylor wearing camo jammies?' Well, the truth is that they aren't camo jammies. They're camo, for sure. That's obviously quite obvious. It's a camo getup Taylor wears when he becomes "The Taylorator" during Airsoft battles with his camo upped homeboys out in the Gloucester woods. (For the uninformed, Airsoft is a war-style game using realistic "toy" guns that spit out plastic BB-kind of things. Don the safety glasses, the camo, some tick repellant and you're good to go.) Which has nothing to do with rototilling our little raised bed garden. This photo was taken on Saturday after a long day in the woods battling his buddies in Airsoft. He couldn't wait to get home in the garden. That's my boy.

Signs Of Spring

2010-03-20T20:57:00.000-04:00

Timing is everything. Whether you've got a line of kids at the beach all jumping in the air together on the count of 3 (Editor's note: What's the deal with Eli? Author's reply: Obviously he lost count.) or you're swinging for the fences, timing is critical. It's time for spring, we know that. It's been a long, hard winter here in Gloucester and we are more than ready to be outside in shorts, t-shirts and soccer and baseball gear. Well, almost all of us. It's been so cold for soccer practices at the start of the season the kids have been wearing sweatpants. It finally turned warm enough on Thursday that they could wear shorts. Except for Gabe. He came downstairs in sweatpants again right before we had to leave for practice. Someone asked him, "Gabe, where's your shorts?" He grimaced. "They make me look fat," he said. The good news is the diet worked because today he was able to wear his shorts. Just kidding. He did wear shorts today, though. More good news: Gabe and Madeline play on the same team and today their team won on a goal set up by a beautiful assist from Madeline.

Eli and his team played their first game and he scored the winning goal in the final seconds. He's got a big future in soccer. On one play he got an itty bitty shove from one of the players and immediately went to his Jedi warrior playbook because he "fell" with a twisting, flying, hit-the-ground-rolling, the-ref-can't-help-but-blow-the-whistle dive ... it was a very impressive and effective soccer play. Abram's team also won and he scored the first goal of his soccer career. It was pretty exciting stuff. That brings us to Ethan, who wrapped up the Sabo Sporting Day by helping the Gloucester Dukes JV team win 12-3. He had a single and double, scored two runs and stole three bases. All with a black, purple and green left eye. The photo of him up there is when he ripped a double into left center. Let's say his timing was on.

Baseball

2010-03-17T08:06:00.000-04:00

It's been a tough pre-season of baseball for Ethan. While lifting weights in his strength and conditioning class a few weeks ago something popped in his elbow and he's been fighting soreness. He says it's finally feeling better. Last week he got the flu the day before a pre-season game and although he made it back to school the next day and onto the field -- despite feeling woozy -- he had to sit out the first three innings of the game due to a rule about missing school. And then yesterday happened. During drills while jogging over to pick up a ball a teammate chucked a ball and smacked Ethan above the left eye. It was an accident, but he suffered a mild concussion, though he never blacked out. He was still fairly out of it when I picked him up from practice yesterday. Last night we had to wake him up every two hours to make sure he was coherent. That was crazy. I was barely coherent and somehow I was supposed to discern if he was coherent? Ethan's first official baseball game of his high school career is supposed to be tomorrow. Maybe he'll play if he can see out of his left eye. In the first practice game he was the starting third baseman and batted leadoff. Today he looks like Rocky. Tomorrow hopefully he'll look like a baseball player.

It's Okay To Say `Thunder'

2010-03-16T23:17:00.000-04:00

When we moved back to Gloucester last June and were welcomed home by rounds of thunderstorms, Ezra was a very troubled lad. You could not open the door during a thunderstorm, for fear of letting the thunder in the house. He even forbid me from saying the word, "Thunder." As if not saying it meant it didn't exist. We're happy to report Ezra seems to be on the rebound. Or maybe he's maturing. The other day we had our first official thunderstorm. You could hear the rumblings in the sky very clearly. Several times we paused when we heard a roll of thunder. One time I went over to open the door to make sure I was hearing correctly. Ezra was standing right there. Someone mentioned that we shouldn't open the door or else the thunder would come in. I asked Ezra if it was okay to open the door. He just shrugged, as if to say, "Why you askin' me? Thunder doesn't bother me."

He's at a funny stage. He has no problem taking a bath with his brothers and even Olivia and being buck naked, but ask him to change into his pajamas at night or change his clothes and he demands you leave his bedroom so he can have some privacy. In no way, shape or form is it he down with people seeing him in his underwear. He even gets really upset if his brothers walk in on him. I don't quite know how to explain that. On the other hand, he loves to snuggle with Evie and Claire and the other night I understand he got scared and walked into the girls' room in the middle of the night, sat down on the floor and started whimpering. He ended up in Evie's bed. Kids are funny and say and do the darndest things. This morning Olivia was scooting up the stairs and Madeline walked by and gave her a drive-by peck on the cheek. Olivia didn't care for that. "Madwin," she growled, "you say sowwy to me!" Madeline heard that and couldn't help but laugh. Later in the morning Eli asked someone to make him chocolate milk. "And make it really, really good," he said. As if someone makes him really, really bad chocolate milk. Is there even such a thing as really, really bad chocolate milk?

March Madness

2010-03-15T22:07:00.000-04:00

It's that time of year again. The sun sits a little higher in the sky, the daffodils are abloom and we've planted the peas. Yes, it's time to fill out the NCAA tournament bracket. It's a family affair and an awful lot of us in the Team Sabo department fill out brackets to see who's the best prognosticator. Or sheer guesser, however you look at it. Last year, for example, Evie almost won our tournament challenge and she admittedly has no clue who's any good in college basketball. A lot of it is a feeling, or a hunch, or whichever team you hit on the dartboard. One year Brenton prepared for March Madness by watching as much basketball as he could for an entire week before the tournament. The dude did not sleep for like a week scouting every team and it paid off because he was killing us for the first two weeks of the tournament. Unfortunately things went downhill for him and, um, I won that year. He still refuses to talk about it.

Taylor is taking a different approach. No dartboards for him. No scouting on ESPN or anything like that. Nope. Taylor has faith. This year he decided to retire to his room to pray over his bracket. He was up there for like an hour. Then he started reading the Bible. He came out and announced that he had just read in Ecclesiastes 9:4: "...a living dog is better than a dead lion." So he went through the bracket and picked all the teams with "Dogs" as mascots. Like Butler and Gonzaga. Any team with a Lion as a mascot ... sorry. You're going down. Then he came across Ecclesiastes 9:11: "The race is not to the swift." So he looked for all of the "swift" teams such as Texas and Villanova. If you're fans of these teams, Taylor has some bad news for you. They're toast. As in burnt toast. He also picked St. Mary's because Mary ministered to the Lord in the gospel of Luke. That's got to count for something, right? Especially come NCAA tournament time. Then he came across Luke 8:30: "But the Pharisees and Lawyers rejected the will of God for themselves, not having been baptized by Him." You may be wondering what on earth that passage has to do with March Madness. Well, Taylor came up to me and asked which teams have a good law school. "Georgetown," I said. "Why?" Taylor just said, "They're going down." Don't you see the correlation? The lawyers rejected the will of God ... so obviously Georgetown, as a good law school, is going down in the tournament! So Taylor has them losing to Ohio. Talk about an upset. But it's in the Bible!

Ethan just came downstairs and was talking to Taylor about his picks and then Taylor was explaining to him about his picking method this year. How it's Biblically based and all. Ethan stared at him for a really long time. "What percentage are you joking Taylor?" he said. "Do you really think God gave you those picks?" Taylor responded yes. Then Taylor laughed really hard. Ethan looked flustered. "I personally think we should outlaw this type of thing," Ethan said. "Because if he wins, he didn't really win."

I don't know if any of you all who read this blog are familiar with the term "hermeneutics." Essentially good hermeneutics in the context of the Bible is rightly interpreting and handling Scripture. For example, bad hermeneutics would be taking passages of the Bible and twisting them for self-serving purposes. Or foolish purposes. Like when Julie got wind of this newfound method. "You're using the Bible to pick your bracket?" she said to Taylor. "I don't want people to think we're weirdos using the Bible for stupid purposes." A discussion ensued and Taylor explained that he was honest with the Lord and told Him that you probably don't really care about this, but he was going to pray about it and whoever the Lord puts on his heart, that's who he's picking. "All glory to God if I pick right," Taylor said. And what if his picks don't pan out? Taylor laughed. "Well, we'll know who's a false prophet," he said. It's an interesting, entertaining family discussion. At one point Julie looked over at Taylor. "I like that you do everything unto the Lord," she said. "You're sitting down filling out this bracket and bringing the Lord into it. Saying, `OK Lord, here I am sitting down and filling out this bracket. If you want to contribute, go ahead.'" Julie giggled. "Maybe God really does care about your bracket."

Afghanistan

2010-02-26T21:44:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine from my University of Portland cross country and track days finds himself in Afghanistan these days. That top photo is a shot of the bucolic countryside in Afghanistan. Looming in the background is one of the snow-capped peaks in the country's friendly neighbor, Pakistan. The second photo shows my friend, "Hank" (the nickname is a play on the name of a great, great Kenyan runner from the late 1970s and early '80s named Henry Rono; us college running chums were fairly certain our comrade Hank is not related to Henry Rono, but we were never quite sure), standing next to a Russian MIG fighter jet that's a leftover from the Soviet invasion of the 1980s. Hank is an FBI agent who typically investigates corruption and the like. He drew a tour in Afghanistan, where he is investigating military corruption and the like. I'll enclose a copy of one of his e-mails, edited down somewhat, to give you a taste of life on the other side of this frequently hostile world. God bless you Hank.

I complained about how dry and dusty it was in Afghanistan and I will now complain about the rain. Last week we were on another very small base. We arrived in the middle of a very cold 36-hour rainstorm. The base only has about 100 or 150 US soldiers. The small gym only had elliptical machines that ran on human power, since I think they only had plugs for the stereo and the lights. I did not think ahead and worked out just before dark. It was dark by the time I headed to the shower. Very dark. This is a different kind of dark. Most small bases are blacked out at night (remember, haji can't see in the dark), so you need to have your flashlight (and in some places you need to have a red or blue cover over the light so you can't be seen at all from off the base). Picture being on a base you have never been on before, in the rain, in the dark, looking for the shower. My shower shoes were not equal to the massive puddles (they eventually put out pallets to hop across some of the bigger ones) and I had to put my towel over my head with my flashlight headlamp to try to keep dry and warm. A word about my travel towel. I bough a chamois towel for traveling over here because it folds up very small and dries very quickly. In fact, it is almost a perfect towel with the only drawback being that it does not dry me off at all. Don't buy one for home use. Anyway, the rain stopped and the sky cleared the next day and the next night was beautiful. Without the base's lights on and without electricity in the village, the full moon was the brightest I've ever seen. It was so bright that it made the snow on the mountains all around us look like it was glowing. Of course, the fact that some of the mountains were actually in Pakistan gave the whole experience a different feeling than if I were in say, Yosemite.

When I was running around the Jalalabad base the other day I finally got to talk a little bit with some Afghans. The base, called FOB Fenty, was built on and around Nangahar Airport. Fun fact: Nangahar Airport is the airport where Osama Bin Laden landed in the late 1990s when he left Sudan. The old terminal building is on the opposite side of the runway from where most of the base buildings are and next to it there is a wrecked Russian MIG available for picture posing (I took advantage of this opportunity myself a couple weeks ago). I knew that the ANA (Afghan National Army) used the old terminal building because every afternoon they play cricket and volleyball out front and I could see lights on through the basement windows. When I was making my second loop around the base I decided to explore the terminal building because. . . well who wouldn't take the opportunity to walk through the same building as Bin Laden? I just wanted to see the main floor, which was very obviously unoccupied and I saw was under renovation. There was not much to see. It was getting dark and it was really just a concrete shell with a lot of non-OSHA approved work being done with low scaffolding that would have given me a war injury had I bumped my head. On the way out of the terminal one of the soldiers came up to me. I had met Ismael a couple weeks ago when we were in the area taking a picture with the MIG and looking for the Afghan bread bakery. He speaks okay English. Immediately four other soldiers came up and we started talking. Their English was about as good as my Pashtu. We talked for a few minutes and they invited me down to their place. I figured that they lived on the base, so if they really wanted to kill me they had plenty of chances while I was jogging by and they were playing cricket. Also, they risked a lot more living on that base and serving in the ANA than I ever have and frankly, if we can't trust them, we may as well close this whole operation down and go home. Seriously. The basement of the Nangahar Airport terminal where they live used to be a jail. The barred doors across the hall are still there and the rooms have very heavy metal doors. I didn't know there were cells down there and the guys did not seem to want to discuss it. If I had to guess, I'd say some pretty bad things happened down there, since it had to have been used by the Soviets and/or the Taliban.

Ismael shares a room with 6 other guys. There were 3 bunks and a single bed. I sat on one of the bunk beds. If that were my mattress I would sleep on the floor. I did not think mattresses could bend the way it did. The only other thing in the room was a computer on the floor and of course the guys' AK-47s. At first it was a tiny bit off-putting to be by myself in a converted prison cell with a bunch of Afghans carrying automatic weapons, but I got used to it. I remembered to take off my shoes. A soldier was sitting on the floor doing some kind of word processing on the computer. He spoke pretty good English, too. He stopped working and they showed me some music videos on the computer from Dubai, Saudi Arabia, India and the U.S. They like looking at girls singing and dancing (I don't think they want anyone to know that). With Ismael translating they asked me a lot of questions about the U.S. They wanted to know what the U.S. thought of Pakistan. I was diplomatic and gave a non-answer. What do I know about that and why would I want to say something they didn't like? They are not stupid and they pressed me a little bit. I told them that OF COURSE we liked Afghanistan more than Pakistan (hey, what was I going to say?). We talked about families and I pressed propriety a little bit when the subject came to wives. I included obligatory jokes about how they are allowed to have up to four wives. All of these guys' wives wear burkas. They don't have pictures of them and it was apparently inappropriate to even ask about them (they made concessions for my ignorance and did not seem too offended). We talked about kids. One of the guys wanted to know why I only had three. They asked if the U.S. soldiers they see on the base were wives of the male soldiers. We showed each other our wedding rings and passed them around (I'm not sure why). They offered me a Pepsi. I said sure and after throwing colorful Afghan money at each other and trying to pay for me, one of the guys brought me a can of Boom Boom Energy Drink. Another dilemma: these dirt poor guys have just gone out and bought the first American who has probably ever sat in their room and talked to them a drink to show their hospitality (AND I said I wanted one). Remember, it's getting dark and about 6:30 pm now. If I drink the Boom Boom I won't sleep for at least 2 days. If I don't drink it they will be very insulted and it would have been better for me to have never gone down there. I opened it and took a few sips, then when I left I took the can with me so they wouldn't know how little I drank. It's all I could think to do. When I excused myself I took advantage of an interesting feature of the base. There is a stop light on the runway. When it's green, you can across the runway. Fortunately it was green, because it was now dark and getting chilly and I was wearing damp running clothes.

I've had a chance to sit down with former mujahadeen and interview them for my cases, but I have to ask them about fighting the Soviets. I can't help it. They are not educated but they are not dumb and very interesting to talk to. Some of the muj went bad and are fighting us now, but a lot of them are on our side and I really admire them. I also really admire the young guys who have stepped up to join the police and military. They risk their lives for their country at a level far beyond any American ever has to do. There will always be a few bad apples in a group like that, but for the most part they are very trustworthy and brave and we cannot win without them.

I'll be in touch.

Gettin' Fixed

2010-02-26T19:44:00.000-05:00

The other morning the kids were playing "Town." It's a very complex game which usually takes up a significant part of the day (which is always a good thing) in which everyone has some sort of function or role contributing to the community. It's an elaborate, educational game they came up with themselves Someone's a banker, someone is a baker, someone is a garbage man, someone owns a store ... and sweet Olivia is usually a thief or pickpocket roaming around the 'hood taking what she wants and creating conflict in her wake (there was talk of putting someone in charge of the town "Jail" and having Olivia as its permanent inmate, which really isn't fair because she's still learning about proper social etiquette) ... you get the idea. On this particular morning the town even had a doctor's office. Apparently Ezra had some sort of medical issue that needed attending to because he marched up to Dr. Claire and announced, "I need to get fixed!" Taylor pritnear fell down the stairs in a fit of laughter after hearing that. Ezra just had this puzzled look on his face wondering what he said. Needless to say, it was the quote of the day.

Pants On The Ground

2010-02-15T09:51:00.000-05:00

Olivia has her own interpretation of the song that took America by storm. You know the one, of course. The song about chumps wearing their britches halfway down their rumps -- or (gasp) even lower -- and lookin' like fools that's called "Pants On the Ground." Olivia's pants go on the ground in a form of protest. Let me explain. This morning she had found her baby dollie and wanted to change her diaper. Olivia waves her hand in front of her face and says "Pewie," to let you know that baby dollie has some serious personal hygiene issues. So Olivia fetched a diaper, some wipes and Desitin and basically kind of chucked the baby dollie on the ground (I was folding clothes and looked over at Julie on the couch and winced) and then proceeded to "change baby's diaper." Apparently baby dollie was a little rashy in the tush area and needed an application of Desitin. Except Olivia wasn't content to just pretend to apply a dollop of Desitin to the affected area. She wanted to apply Desitin for reals. "No," Julie said, "we just pretend." Then Julie showed Olivia how to pretend to lube up the baby dollie's rump with Desitin. Olivia kept trying to get Julie to open the tube up so she could really anoint the baby dollie. When that didn't work, Olivia threw a little hissy fit. It was a good one, too. On the ground, rolling around, lots of tears, squawking, some sackcloth and ashes ... you probably know the drill. "Wow," I said. Julie just shook her head. Then Olivia threw the Desitin. Kind of a weak throw if you ask me and I made a mental note to spend some time out on the Wiffle ball field with her this spring. Then Olivia took off her little girlie jeans and threw them on the ground and stared defiantly at us with tear-stained cheeks. She sure showed us!

Eventually things got worked out with Olivia and she seemed to understand that we take the position that letting her handle an open tube of Desitin could be a recipe for disaster. Check that: It would be a recipe for disaster. So in due time Olivia moved on with her life, which gave us all some relief. A little while later I saw her bubbly little self smiling and wearing her swimsuit over her onesie. Kind of an interesting sartorial combination if you ask me, but it was really working for her. Just moments ago she was back in her jeans and shirt but had her pink bubble coat on. I'm telling you, the girl is a quick-change artist. Both emotionally and when it comes to what she's in the mood to wear. Someday I expect the abrupt mood changes will simmer down and the rapid clothes-changing alterations will make way for a one-day/one-outfit routine. Right?

Evie reaches a milestone

2010-02-13T22:35:00.001-05:00

For an awful long time I've called Evie by the name "Vevie." It's something I picked up from one of her siblings, who couldn't quite say Evie correctly and added a `v' to the front of it. Thirteen years ago, on Feb. 6, she was born by c-section in a hospital in Redmond, Ore., in the midst of a snowstorm. How fitting it is that on her 13th birthday and 3,000 miles away another snowstorm descended upon us. (Pray for us; that means we have 4 teenagers in the house.) Evie's name means "life" and she's always been so lively. But some things I just can't figure. For her birthday she had 5 friends spend the night -- on top of our house guest from Oregon, Gail Winterscheid -- which means we had 20 people under the roof. (But it was just one night so maybe that sounds worse than it was.) What I can't figure out is the entertainment lineup for the night for Evie's birthday party. It involved things like "soaking feet" and "painting nails" and "talking." Um, whoopee. In my experience as a reformed teenage boy who claims to be an "adult male," that doesn't constitute a party. I mean, c'mon. No wrestling, no snow football, no video games, no passing gas contests, or midnight runs to the fridge ... and they call this a party?

I'm not sure if it's the most memorable birthday Evie has had, because it would be hard to top the birthday in 2004 when she celebrated it in three states. We were moving to Gloucester and started the morning in Barstow, Calif., then had her birthday lunch at a Wendy's somewhere in Arizona, then had her birthday dinner at a Super Wal-Mart deli in Gallup, N.M., before arriving at our hotel in Albuquerque. At the time she said it was her best birthday ever, even though she spent most of it in our van watching the California, Arizona and New Mexico sagebrush whiz by. For this year's birthday party menu the main dish was a baked potato bar, hence the middle photo. Evie is one of a kind. She's sweet, outgoing, lively and above all loves the Lord. We wouldn't have her any other way.

Snowmageddon

2010-02-11T19:44:00.001-05:00

Virginia failed to get the memo that this isn't Wisconsin. Or Michigan, North Dakota, the Arctic Circle or wherever snow abounds in winter. In some ways it hasn't been so bad here in Gloucester, considering Washington D.C. just north of us has had almost 5 feet of snow this winter. I'm not sure what our total snowfall has been -- it's far short of 5 feet -- but some churches haven't met for two weeks due to snow, ice and varying extreme degrees of frigidness. Twice in the past week we've had those sideways snowstorms, aka "blizzards," that cause things like a 50-car pileup on the freeway about 20 miles away from us. For us, that means another opportunity to build up our mini-sledding hill in the front yard. As you can see, Madeline took the snowboard route thanks to a cardboard box. Cardboard boxes are very underrated as sleds, snowboards and other types of vehicles useful for maneuvering down snowy runs. The other good thing about the snow is that Taylor and Ethan and a buddy of theirs made the rounds of our neighborhood with snow shovels and salt and made $95 clearing driveways. They even picked up a summer lawn mowing job. Let me just say, however, that the cold and snow has worn out its welcome. We're ready for spring, followed in close order by summer. Especially considering Ethan's first baseball scrimmage is exactly a month away.

Snowstorm

2010-02-01T20:21:00.000-05:00

We had the biggest snowstorm in 20 years hit over the weekend. The extremes in weather here are amazing. I remember the summer day the heat index scraped 120 degrees and I started sweating the second I stepped outside. I remember the day we had 10 inches of rain fall a few years back, when I thought our house might wash away. Or the summer night a thunderstorm barreled through the neighborhood very likely packing a small twister and dropped trees all around us, sending a branch through our bedroom window. And now we have a snowstorm that's a humdinger by Virginia standards. We had 8 inches of snow fall in a day, which counts for a blizzard here in Tidewater Virginia. Snow started falling early Saturday morning and continued for about 24 hours. The sun broke out sometime Sunday morning, so bright we had to shut the blinds to see the worship song words projected on the wall in our living room. (We're still meeting here for church Sunday mornings, but made an offer to lease a building so Lord willing we'll be moving on soon.) Today on my "lunch hour" we worked on building a sled run, as you can see from the photo. It wasn't exactly to Olympic standards, but it suited the kids just fine. The photo of Ezra shows how exhausting a day of building a sled run and taking runs down it on a piece of cardboard can be. But we made some memories today. We made a bunch of memories.

`Stay With Me'

2010-01-27T22:11:00.000-05:00

We had known for a couple of weeks Julie was going to have another miscarriage. It was such a shock to hear again that the little life inside her had inexplicably died. Her body was still thinking she was pregnant, the doctor said, which was why she still felt nauseous and tired all the time. He couldn't explain what went wrong, why after so many healthy babies she had two miscarriages within the matter of months. We trust God's plans and purposes in all of it, even as we wonder if we'll be blessed to hold another little baby or if Olivia is the last wee one in our family. The doctor advised waiting for Julie's body to miscarriage naturally rather than going through a procedure that he said could complicate future pregnancies. We waited for two weeks before the bleeding began. By Monday afternoon, it was so heavy I found Julie lying on the bathroom floor, talking to the doctor on the phone. When she hung up she told me she felt as though she would faint whenever she stood up. She was pale and I asked if she needed anything and what the doctor said. He told her to wait a while to see how things progressed. They got worse.

By 7 o'clock I was helping her into our van to take her to the hospital in Williamsburg where the doctor would meet us. The hospital in Gloucester doesn't deliver babies so Julie's doctors are 45 minutes away. I had asked Ethan to remove Olivia's car seat, which is directly behind the driver's seat, so Julie could lie down. Ethan mistakenly took out the whole bench seat, so Julie laid down on the second bench back and I sped through Gloucester, praying the whole way. I asked Julie occasionally how she was doing and she always said fine. About five minutes from the hospital she said she wasn't doing well and that she was bleeding a lot and I heard her moan softly. I raced up to the emergency room entrance, parked and ran inside for a wheelchair. An older man and woman were inside the first set of doors and and I said I needed a wheelchair for my wife. He directed me to them and I grabbed one and wheeled it out to the van. When I opened the door Julie was on the floor and looked out of it; a short time later I would understand she was hemorrhaging and losing blood rapidly. By then the older man was right behind me. When he saw Julie he asked how he could help and then grabbed the wheelchair and got it closer to the van while I helped Julie into it.

I rushed inside to the nurse's station and said my wife needed help. Julie was slumped in the chair moaning softly and when I looked behind us I saw a trail of blood splattered on the floor. Beneath her blood was puddling on the floor. The guy in the nurse's station said he'd get someone. I wasn't shouting, but telling him forcefully my wife is having a miscarriage and bleeding heavily and I needed someone now. He said he would call someone. Julie was still moaning, her eyes closed. I moved in front of her and patted her cheek. "Stay with me, Julie," I said. "Stay with me." I'm not sure what I said next to the guy at the nurse's station, but I know was desperate. I remember at one point -- whether it was when I first arrived at the nurse's station or seconds later I can't quite recall -- looking to my right at a couple seated in the emergency room and they had this horrified look on their face. I'm pretty sure I demanded help. Again. The older man who helped us inside was pleading for help as well. "She's bleeding," he said. I felt so helpless. I remember talking to Julie, telling her it was OK and help was on its way. I kissed her forehead and felt it and her skin was cold and clammy. Finally the doors swung open and a nurse appeared. She looked at Julie and told me to follow her. We rushed down the hall, took a right past all these rooms and I kept thinking we didn't have time for all of this. We finally reached an empty room, a doctor and another nurse showed up and we lifted Julie onto the bed. Her clothes were soaked in blood and I remember at one point seeing blood smeared across the doctor's smock.

Praise God they got the bleeding slowed and stabilized her condition. I think we arrived at the hospital just after 8 o'clock. Sometime after that, when I knew she was going to be fine, I headed out to move the van, which I had left running outside the emergency room. I was disoriented and unsure at first which way to go outside her room. Then I looked at the floor. It was easy to find the van: I followed the trail of blood to the emergency room doors. By 9 o'clock Julie was headed to surgery. Around 9:45 her doctor met me in the waiting area and said the surgery had gone well, but she would spend the night. It wasn't until around 11:15 that I night that I saw her in her room, where I was waiting while she was brought up from surgery. She looked much better and actually had some color in her lips. We talked for a little while and I made plans to pick her up in the morning. I told her I loved her and drove home. The next morning on our way back to Gloucester, Julie told me she remembered a few things about the night before. She said she remembered feeling horrible and she remembers me patting her cheek and talking to her. She could hear me, but she couldn't respond. "I wanted to," she said, "but I couldn't."

Christmas 2009

2010-01-15T12:17:00.000-05:00

Here's a portion of our Christmas letter from 2009. We sent the photo above with the letter. It's a wee bit past Christmas, but it's the thought that counts, right?

Merry Christmas! The remembrance of the birth of Jesus Christ is such an excellent time of year. We're back in Gloucester, Va., at the tail end of an extraordinary journey that took us to Oregon and back. We lived in Corvallis for about nine months -- leaving in September 2008 and returning in June -- while I attended Cornerstone School of Ministry, with the idea of becoming better equipped for whatever the Lord has for me. Little did I know that would involve planting a Calvary Chapel here in Gloucester on Sept. 6. God has been so faithful and good to our family, through many good times and trials alike. The verse from the year is from Hosea 12:6: "Observe mercy and justice and wait on your God continually." The word `continually' in Hebrew means `to stretch' and the word `wait' means to `bind together, perhaps by twisting.' The picture I have of our lives is like tying a shoelace and how you pull the loops apart and the harder you stretch them, the tighter the knot. That was us this year, being stretched and yet being drawn closer to the Lord. Thank the Lord for His grace and mercy.

Shopping

2009-12-29T21:48:00.000-05:00

Gabe turned 7 on Sunday and for his birthday he really wanted to go swimming. He also really wanted to go to McDonald's. We let our kids pick somewhere to go out to eat for their birthday and we usually get some good suggestions. Gabe picked McDonald's. Due to scheduling difficulties, only 8 of the kids made it to McDonald's with us. That didn't stop four people at the booth next to us from asking all sorts of questions about all those kids ... "Are all of them yours?" one lady asked. Julie broke it gently that they are all ours, in addition to the four who weren't with us, which makes 12. That prompted all sorts of conversation. We patiently answered the questions and our inquisitors eventually mosied out the door and we finished our excellently tasty nuggets, fries and hangaburgers. Then one of the guys in the group that was amazed by Julie's productivity showed up at the window holding his poodle. "This is my baby," he said through the window. Things like this happen all the time to us.

It wasn't until today that I managed to take Gabe swimming at an indoor pool in Williamsburg to satisfy his birthday wishes. The kids who wanted to go swimming included Gabe, Eli, Ezra, Olivia and MerriGrace. One problem, though. MerriGrace didn't have a swimsuit because she loaned it to Madeline, who had gone with Evie to a friend's birthday party that involved staying at Great Wolf Lodge in Williamsburg, which features an indoor water park. But good news abounds. Right next to the indoor pool we were going to is a shopping center that has JC Penney, Target, Kohl's and a Dick's Sporting Goods. We would find a swimsuit; I was sure of that. I just didn't realize it would entail going to all four stores. Ay caramba. We hit Penney's first. Alas, no swimsuits. In the second store -- Target -- we found no swimsuits. But Olivia doesn't have a winter coat and I found this little coat that made her eyes light up. Literally. She's 21 months old tomorrow and the girl has a clothes thing. How does this happen? Anyway, this coat was, well, I don't know how to describe it, other than fashionable. Her teenage sisters would wear it, if it came in their size, of course. But it wasn't really functional, from a warmth standpoint. She'd look good, but not necessarily feel good in a warm sort of way. So I put the coat back on the rack and we headed for Kohl's. To find a swimsuit. We walked in the doors and to our left were these mini-shopping cart type of things that are kind of like double strollers with a place in the back to put all the clothes. I put Eli in the front seat, Olivia behind him and Ezra stood in the place to put all the clothes. This elderly lady in a wheelchair was watching me and smiled sweetly. "Five children," she said. "Such beautiful children." I made a command decision not to say anything to this frail looking woman in a wheelchair about our other 7 children. I didn't want to be responsible for the shock it might cause her and any immediate health issues she may have experienced. So we rolled through Kohl's to the girl's section. No swimsuits. That's really shocking. No swimsuits in the dead of winter. We had hit JC Penney's -- no swimsuits. Target -- no swimsuits. And then Kohl's, only to find no swimsuits. Amazing, isn't it. I did find a functional pink "bubble coat" for Olivia that was really warm ... but she wouldn't put it on. Seriously. Is a 21-month-old girl imbued with some sort of fashion lens that sees a pink bubble coat and says, "Does Dad think I really want to wear that coat? Gross!" I bought it anyways and managed to wrestle it on her before we got outside in the 39-degree, windy and freezing afternoon. The girl was going to stay warm whether she looked good or not. And really, it is a cute coat. It's pink! With a little dark pink heart on it! And a pink hood!

Our last stop was Dick's. Surely they have swimsuits...right? I mean, sporting goods ... swimming ... that's a sport. Right? Yes, they do have swimsuits at Dick's. I'm happy to report that they do, especially considering it was the last option for us. They even have a swimsuit that fits MerriGrace. Or did. It wasn't cheap, but I was not to be denied. At that point I would've hocked Olivia's pink bubble coat to buy a swimsuit for MerriGrace so we could take Gabe swimming. I looked at a clock in the store ... we had left Gloucester two hours ago. Sigh. I managed to buy the swimsuit and within 20 minutes or so we were in the water. Gabe was happy. And best of all, Olivia didn't have to wear her functional pink bubble coat in the water.

Savior

2009-12-26T09:40:00.001-05:00

Our Christmas Eve service was such a sweet time with friends. We had about 50 people here and interspersed Scripture readings from Luke 2 and Matthew 2 with classics such as "Hark The Herald Angels Sing," "Silent Night," and others. I talked about shepherds and we also looked closely at the word "Savior" that Luke used to talk about the birth of Jesus Christ in verse 11: "For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord." (NKJV) That word in Hebrew means to be "rescued, delivered, saved; or to rescue, deliver, save." Divine salvation has its focus on rescue from earthly enemies, occasionally referring to salvation from guilt, sin and punishment. In the Old Testament, the word "savior" is used 13 times. The first reference is in 2 Samuel 22:3 in a song written by David on the day the Lord had delivered him from all his enemies and from the hand of Saul. It's very similar to Psalm 18. David had been spared vengeance of earthly enemies, through God his savior. He understood the word and concept very well. The prophet Isaiah uses "savior" eight times, the theme often being that there is no savior apart from God. As it says in Isaiah 43:11: "I, even I am the Lord, and besides me there is no savior." (NKJV)

In the the New Testament, "savior" is used 24 times. In the Greek it means "one who delivers from grave danger." In the New Testament this always refers to God the Father and Jesus Christ as savior of believers from righteous wrath to a proper relationship with God. Savior implies that we need to be saved from something ... which is sin. It's sin that separates us from God. In the Old Testament our sins could only be covered through the sacrificial system. It wasn't until Christ, the Lamb of God, whose blood was shed on the cross, who died and rose again three days later, that we received atonement for our sins. Our slate is wiped clean through Christ. It is amazing that 2,000 years ago a baby was sent to earth as our savior. And that news of Christ's birth was spread by a raggedy group of shepherds who would not have even been allowed to testify in a court of law. "And all those who heard it marveled at those things which were told them by the shepherds," Luke wrote in 2:18. Today is the day after Christmas. Most everyone has moved on. The kids are playing with their new toys, the Christmas trees will be coming down, the lights put away. There's shopping to be done -- post-Christmas sales to hit with all those gift cards! -- leftovers to be downed. But don't forget to take some time to marvel at those things which have been told us through God's word. And don't forget to marvel at our Savior.

Shepherds

2009-12-22T23:00:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking about shepherds lately. We're having a Christmas Eve service -- 5 o'clock Thursday, you're all invited -- to sing some hymns and carols, read out of Luke 2 and I'll share a short message. As I read Luke's account of the birth of Christ, I can't help but wonder about the shepherds who saw the angel of the Lord. I've read accounts that 2,000 years ago shepherds were the pickpockets and thieves of the day. The sorry, no-account drifters who were troublemakers and virtually indentured servants. Things haven't changed much, perhaps. I've enclosed a link at the bottom of this post to help you see where I'm going with this thing.

But let me describe the life of a modern-day sheepherder in the barren Wyoming outback, where you might be in charge of a flock of 1,500 or 2,000 sheep: On call 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Your home is a 5 x 10 "campito" without running water. Have to go to the bathroom? Here's a shovel. You have no electricity. The searing summer days can hit 100 degrees. On Christmas Day at a sheep camp near Encampment, Wyo., look for a high of 14 degrees, with a low of zero. And snow. Your heat source is a wood stove. It might even work, particularly if you have wood. In addition to no days off, a sheepherder must be able to ride a horse and repair fences. Not to mention guard the flock against predators and poisonous weeds. Not only that, a decent worker should be able to assist in lambing, docking, castrating (Rocky Mountain oysters baby!), dehorning, shearing, vaccinating, drenching and medicating the sheep. Sometimes the work gets a little hairy -- or worse. Wolves are a constant problem in parts of Wyoming. Other places have bigger problems. On Sept. 14 in Sublette County, a sheepherder was attacked by a grizzly bear. Miraculously he lived. The bear left a 7-inch gash in the man's head, two punctures on the left side of his chest, three claw wounds on his gut and a punctured wrist. Oh, here's the kicker. The pay is $650 a month. And all the sagebrush you can see.

Yet these are the guys the angel of the Lord came to tell about the birth of the Messiah, our Savior. Why? Why not the Bethlehem Town Council? Or the Bethlehem Chamber of Commerce, or Rotary Club? Surely a group of men existed in metropolitan Bethlehem that were far more qualified to have an audience with an angel of the Lord than a bunch of sketchy shepherds. This is what I love about God. He takes the sorriest, no accountenest knuckleheads and uses them for His glory. Read about their response to the news of the birth of Christ. I'd say they were transformed. Any thoughts on what kind of weight it carried when these guys started spreading the word about what they had heard and seen? No wonder Luke describes it thusly in 2:18: "And all those who heard it marveled at those things which were told them by the shepherds." (NKJV)

There's a part of me that would like to taste the life of a Wyoming sheepherder. What's it really like out there? How bad is it? Could I endure it for more than a few days? I can think of one redeeming aspect of a sheepherder in Wyoming. When night falls in that big sky that stretches from the end of the earth to the end of the earth, unobstructed by trees, or houses, or apartments, or skyscrapers, without artificial light flickering for maybe a hundred miles, you can look up at a billion stars and be amazed by the hand of God. I reckon that's what those shepherds were doing 2,000 years ago, before the angel even appeared. They were looking up.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/8364558@N07/522593774/

Light

2009-12-21T15:55:00.000-05:00

Today is the shortest day of the year, officially the start of "winter." The long shadows throughout the day are a dead giveaway that the sun clings to the horizon and that we are tilted away from the great orb. It's cold and dark for most of the day. When it's cold and the sun is obscured by clouds, kids know that there's a chance snow will fall. So what's that mean around the world, in terms of lengths of days on Dec. 21, 2009? In Copenhagen, Denmark, which has been in the news lately for some reason, the daylight will last 7 hours and 2 minutes. In Nairobi, Kenya, daylight runs 12 hours, 12 minutes long. Here in Gloucester, the sun rose at 7:17 a.m. It will set at 4:52 p.m. In Corvallis, Ore., the day is shorter by 46 minutes, with the sun rising at 7:47 a.m. and setting at 4:36 p.m.

The shortest day of the year is a day of hope. That doesn't sound right, but that's how it sits with me. Winter's fury is yet to be unleashed in its fullest in most places, including here I imagine. As you can see from the photos, it wasn't all that long ago we were outside in t-shirts. The change in weather unfurls abruptly here. Though it may be cold, provided the skies are clear, the sun will shine a little longer each day now. The photos you see up there were taken by some of my daughters -- Evie and Claire, I believe. One is a shot at the beach in Murrells Inlet, South Carolina, back in October. The other is our backyard a few weeks ago. Then you have the shot of Gabe holding the sun on a stick. That's a great shot, eh? As I think about light and how much I enjoy the sun, particularly on these winter days, I think of the true light: Jesus Christ. The light of the world.

Snow

2009-12-19T22:59:00.000-05:00

With 12 kids around, the photo options are endless. And priceless. The obligatory shot of the toddler crashing after grubbing in the high chair ... a funny shot of Claire sneaking a smooch from Gabe, who appears none too pleased. Then this one right here with the snowman came courtesy of a rare snowfall in these here parts of southeastern Virginia. It's a wicked storm that blanketed the region, except that we dodged it mostly. Richmond, an hour away, got a foot of snow. D.C., less than three hours to the north, was getting around 20 inches. We had a few inches last night, then sometime after midnight it warmed up a bit and it started raining -- hard. Despite the slush, the kids made the best of it this morning and created Frosty, albeit a wet one.

I love the ethereal qualities of snow, how the night is so bright when it snows. It reminds me of being a kid and looking out my window in Bend, Ore., the night light up like a full moon was right over our house. And the snow always reminds me of silence. I would watch the snowflakes drop out of the sky, trying to pick one up in the jumble of white and watch it all the way to the ground, then another and another, all the while a perfect silence enveloping me. The rare nights it snows here I like to walk through the house into each room and peek through the blinds. I can hear the children breathing behind me and it's always a comforting sound, a happy sound. What parent isn't happy when the children are sleeping?

Alas, it's not always that way. Last night Olivia woke up around 3:45 a.m. She was screaming so hard I went upstairs to get her. I picked her up and went over to the window where we looked outside. By that time the wind was howling and sheets of rain were melting the 3 or 4 inches of snow that had been on the ground. She stared at the snow in wonder. She patted me on the cheek and then pointed outside. Something new. Something strange. "Snow," I said. "Snow." Eventually we left the window and headed downstairs for something to drink. Then we rocked together for a half-hour and for whatever reason she wouldn't go back to sleep. She was wired and I don't know if it was the unusual brightness from the snow, the mystery of it or if her sleeping clock was just out of whack for some unexplainable reason. After enough walking and rocking she eventually went back to sleep. When she finally drifted off I put her in bend and then I walked through the house, peeking through the windows, once again amazed by it all.

A House Full Of Life

2009-12-16T23:22:00.000-05:00

Eight years ago today a fellow by the name of Christian Michael Longo paused on a bridge over Lint Slough outside of Waldport, Ore., and tossed two sleeping bags over the bridge. Inside were two of his young children. They were alive when he threw them into the frigid water. Longo had stuffed a boulder into each of two pillowcases and tied them to their ankles before dumping his sleeping children into the slough. Earlier that night he had killed his wife before stuffing her body into a suitcase. He also tried to strangle his youngest daughter, just two years old. He stuffed her into a suitcase and before he dropped those two pieces of luggage into Yaquina Bay outside his condo in Newport, Ore., he could hear his daughter whimpering.

At the time I was a correspondent for The Oregonian working from my home in Corvallis. Lincoln County, where the murders occurred, was territory I covered. That story of Longo, the murders of his family, his escape to Mexico, eventual apprehension and convictions that earned him a cell on Death Row essentially became my working life over the course of about two years. I think about the details of the horrific events often. The autopsy photos of the children that were showed at trial still haunt me. Another that comes to mind is the image of pallid 4-year-old Zachery Longo found floating face down in Lint Slough, clad only in his underwear. It was the grisly discovery of Zachery Longo that launched an investigation into his father's whereabouts that spanned the country and culminated in his arrest at a beach hut in Tulum, Mexico, where he had assumed a new identity. When an intrepid FBI agent and the Mexican police tracked Longo down, he had been smoking dope and drinking beer with newfound buddies and a new girlfriend.

By a strange set of circumstances I corresponded today with a former colleague at The Oregonian, Bryan Denson, who I worked with extensively on the Longo saga. We won an award for one of our stories about Longo, a story which I'm sure is out there in cyberspace somewhere if for some reason you're interested in reading it. At the tail end of the last of three e-mails Bryan sent me, he mentioned sort of in passing that today a detective from the Lincoln County Sheriff's Office had dropped a wreath in Lint Slough in memory of the three Longo children and their mother. That wreath is a poignant image. In this line of work there are certain stories that stay with me. I guess you could call them the scars of my profession. It's almost always the stories that involve human tragedy, in this case one that is so senseless. The capacity for human cruelty is horrifyingly extraordinary and sometimes I think I've seen too much of it.

At the same time, my life is a picture of God's blessedness. Sure there's plenty of hardships. I'm tired, overwhelmed with work, trying to muddle through four days without a hot water heater ... but then I come home about 6:30 from a long day in court listening to more human tragedy. And I hear Ezra making his light saber sounds as he battles imaginary foes. And Olivia is climbing the stairs and "counting" as she goes. This house is full of life. A good life. And more life in Julie's womb. Julie was telling me tonight how she went shopping with the older girls today and waves of nausea were sweeping over her and she was so exhausted. She told the girls to keep shopping while she found a place to sit and rest for five minutes. Later she had a conversation with the girls about the new baby and what it might be. Evie wants a boy. Madeline wants a girl. Madeline thought about it a while. Maybe there will be a boy and a girl. Oh my.

Gloucester, 1836

2009-12-11T20:09:00.000-05:00

While rummaging around in cyberspace today doing research on an issue in Gloucester, I came across a fascinating bit of history. Fascinating in a dark sort of way. It was a copy of a petition to the General Assembly in Richmond, the governing body of state legislators, that had affixed to it the names of 184 Gloucester men. The petition was dated Jan. 13, 1836, a full 25 years before the outbreak of the Civil War. It seeks permission to levy taxes to raise $15,000 to "remove free Negroes" from the county. The petitioners noted that it had become increasingly difficult to keep their slaves in proper subjection and that it "becomes them, with a due regard to their interests to adopt some efficient means of remedying the evil."

The petitioners make their case thusly: "The principle cause to be assigned for the insubordination existing, at present among the slave population is the residence of the Free people of colour, who not only add nothing to the effective labour of the County, but are dissolute in their morals, and by their example promote sedition and vice of every kind among the slaves. Their idleness, which they seem to regard as the only privilege freedom confers, together with the degraded rank they occupy in society, engenders discontent among themselves, which the liberty they enjoy of roving about at large through the County, gives them every opportunity of sowing the seeds of dissatisfaction among the slaves." The petition also asks the General Assembly to take actions it deems best to check the efforts of the "Northern fanaticks" seeking to abolish slavery. It's an ugly document and it's hard to fathom what life must have been like in this friendly community so long ago.

I don't know if the petition effort was successful. That requires more research. The animosity between the men of Gloucester and the freed slaves and Northern abolitionists was abundantly evident. And to think that animosity between the groups festered a full 25 years before it exploded in war. One of the signers of the petition was a fellow by the name of Joel Hayes. He owned a large farm in central Gloucester called "Woodville Plantation." It is now the site of a 100-acre county park under construction that's called "Woodville Plantation Park." During the Civil War, Yankee troops on a foraging mission raided Hayes' farm and in the course of the raid one of Hayes' daughters took a potshot at a Union soldier. For this, the Union troops burned Hayes' home to the ground. At the close of the Civil War, Hayes was essentially bankrupt and he died in December 1865.

Today a debate simmers in Gloucester on the name of the newest county park. "Woodville Plantation Park" isn't inviting to blacks, some say. They want the word `plantation' dropped from the name. Others say you can't alter history and the name should remain, with the county taking the opportunity to use the name to educate the public about the plantation and life around it. Whichever way this thing goes, some people on either side will be unhappy. Of course, the other side of the discussion is this: Aren't we thankful that we're not sending petitions like these to the General Assembly?

`And Wait On Your God Continually...'

2009-12-08T20:37:00.000-05:00

In our culture, we don't like to wait. Think of waiting at the stoplight. Or waiting in line at the store. Or waiting at the doctor's office. Get my drift? Did your blood pressure jump a couple of ticks just thinking about those things? I mean, a few weeks ago I was in line at Wal-Mart with a couple of items -- in the express line!!!! -- hoping to hustle out of there because I was a very busy man at the moment with things to do and places to be, when the old codger in front of me pulled out a checkbook. A checkbook! Who writes checks anymore? Dude, have you heard of a debit card? How about cash? It's the EXPRESS LINE!!!! It took him longer to write that check than it took me to park the car, bolt into the store, get my two items and get in line. The old codger had other plans for my precious time and as I sat there and watched him, the conviction that only comes from the Lord washed over me. You know what was so beautiful about standing in line behind Mr. Checkbook Man? He was in no hurry. At all. What a lesson. I'm sure it's why he looks like he's never had a heart attack and he's 90 years old, give or take a decade, and writing checks in the express line -- because he's in no rush. I mean, why for? It's so counter-culture. We're the America of fast food, express lanes on the freeway, drive-thru banking, vegetables you can steam in a bag in a minute (Who cares what the veggies taste like! They're done in a minute!), video on demand, remote controls ...

And then there's God's word. In the kingdom of God, we're to be in a state of waiting on the Lord, not in a rush for answers in our timing or on our schedule. The latter part of Hosea 12:6 reads: "Observe mercy and justice, and wait on your God continually." In Hebrew, the word `wait' can mean to bind together, perhaps by twisting. Or to expect and gather together; look patiently. Hebrew for `continually' means to stretch, or continuance, or extension. As I meditated on this idea of being bound together and stretching, the Lord gave me a simple picture: Tying a shoelace. You know how you stretch the loops apart to tighten the knot? That was the picture the Lord gave me, of being stretched in my faith but being bound closer to the Lord through it. The harder you tug those loops, the more you stretch those loops, the tighter the knot and the more secure it becomes. And it's the place I want to be because if I'm being stretched, I'm relying on the Lord for sustenance and comfort and peace, tightening my relationship with Him. It's when I'm comfortable that frightens me, because I know my heart and how easy it is for me to become self-reliant and drift away from the Lord and His will in my life.

And you know what? I'm seriously considering writing checks in the express line.

`That's Just How It Be's'

2009-12-07T22:10:00.000-05:00

Little boys are worlds unto themselves. Perhaps the circuitry in their minds is still being connected, or they are overloaded by all the stimulus that bombards them on an average day. Who knows. They do and say the darndest, head scratchingest things. Eli, for example, wouldn't change into his pajamas in front of me the other night. He got his pj's out of his dresser drawer and ducked into the closet and shut the door so I wouldn't see him in his underwear. Yet if I draw the bath water he has no problem getting buck naked and jumping in the tub. With me right there in front of him. I haven't figured that one out yet.

Ezra has a funny saying that his older brothers and sisters get a kick out of. He'll walk into a room and announce that Mama said it was OK for him to watch a movie. Then someone will ask if she really said that. "Yes," Ezra says, "and that's just how it be's." Or say you'll be playing "Star Wars" with him, which entails battling him in light sabers. Say he pulls a certain move, like a whirl-around-and-raise-the-light-saber-above-his-head-then-charge-you, but you do a nice little sidestep and tag him with your light saber anyway -- yet he doesn't die. If you ask him what was up with that he'll say, "That's just the way it be's." How do you argue with that?

It's the dead of winter and chilly in the house but Eli and Ezra insist on sleeping without shirts on. They get their pajamas on and then once they are in bed take their tops off. I guess they're manning up or something. At bedtime tonight Eli asked for a snack. "Didn't you just have a snack?" I said. "Yeah," Eli replies. "But I only had two after dinner." Obviously it was a three-snack night. Don't know where I've been all these years. So I get him a snack. I get back upstairs to the room, get the prayers said and the lights out when Ezra announces he's thirsty. Who needs a Stairmaster when I have Eli and Ezra to serve?

A Servant's Heart

2009-12-02T20:43:00.000-05:00

Taylor is 17 and a wonderful young man. Just ask Ezra. Or Eli. Taylor is convinced those two little boys, who seem to be perpetually hungry, seek him out to satiate their culinary desires. Tonight he was telling us how he tries to evade them when he sees the "look" in their eyes -- the look that says, "I want a peanut butter and jelly sammich." But they find him. Even if he's hiding under his bed, or behind the bathroom door. Or on the roof. His theory is that they know Taylor will give them what they want. Some of his siblings, however, will put them off, ignore them, or try to talk them out of that hankering for a p.b. & j or fried egg sammich. It finally got to him this morning, however. Or rather Ezra got to him.

Ezra likes egg sandwiches the way flies like, well, never mind. That wasn't a good analogy. Let's just say Ezra really, really likes egg sandwiches. But they have to be a certain way. "I want a egg sammich with the crust off and cutted in hav-its," Ezra says. Every time. Taylor finally had enough, though. The whole "hav-its" thing was just too much. So this morning he had a sit-down discussion with his little brother to explain the concept of "quarters." See, Ezra really likes his egg sammiches cutted in quarters, not hav-its. He just doesn't know how to say that. Enter Taylor, telling him that, in the first place, it's not "hav-its." It's "half." And not "cutted." It's cut. As in an egg sandwich cut in half. He walked Ezra through the phrase, "cut in half." Got it, Ezra? He nods. OK, how do you want your sandwich. "With the crust off and cutted in hav-its." D'oh! Eventually Taylor got him to say "cut in hav-its." Now comes the tricky part. Ezra, Taylor says, can you say quarters? "Quarters," Ezra says. Good. That's great. So can you say, I want my egg sandwich in quarters? "I want my egg sammich in quarters." Perfect! OK, now how do you want me to fix your egg sandwich Ezra? "I want a egg sammich with the crust off and cutted in hav-its."

I know you can just picture Taylor's shoulders slumping. But you know what's so great about Taylor? He got up and quietly walked downstairs and fixed his little brother his favorite egg sandwich. He even cutted it in hav-its.

A Vigil Of Hope

2009-11-26T10:03:00.000-05:00

I was cleaning out a drawer in my desk this morning when I came across this story. I remember seeing a headline in the Daily Press recently about this case so I thought I would post this story that appeared on the Sept. 23, 2007. I was working a Saturday shift at the Daily Press and went to cover this vigil at a Hardee's fast-food restaurant in remembrance of an employee who had been murdered there a couple weeks beforehand. No arrests had been made at that point; it wasn't until earlier this year that three suspects were charged in the employee's killing and shooting of another employee, who survived and fully recovered. The newspaper life can be pretty dreadful sometimes, full of writing about tragedy and human despair. This small event gave me a glimmer of hope, however. The headline of the article was "After a slaying, vigil bids to untie tongues."

It didn't feel quite right.
It was Saturday evening, 6 o'clock sharp, dinnertime in a Hardee's parking lot on Denbigh Boulevard.
But instead of cars motoring through the drive-through, the parking lot was filled with a gospel choir and 200 people.
They were clapping and singing "I Love to Praise Him," the sweat beading on their brows and their voices straining to lift the words to their God above the din of cars and Harley-Davidson motorcycles rumbling by.
But it wasn't church. Revival hadn't broken out on the Hardee's asphalt.
Or maybe it had.
Pastor Kermit Jones of nearby Holy Tabernacle Church of Deliverance couldn't be sure.
"I have to remember where I am," he said, drawing laughter from the crowd.
Two weeks earlier, one of his parishioners, Dianne Green, was gunned down by two men while she was at work in the Hardee's.
Her slaying remains unsolved.
The gathering Saturday was a candlelight vigil in Green's honor. It was also an attempt to rally the community and send a message of hope, Jones said.
"We just want kids to know that we care," he said before the vigil. "Most importantly, God cares."
The vigil drew childhood friends such as Jesnita Ware, who grew up next door to Green in Gloucester and attended school with her.
Ware said she came as a measure of support. Green "was a lively person," Ware said.
Former co-workers such as Laura Spencer, who lives in Williamsburg, also came.
Green "touched a lot of people," Spencer said.
Danielle Martin attended church at Holy Tabernacle with Green. The turnout at the vigil was "just awesome," she said.
"We will miss her and she was a good person and a good member of the community," Martin said.
During the vigil, Newport News Police Chief James Fox made an appeal to the crowd and asked for their help.
"Two devils came in and did this," he said. "We need to get the devils off the street."
Newport News Sheriff Gabe Morgan spoke next and asked: "Folks, the power of life and death is in what?"
The tongue, people answered.
Morgan replied that Green always had a good word for people when they came in to Hardee's or saw her in church or on the street.
But a wall of silence has permeated her slaying and investigators have few leads. For her life not to have ended in vain, Morgan said, people have to use their tongues and speak up.
"Silence is killing our community," he said.
Jones urged the men in the community to step up and be mentors, to visit schools and volunteer as coaches.
Young people "need you as a big brother," he said.
Jones closed the vigil in a prayer, then those able to walk the half-mile or so to Holy Tabernacle began their march.
Under a police escort, the group marched two and three abreast, an assembly nearly a block long.
Young and old, black and white, all holding candles.
Those at the rear passed by singing "Amazing Grace."
Maybe it was right after all.

Every Day Is Thanksgiving

2009-11-24T22:30:00.000-05:00

The thought struck me today when someone asked me about our Thanksgiving plans that a typical dinner at the Team Sabo House o' Grubbin' is almost like a run of the mill Turkey Day spread for a lot of folks. When you're feeding 14 people on a daily basis, you tend to go through the food. To wit, yesterday morning I brought home two loaves of bread. By this afternoon, there was nary a crumb to be seen of them. A gallon of milk opened this morning is an empty container in the recycling bin. There's a reason I'm on a first-name basis with people at the grocery store. The little boys are on sandwich kicks. For example, Ezra will say he's hungry. Ask him what he'd like to eat and he puts it this way: "Peanut butter and jelly with the crust off and the sandwich cutted up like this and on a plate." (Picture Ezra making a motion where he holds one hand flat and makes a cutting, or `cutted' motion with the other hand.)

Eli eats peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (crunchy peanut butter, with the crust off and on a plate) like they are candy. Abram is now able to make most of his own meals, which means he can be a terror in the kitchen pantry. The guy is built like a fencepost but you'd never know it judging from the time he spends in the kitchen throwing down various combinations of sandwiches, crackers, quesadillas and the like. Olivia is now able to reach things on the lower shelves of the pantry. I learned the hard way not to stick the raisins on the lower shelf ... she got into those and the diaper changing prompting accelerated rapidly. Raisins in her system is like rocket fuel in a race car. The girl has a metabolism a lot of big people would kill for, let's just put it that way.

Julie and Claire went shopping yesterday to get stuff for our Thanksgiving meal. Man, they brought home some food. Everything from bacon to yams to Jell-o to stuffing mix and even oysters. She spent something like $100. It's a special day, I guess, but is it hard not to feel guilty about that knowing how many people are going hungry in this country and around the world? I'm sure we'll get days worth of eating out of all that food ... at least I really, really hope so. Julie and the girls are going to start cooking and baking tomorrow for the big foodfest. You know how many people we're having over for the big event? The Thanksgivingpallooza at the House o' Sabo? Care to hazard a guess? Actually, we're not having anyone. It will be a nice intimate affair with just the 14 of us.

A Place To Lay His Head

2009-11-20T21:23:00.000-05:00

This was Ezra at about 8:30 tonight. If it appears as though he was sleeping on the stairs, that's because he was. No Photoshop involved. Tonight is youth Bible study night, meaning there were about 30 or so teenagers in our house -- not all of them ours, obviously -- and Julie had taken all the Team Sabo kids from Abram and younger next door to our neighbor's house (where "Mike" and "Amber" live with their two young lads). She was watching their two kids and our kids while Amber and Mike were out for several hours. One problem, though. Mike and Amber have a "dog" in the house. Ezra doesn't like dogs. He has an abject fear of dogs, in fact. Well, most dogs. He sure got along with Ginger, the lab at the home of Miss Cheryl and Mr. Tracy, where we stayed for seven months when we were in Oregon while I was at Cornerstone School of Ministry. So anyways, I stayed home to "guard the fort" during the youth Bible study and take care of some things I needed to take care of and it was nice not to be interrupted by kids. For example, I'll be here at my desk, as I was this afternoon, when suddenly sweet Olivia appeared next to me. She patted me on the leg to get my attention. "Yes, Olivia," I said, looking at her. Then she patted her bottom area. Uh-oh. "Do you have poo-poo?" I said. She nodded. "Go see Mama," I said. "She's in our bedroom." And off trundled Olivia to our bedroom. Wow, I thought, that was easy. I must admit, I did feel a little bit guilty about that. If I could figure out how to make a poll on this here blog, I'd poll my loyal readers -- all 2 or 3 of them -- to see if what I did by sending my stinkily-bediapered daughter to her mother was something Jesus would do. I wonder how the vote would turn out?

Anyway, back to Ezra crashing on the stairs. Lo and behold, about 8 o'clock an exasperated Julie appeared with Ezra and dropped him off right next to me, saying something about a dog and a rather detrimental effect on the behavioral patterns of our 3-year-old son. Then she was back out the door to Mike's and Amber's. I advised Ezra to go play upstairs. At one point I peeked around the corner up the stairs and saw him sitting there sort of staring off into space. At least he was being quiet. About 10 minutes later the Bible study ended and a kid came around to go up the stairs and started laughing. "Check him out," he said. I took another peek around the corner and there was Ezra, sound asleep. I don't know about you, but when I see this photo I think how nice it would be to just pitch tent on the stairs, so to speak. Sleep for the adults in this house can be tough to come by. Maybe Ezra can teach me some lessons.

The Psychology Of Pajamas

2009-11-18T09:15:00.000-05:00

These past couple of days I've noticed a disturbing trend in a certain male member of our family. Very disturbing. Around 3 or 4 o'clock in the afternoon I've come across Ezra walking around the house ... in his Spiderman pajamas. This is very troubling to me. Little boys should not be walking around the house in their pajamas this late in the day. They should be fully dressed and playing football in the back yard, having light saber battles, peeing in the yard, looking for turtles, or doing something productive with their lives -- but fully dressed! Now girls, on the other hand, that's a different story. Julie could spend the whole day in her pajamas. The other day I poked my head out the back door about 1 o'clock in the afternoon and saw our neighbor Erin on our patio talking to Julie. No big deal, except Julie was in her pajamas! I made a comment about it and Erin laughed and Julie wrinkled her nose and said, "It's just Erin."

A few years ago we spent Thanksgiving weekend with Julie's entire family, including all three of her sisters, in Tennessee. Julie and her sisters pretty much spent the whole time in their pajamas. There was the occasional occasion where they actually "put on clothes" to do things like go to the mall or go to church, but if they had their druthers it would pretty much be one big pajamas party. Why is this? What is it about the female mind that thinks spending the whole day in pajamas is okay? Are pajamas kind of like comfort food -- you know, say ice cream, or chocolate, or something along those lines -- except comfort clothes? What is the underlying message one sends by wearing pajamas all day? This is truly one of the great mysteries of the universe.

I don't even have pajamas. I won't go into details, but let's just say I don't have pajamas. I like to get dressed in the morning. To me, it's a sign of productivity: I'm dressed! I'm going to go out into the world of work and uncertainty and Daily Press readers who call me up and question my morality and my Christianity based on articles I write for the newspaper (Really, it's true about the phone call. This just happened to me this morning. Weird, eh?) and conquer! Chaaaaaaaaarrrrrrge!

As you can see from the photo, Ezra is still in his pajamas. But it's early in the day. There's hope! Now Olivia is still in her pajamas, too, as you can see. That's cute, huh? So now that I think about it, is the problem with me? Is there actually an actual "problem" with a little boy wearing his pajamas all day? Do I have expectations that are too big? Or am I making something out of nothing? Sigh. The big questions in life. This is heavy stuff.

Storm Chaser

2009-11-12T20:36:00.000-05:00

At 4 o'clock this afternoon I wandered into a convenience store in lower Gloucester, notebook and pen at the ready, camera in my jacket pocket. Cigarette smoke was adrift from a handful of chain smokers arguing over whether the moon cycle and wind direction were just right to make this one doozy of a flood, while outside the remnants of Hurricane Ida barreled ashore off the Atlantic. Ida would not go gently into the good night. We might get 10 inches of rain here in Gloucester by the time Ida finally wrings herself out. The winds are howling in 6o mile per hour gusts through the trees, shredding American flags flying on teetering poles. And down in the flood zone known as Guinea, fleets of cars and boats and pickups were parked on high ground at churches, a school and a civic club, and sometimes merely choice spots of front yards that lie a few inches higher than the rest of the place. At the Achilles Shopping Center, which is a highfalutin name for what really amounts to nothing more than a gas station, 24-hour, seven-day-a-week, 365-day-a-year country market and obligatory post office, the bottom shelves were emptied in case the water poured in through the front door.

Water is no stranger to these parts. Sometimes a full moon and the right tide can send saltwater up to front steps and across roads. A heavy rain fills ditches to overflowing because there's nowhere for the water to drain. But throw the elements together -- a hard rain, a lashing wind, the right moon cycle and something funky going on out in the Gulf Stream that makes the bay water a foot higher than normal -- and fear seeps through Guinea. The memories of the last big flood are still fresh in Guinea, where houses are being jacked up 10 feet off the ground, six years after torrents of water from Hurricane Isabel burst across the land, wrecking houses and wrecking lives.

The peak of the flood is supposed to hit at high tide tomorrow morning around 6 a.m. At 4:30 this afternoon, the water was pooling over the parking lot; within two hours it would be trickling in the front door when jacked up pickups drove through the lot creating wakes. Inside, a man in a camo ball cap paused between drags of a cigarette and tried to reach his 75-year-old momma by cell phone. The National Guard troops were on their way to get her, the two dogs and a cat that live with her, and he was trying to let her know they were coming for her. He had bailed out earlier, but momma wouldn't budge. Until now, when the water reached the top of her front steps with an hour to go yet until the flood hit its peak. He got a busy signal over and over again. Someone asked him why his momma didn't leave with him. The man shook his head. "She has the faith in the Lord," he said.

A God Of Big Things

2009-11-11T21:46:00.000-05:00

How old does an oak tree have to be to dwarf a van? I came across this behemoth at the Virginia United Methodist Assembly Center in Blackstone, Va., a quaint town that dates to the Revolutionary War. I wouldn't doubt it if this old beauty predates the Revolutionary War. The tree that is, not the van. I made the trek to Blackstone for a retreat for Calvary Chapel pastors; I'm still amazed I got invited. About 20 of us from Virginia and North Carolina gathered in Blackstone Monday and Tuesday to hang out and encourage each other and seek the Lord. It was in many ways a most difficult time and an amazing time. A time of agony and restoration. I won't get into the details, but let's just say our God is a healing God.

When I was in 8th grade I played junior high school football. I was a runt of a kid and nearly got myself killed throwing myself under a bus posing as a running back from Prineville, a cowboy town nestled in the Ochoco Valley in the shadows of towering rimrock jutting up over the Crooked River. My dad was there to witness my near death experience and promptly signed me up for cross country at Bend High School. I didn't like to run, hated it in fact. But dangit if the Lord hadn't given me the gift of speed and endurance and I turned out to be a runner. I took a liking to it eventually, particularly cross country. Anytime I crunch through leaves I think back to running through Drake Park in Bend, Ore., along the banks of the Deschutes River. We had all of our home cross country meets in Drake Park. I don't know how many times I raced there, but the memories are ingrained in my memory: A nip is in the air, the smell of chimney smoke is wafting through the park, the lungs are aflame, the legs are burning and each labored stride brings me one step closer to the end of all this torture. For some reason I like these memories. They're pleasurable, even comforting.

I say all this because when I stepped out of my room Tuesday morning and saw that oak with the carpet of leaves underneath it, I knew I had to run. I headed out underneath the oak, marveling at its girth, the leaves crackling like I was running on potato chips. I ran all over the grounds of the campus, taking the time to pray and be with the Lord. I had one prayer in particular, a prayer for the Lord to heal the root of my sleepless nights, the source of all too much anxiety and anger. Often when I pray I ask the Lord to help my unbelief. My small mind can't picture my prayer being answered, as if the circumstances of whatever situation ails me are too big for God to overcome. So that's why I pray for my unbelief. Five hours later, the Lord answered that prayer. Truly I felt as if a burden had been lifted from my shoulders. Before I left Blackstone I took this photo of the massive oak on the campus of the Virginia United Methodist Assembly Center. I like this photo. It reminds me of how amazingly beautiful and awesome God's creation can be. He's a God of big things, a God of power and might. And it reminds me that God answers prayers. Every day.

This Season, This Changing Season

2009-11-11T08:59:00.001-05:00

Sometimes the truth is staring right at me and I don't want to see it. I think there are times in everyone's lives when the reality is that the gig is up, so to speak, but we aren't ready to accept it. A leaf turns. It's now fall and winter approaches, but we cling to the fleeting notion that another gorgeous day is around the corner...then we wake up and the frost is so thick you need a shovel to get it off the windshield. In the big picture of things, what I'm really talking about is life and the changing seasons we all travel through. For me, that moment of epiphany came on a recent Saturday in a place where some of life's greatest lessons are learned.

Yes, it was on the Wiffle Ball field. In the first round of the playoffs of the Wiffle Ball World Series at Sabo Field in Courthouse Square, the truth nearly caused me to sprain my neck. At the precise moment I hung a forkball that was supposed to drop off the table to Ethan and he hit it to North Carolina is when my new reality smacked me in the face. Well, actually I jerked my head so hard to watch the ball go over the house I nearly sprained it. The next thing that hit me was the realization that at the ripe old age of 40, my best Wiffle Ball days were very likely well behind me. Somehow I managed to keep the game close by sticking with my game plan of busting Ethan inside with cutters, then throwing the occasional changeup and curveball out of the strike zone hoping he'd chase it. He did and I managed to survive without much more damage. But at the plate I was just flailing. I hit two balls hard all day; one for a long single and another that nearly left Taylor, who was playing shortstop, a eunuch. Somehow Taylor managed to deflect the ball or otherwise he still may be writhing on the ground in pain. Ethan prevailed 2-0 in the three-inning, first-round game. I'm left with the prospect of trying to fight my way through the "loser's bracket" to get another shot at Ethan, but then I'd have to beat him twice to be crowned champ.

I think I can accept this Wiffle Ball mortality. Accept the fact that when I play my teenage sons it will take the supreme effort to keep the game close. Maybe I'll be able to sneak in a win here or there through guile, luck and perhaps a nail file secreted in my back pocket or some lubricant hidden on my cap visor that will make the Wiffle Ball dance in an unhittable trajectory on its way to the plate. It's been a good run. I look back over 15 years or so of playing Wiffle Ball with my older boys and have so many great memories. The "green monster" of elm bushes at our back yard field in Prineville, Ore., and the day that the boys still reminisce about when Julie hit my unhittable rising fastball over the green monster, a veritable moonshot that will live in infamy; or the time Dave Erickson (who's now a missionary in Asia) hit one over our barn in Corvallis, Ore., in a blast that we still marvel over; or the historic day when I threw a no-hitter in a six-inning game against Brenton at our house on Mill Pond Drive here in Gloucester, in a performance that rivaled Don Larsen's perfect game in the World Series ... I'm sure there are plenty of good times to come. They'll just be different times. And to think that down in the minor leagues are four more Sabo boys ...

To see Ethan's home run, captured on video and expertly edited by Taylor, check it out here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oGOP3DAQrfo

South Carolina

2009-10-27T21:26:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I get this crazy notion that a vacation would be a good idea. Relaxing, fun, entertaining ... all those things vacations should be. Then about halfway to our destination our lovely little 1-year-old who we'll call "Olivia" starts screaming. And let me tell you, that little girl can holler. Did I mention it's a 6-hour drive to Murrells Inlet, South Carolina? Which leaves sweet Olivia plenty of time to scream. Then Ezra starts saying over and over again, "I want to go home. I want to go home." Ahhhh, vacation. We had plenty of good times, though. We went to the beach one day when it was near 80 degrees. This was the middle of October and the kids were playing in the water ... just like back in Oregon in the middle of October, right? (Editor's note: Um, you don't go in the water in Oregon in the middle of the summer. Author's reply: Untrue! Say you've been running and twist your ankle. Instead of using ice, just go in the ocean! It's no different!)

We went to Georgetown, S.C., which is a gorgeous little town on the water. It's the third-oldest city in South Carolina (The Palmetto State) and named after a guy who went by the handle of "George." I knew you would appreciate that tidbit. Anyway, we hit an ice cream shop in Georgetown and pritnear cleaned them out. And remember, as the sign says on the boardwalk in Georgetown, "Don't feed the alligators." Those signs are all over Oregon as well. (Editor's note: Dear, no. There's no such signs in Oregon. Author's reply: I meant "Don't feed the ducks." You know, ducks ... alligators ... it's all the same.)

One of the highlights for me was shopping for groceries at the local Piggly Wiggly. I've always wanted to shop in a Piggly Wiggly. Why? Well, I don't know exactly. It just sounds like a cool place to shop. I mean, who wouldn't want to shop at a Piggly Wiggly? I was not disappointed. They had a killer ice cream selection, a great selection of pickled pig's feet and okra like you wouldn't believe. One thing, though. I was shopping in the Piggly Wiggly and was going through the checkout line when the clerk called me, "Honey." No big deal. But then she said to me, "That's $50.43, Sweet Pea." Ahem. `Sweet pea?' Some things I'm not sure I'll ever get used to. Even in a Piggly Wiggly.

The biggest highlight of our trip to South Carolina, undoubtedly, was seeing real-life alligators. For reals. The first day we were in South Carolina we heard some golfer was fetching his golf ball out of the drink when he reached in and an alligator latched onto his arm. Tragically, the dude lost his arm. This was 2 hours away from us and since the place where we were staying was on a golf course FULL OF PONDS, naturally I made some inquiries of the groundskeeper about the local 'gator population. It turns out he didn't think there were any alligators around at the moment. I emphasize `he didn't think there were any around.' Though one was living in the pond right over there, he said, pointing at the end of the parking lot, mere yards from our room. Super. Needless to say, the rule on our vacation was no going near the water unless it was a swimming pool. One afternoon we went to a nearby state park and there's a bike path there that runs through some freshwater swamps/ponds and you can walk down there, like we did, and peer through the brush and see alligators. I mean, they were right there, just sunning themselves in the, well, sun. "Kids, stay close," I said. Ezra promptly took off running down the path. The kid just likes to run. Needless to say, I went running after him. I'm sure he looked like a tasty vittle to those 'gators and I was not about to get him eaten. I'm happy to report that a count of the children who returned home with us revealed that all made it back. No 'gator bait in our crew.

I'm A ... Democrat?

2009-09-26T21:16:00.001-04:00

The other night I was attending a meeting for a local political candidate who is seeking re-election. I'm not real popular with her crowd due to articles I've written about some actions she and others on the county Board of Supervisors took over the past two years. I counted about 70 people who were there and when she was done with her hour long talk she got a standing ovation from most of her supporters. One older gentleman went up to her and told her how brave she was to get up there and talk. Then the fun began.

Within a few moments about a half-dozen or so of my "fans" were looking for the Daily Press guy. "That would be me," I said. "I'm the Daily Press guy." One fellow got uncomfortably close to me and asked me point-blank if I was going to get up there and apologize. "I've got nothing to apologize for," I said. He asked me again and I gave him the same answer. I stand by the articles I've written. (As a disclaimer, Gloucester has many, many people who are highly appreciative of the articles I've written for the newspaper; just on this particular night there weren't a whole lot of those folks in attendance.)

"You must be a Democrat!" the old codger said. I couldn't help myself and laughed. Apparently all newspaper reporters are Democrats. And I guess that's a bad thing. I just told him I'm no Democrat, but I am a registered Republican. He got this real puzzled look on his face; he was totally stumped. That didn't cool my other critics, though. I took some heat for a while and stood my ground, but that's expected in this line of work. It's funny how people form opinions about me and my character without knowing a thing about me other than what I write. A couple of weeks ago Julie was working on getting Ethan registered for school and was talking to one of the employees of the high school. In the interest of protecting the person's identity, that's as close of a description of the person you'll get. But this person asked Julie if she was related to Matt Sabo from the Daily Press. Julie paused. I know what was going through her head: "Should I answer this?" She said yes and the person said, "You tell Matt we love him." So you see, not everyone thinks I'm a Democrat.

The Life And Times

2009-09-24T23:51:00.000-04:00

It's officially Fall, in case you haven't noticed. Today it was hard to notice Fall, or Autumn as the hoity-toities might say, has arrived here for a couple of reasons. First of all, upper 80s with killer humidity doth not a fall day make. Secondly, we only had one child involved in a practice, game or other sort of extracurricular activity. This fall we have 3 kids in soccer and one playing baseball. There's Team Sabo kids being run all over this county. Last Saturday we had 3 soccer games spread 2 1/2 hours apart all at the same field 10 miles away. Not to mention a baseball practice for Ethan. It was crazy, in a good sort of way. Abram and Madeline are in their first year of soccer and having a blast and Evie is back on the pitch, cast and all. There are few things I enjoy in life as much as watching the kids play sports. It's just one of those special pleasures, even topping a bowl of ice cream at night after everyone is in the sack.

Last year at this time we had just arrived in Corvallis and none of the kids were in any sports. Shoot, we were still trying to recover from a 3,200-mile cross country trip, moving into a house with another family, a climate change, a culture change and I was adjusting to being jobless and in school. But a few weeks after we arrived we managed to get Ethan and Taylor on the cross country team for Philomath High School and it was my distinct pleasure to be able to help on a few occasions shuttle the team to practices at parks and trails many miles from the school. (The coach saw my 15-passenger van one time and a smile broke out on his face. And boy he tried to convince us many times it was in our best interest to stay another year and let the boys run for him.) Taylor is a talented runner and ended up making varsity after a week or two of running. He was the 4th man on the team and helped the Warriors to a 5th-place finish at state. He has a long stride, endurance and a toughness that runners need to truly be competitive. Ethan never considered himself a runner -- it didn't involve a ball -- but by the time the season ended he was rounding into pretty decent shape. He loved the competition of cross country. One of the beauties of the sport is that no matter where you are in the race, there's always competition -- unless you're way out in front. Someone is chasing you, so you have to keep the pedal down. Someone is ahead of you, so you have to go get him. Ethan liked that competition. He would probably be running cross country for Gloucester High School right now if he didn't love baseball so much and it wasn't offered in the fall as more or less a club sport. But he's learning a new position -- catcher -- and catching on quick. So to speak.

You know what's so cool? I'll be going to games and practices for years. And it will be a seamless transition from my kids to grandkids. I reckon I'll have to take an early retirement just to watch the kids and grandkids.

Where Did She Come From?

2009-09-23T00:34:00.000-04:00

Julie and I have 12 children. That still comes as a shock to some people. The other day I was in the doctor's office for treatment of a persistent, irritating, awful, nasty skin rash type leprosy on my hands. I'm fortunate I don't live in Old Testament days, or they would have me holed up underneath a big ol' gum tree down in the woods near Fox Mill swamp rasslin squirrels for acorns and pine seeds and trying to choke one of 'em to make some varmint stew. As it stands, the ol' doc got me on some drugs and the issue seems to be getting resolved. He said I had an allergic reaction to latex. As I was signing forms the lady behind the desk started chatting and subject of "children" came up as she noticed a lad or lass or three or four of mine in the computer system. One thing leads to another and she finds out I have 12 and she just stands there and shakes her head and says, "No you don't." Over and over she kept saying she can't imagine what it must be like in my house.

Well, let me help her out. Let's just take one of our children. Namely Olivia. Just 17 months old, but a terror in the Team Sabo house. We start out at around 7 o'clock in the morning when I find her on the kitchen table eating someone's raisin bran. It's more on her clothes, face and hair than in her belly. I get her cleaned up and a short time later I find her back on the table with someone else's raisin bran. She's just getting warmed up. Over the course of the day I might find her with an ink pen tattooing various of her appendages and cheeks -- with a permanent marker. This morning Julie was relieved that Olivia was doing this with an ink pen that wasn't a permanent marker. Does that make it right?

This afternoon I looked over to find her standing on the piano bench playing the piano -- buck naked from the waist down. She had removed her shorts and her diaper, for reasons that remain unknown to me; perhaps it had something to do with the freedom it presented her to really "feel" the music. Either that or she was grooving so hard to her tune her britches just dropped off. This evening she discovered "Chapstik" and decided it went in her hair. Two nights ago she found one of those soft candle type things and decided to lube up her do. Let's just say the candle wax doesn't exactly come out of hair easily. But then, have you ever tried to get candle wax and Chapstik out of your hair? Didn't think so.

We don't know what to do with this child. Where did we go wrong? Are we bad parents? After 11 kids do we suddenly not know what we're doing anymore? It seems with each child there's something new and unforeseen that we've never experienced before. Eli can throw some raging fits. I mean raging. Ezra has some quirks to his personality that leave me shaking my head. Now Olivia. And that's just for starters. Don't get me started on some of the older ones. Maybe it's just God keeping us sharp. On top of our parenting game, so to speak. Yeah, maybe that's it. Because how else are we going to be prepared for 60 grandchildren -- or more?

A Year Ago

2009-09-14T08:37:00.000-04:00

On this date a year ago we woke up in Brentwood, Tenn., where we stayed the night on our trek to Oregon. After we had the Team Sabo Executive Board meeting and some of the kids seemed reluctant to go, the Lord changed their hearts over the course of the following week. Each of them came and told Julie and me that in the course of their Bible reading they had felt the Lord giving them a peace about going. I remember trying to see if there was a way I could keep my job with the Daily Press on a part-time basis -- with a phone and a computer that's about all you need these days -- but that wasn't possible. When we decided to go, it was about three weeks before we had to leave. We had all sorts of little details to wrap up here before we left, but some of the details out in Oregon were a little fuzzy.

It wasn't until we were on the road in southwest Virginia, battling crazed Hokies fans who were trying to get to a football game in Blacksburg, when I understood that our living accommodations had been taken care of. I was talking on the cell phone with a friend in Corvallis with a big house who wanted us to stay with his family and he was talking about all these bunk beds he was tracking down people in the church were giving them. I remember getting off the phone with him and telling Julie, "I think they want us to stay with them the whole time." It turned out to be a huge blessing. I remember a buddy of mine in Oregon asking me before we left what we were going to do about a place to live. I told him I didn't know, but that the Lord would have to take care of that. Then he asked about beds; he seemed to think we would need lots of beds. I didn't have an answer for that, either. The Lord would take care of that, I said. Then he said, what about furniture and pots and pans ... These were all pretty good questions. I didn't have an answer for him. I told him we were going out in faith and that the Lord made it clear that's what He had for us. And God took care of all those details. I think faith is one of those things that God wants us to exercise. How else does our faith grow unless we stretch it?

Birthday Announcements

2009-09-10T08:19:00.001-04:00

A typical morning for me involves waking up and asking myself, "Does one of my kids have a birthday today?" It's a good way for me to stretch my brain first thing in the day and try to remember 12 dates that occur throughout the year. Throw in my birthday, Julie's birthday, our anniversary, birthdays for my kin ... not to mention first names and middle names of all the kids, plus other essential facts such as pin numbers, the last time the Angels won the World Series (2002), how many times UCLA has won NCAA hoops championships (11, by far a record) and where in the Bible some young punks were eaten by a bear after they insulted the prophet Elisha by calling him "baldhead" (that would be II Kings 2:23-24; there's a lesson there!)...whew! You can see why I used to tell my fellow students in Cornerstone School of Ministry why it was so much more challenging for me to remember verses and other memorization tasks. I just have so much information in that computer between my ears that there's hardly any more memory space available. I'm going to have to clear some space out, probably by getting rid of some useless information. Julie says I can start by erasing sports-related information...she just doesn't understand.

We've had a run of birthdays this summer that have been neglected to be properly memorialized on the Team Sabo blog. MerriGrace turned 11, Eli turned 5 and Abram turned 10. Claire made and decorated the cakes for MerriGrace and Eli, which you can see turned out to be amazing and very edible creations. Thanks to grandmas and grandpas and Aunt Judy for sending along some dough for them to pick out presents. If I'm not mistaken, we have a break in birthday type events until December. I'd say December 27th to be exact, when Gabe turns 7. Yesterday he asked me how many days until his birthday. He's ready already.

First Day

2009-09-09T06:28:00.000-04:00

We are pleased to report that Ethan survived his first day of public school on Tuesday, making it home safely and heading straight for the kitchen. As a teenage boy, he exists in a constant state of hunger. Being at home for school has always meant he could continually graze on the ample supplies in the pantry and fridge without need of a "hall pass" or "teacher permission" or any other such unpractical detriments. Ethan decided to try public school for a couple of reasons. He wanted to play high school sports, but Virginia discriminates against home schoolers by not allowing them to participate in public school activities. This makes absolutely no sense on so many levels. But that's the rule. So in order to play baseball for the high school, Ethan had to actually go to high school. Also, Ethan really sees the school as his mission field. He's a budding evangelist, so look out high schoolers.

We started the day by personally driving him to Gloucester High School. What a zoo. For starters, it was pouring down rain -- we had more than 2 inches fall yesterday -- so I couldn't see making him stand at the bus stop. But as I got fairly close to the high school, there were cars and buses everywhere, traffic was backed up for about a half-mile in front of the school ... craziness. He made it to classes alright but understands now what it's like in a New York subway terminal when gazillions of people are trying to get to work. Gloucester High School has more than 1,600 students, I believe, all crowded together in a jumble of pimply humanity. He was shoulder to shoulder with kids in the halls, sometimes seemingly a salmon trying to fight his upstream. He only got lost once, he said, but miraculously was able to find the classroom without getting late. He saw quite a few of his baseball buddies and said at lunchtime he was sitting alone until three "rednecks" and another dude showed up to keep him company. He said it was an interesting conversation. One of his teachers is a graduate of the University of Miami, which scored a thrilling victory over Florida State in football on Monday night. Ethan scored some points with his teacher when, as he was leaving class, he turned to her and held his hands together to form a `U.' She really liked that. I've always known he's a smart kid.

The best part of the whole day was that he had no homework. The worst part of the day? I imagine it was that he had to get up before breakfast. This is a kid whose school day usually starts no earlier than after the 9 a.m. Sportscenter edition. We suspect the `no homework' days are about to come to a screeching halt. And it will be interesting to see what life is like for him when he can no longer stay up late for Monday Night Football, the MLB playoffs, the World Series and other entertainment options he's been able to enjoy all these years. Today also holds the first day of fall baseball tryouts. At 5:30 this afternoon, he officially becomes a high school athlete.

Sunday Morning

2009-09-07T08:37:00.000-04:00

Here's something you'll probably get a kick out of. We launched a Sunday morning Bible study in the comfort of the Team Sabo living room. After praying about it for months and seeking the Lord, I felt His leading to start the Bible study. I have no plan, no strategy, no agenda. I don't exactly know what we'll do if people start showing up -- though that's certainly our intention to reach out to the community and invite people to study God's word with us -- so that' is definitely something we're praying about. Since moving to Gloucester 5 1/2 years ago, we've been fellowshipping in churches outside our community. We really felt it was time to fellowship in Gloucester, among our friends our neighbors and the people we meet at the ball fields, in the stores and elsewhere. What really spoke to me recently in my daily Bible reading was a verse from Joshua 18:3: "Then Joshua said to the children of Israel: `How long will you neglect to go and possess the land which the LORD God of your fathers has given you?'" There were other verses that really spoke to me but that was just the last confirmation that it was time to step out in faith, to make myself available to be used by Him for His glory.

We will study through the Bible verse by verse, chapter by chapter, book by book. Taylor led worship and it was sweet and then a couple of our kids helped out with the little kids upstairs, reading a Bible study and doing some crafts. We realized we need a "baby gate" upstairs because at one point as I was teaching the sweet sounds of the piano wafted through the house. It turns out that Olivia had gotten loose and decided it was time for a musical interlude. So you can see that's one of the kinks we have to work out in this "work in progress." I apprecitate your prayers and look forward to seeing what the Lord does with our humble beginnings. I will say attendance was very strong that first morning, with 22 people showing up. Of course, it doesn't hurt that 14 of those live in the "church."

Some Husband

2009-09-02T19:56:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was the 19th anniversary of wedded bliss for that delightful couple known as Matt & Julie Sabo. Yes, 19 years ago at a church around the corner from Julie's house in Canby, Ore., we got hitched. I had been in class for about five days of my senior year of college when we got married. We picked that weekend because with Labor Day we had a three-day honeymoon. If I remember correctly we got married at 11 a.m. to give us even more of a head start on the nuptials. We honeymooned at a bed & breakfast in Mt. Vernon, Wash., and spent some time in the San Juan Islands.

Yesterday? Well, I spent most of the morning trying to get Ethan into classes at Gloucester High School. It's not so easy. We had some "issues" transferring his home school credits and the way it ended up, he will open the year on paper as a freshman. A 16-year-old freshman. That means he would graduate a month shy of his 20th birthday. I got married at 21. Just thought I'd point that out. But the high school seems willing to work with us -- he did get credit for a few classes -- and they're going to allow him to accelerate through some courses. But we're such amateurs at this whole public school thing. We went to the open house yesterday and didn't realize we were supposed to bring the checkbook to pay for his gym uniform ($18) and this day planner thing everyone is supposed to have ($5). We got lost in the high school about 20 times but did manage to make it out of there in two hours. Which meant no anniversary dinner for us because I had to go cover a meeting for the newspaper that started at 7 p.m.

Maybe we'll get some sort of date in this weekend. Eli asked me this afternoon if there was somewhere I wanted to take mama for the night. Apparently he wants to spend the night at some friends of ours so he's trying to subtly hint around that we should make ourselves scarce. I'll see what I can do Eli. I have a hankering to go visit Annapolis, Md. Maybe we can make that happen this weekend.

Dinner! Gusto eccezionale!

2009-08-27T22:37:00.000-04:00

Tuesday night we sat down for dinner and Italian night broke out. Earlier in the day I had a hankering for pasta. With vegetables. But I'm not Italian. My wife is not Italian. We have something like 12 kids who are not Italian. Short of calling the Pope to see what the Popester recommended, I was in a quandary. (Editor's note: What does the Pope have to do with finding an Italian dish? Isn't the Pope German? Were you looking for a German dish? Author's reply: The Pope is German? Is that legal?) So I started trolling the net for suitable dishes and this is what I came up with on allrecipes.com: "Summer Squash Chicken Alfredo." Let me just say it was a selection that was "magnifique." (Editor's note: That's French for magnificent. You meant "magnifico" my love. Author's reply: I knew that. I was just saying that even the French would say this particular Italian dish was magnificent. Editor's exasperated comment: Whatever. My love.)

The thing I really liked about this recipe, besides the yeller squash, zucchini, pasta, alfredo sauce, garlic and chicken breasts, was that it used bacon. I would have to say that if you put bacon in anything, it makes the dish sing. It completes it. The dish has "vitalita" as all my Italian friends would say. (Loosely translated from the Italian, that means the dish has "oomph.") You can't go wrong with bacon. I threw some bacon in a clam chowder a while back and it was off the chart. Bacon on a burger? Need I say more? I make this seafood chowder with bacon in it and if you took out the bacon, it would just be another creamy, seafoody soup. Here's how I know the Summer Squash Chicken Alfredo A La Zesta Porko went over well with the Team Sabo crew: It was so quiet when everybody was chowing down, you could have heard a rigatoni noodle drop.

Big Decisions, Part III

2009-08-25T22:29:00.001-04:00

When I shared with Julie what the Lord was leading me to do -- uproot the family and hit the reverse Oregon Trail for nine months to attend Cornerstone School of Ministry -- she didn't think I was whacked. Nor did she faint, understand I was going through a mid-life crisis or suspect I had lost general control of my faculties. She told me that the Lord had been preparing her heart for a change. At the time she thought it had something to do with the ladies Bible study she was leading. After I talked to her, she believed the change had something to do with going to Oregon and she said she would pray about it. Shortly after that, after we had been praying and believing this was of the Lord, we convened a meeting of the Team Sabo Executive Board. I wanted to let our older kids know what was going on so they could pray about it and not just wake up one day and start packing rain gear and moss repellent. It was an interesting meeting, to say the least.

Joining us in the living room/board room were Brenton, Taylor, Ethan and Claire. Brenton was to leave for his final semester at Calvary Chapel Bible College in Murrieta, Calif., in a few days. Taylor was leading a youth Bible study on Friday nights which attracted up to 30 teens who came together to worship the Lord and study the word and Ethan was in a way his right-hand guy. All of the kids were serving in church as well and after 4 1/2 years in Gloucester had put down roots. When I told them we were praying about going to Oregon and why, Claire got teary. Brenton looked pensive -- I didn't know what to thinking because he was so supportive a year ago. But he said he would pray about it and see what the Lord told him. Taylor said that in his daily reading he had just been in Isaiah 6, which talks about how the people of Israel had their eyes on King Uzziah and not the Lord. He felt like it was the Lord speaking to him that the kids in the Bible study needed to grow in their relationship with the Lord and not looking to him. Taking him away would help mature them, he said.

Ethan flat out said he wasn't going. You can always count on Ethan in moments like this to say his peace. Ethan's name in Hebrew means, "strong, firm." The kid lives up to his name, no doubt about it. And just to throw it out there, Matthew means "Gift from God." (Editor's note: Oh brother. Author's reply: Just taking the facts babe.) Ethan said that we couldn't just abandon the youth Bible study while it was flourishing. When I told him to pray about it, again he said he wasn't going. Once again, I said to pray about it. He said I didn't understand him. (Picture me raising one eyebrow, then you have an idea of my reaction to that statement.) He wasn't going to Oregon. "Why don't you go to your room and pray about it," I said. Claire, as I mentioned, was teary. She didn't want to leave her friends. Nor did she want to leave the youth Bible study. I could understand the reaction of Ethan and Claire. They felt their place was here in Gloucester, not 3,000 miles away to a place that, although it was familiar to them, presented the unknown. And what was in it for them? The Lord had blessed them with good friends in Gloucester, a thriving group of young believers and so many other things.

We were coming down to the wire, though. If we were going, we needed to leave in a month and in my mind a decision was no more than a week away. I asked the kid to pray over the next week, continue reading their Bibles daily and let me know their thoughts. Afterward, though, I had this sinking feeling. I thought, "What am I doing to my family?"

Mount Vernon

2009-08-22T16:29:00.000-04:00

Last week my lovely bride of nearly 19 years (Sept. 1! Marital Bliss Anniversary Day!) and I left all the kids in Gloucester and drove to the home of George Washington, aka Mount Vernon. What a fun day. Not once did I hear from any passengers the dread phrases, "Are we there yet?" or "How much longer?" I'll have you know that Julie is in fact a very pleasant driving companion and I would recommend her as a shotgun rider to anyone traveling substantial distances. In this case, with summer traffic and stops at a roadside garden stand for peaches, a 7-Eleven for ice cold liquid refreshment and a potty break and at Target in Fredericksburg, it was a little more than three hours to GW's home. It was worth the drive. As you can see, it's fairly significant estate on the Potomac River just outside Alexandria.

The home has nine bedrooms and what was interesting was that back in the day it was common for travelers just to drop in and ask if they could shack for the night. Apparently they didn't have a Motel 6 or Holiday Inn around, nor a McDonald's or even Subway. So George & Martha would provide some grub and a bedroom for the weary travelers. Sometimes they would extend their stay. At the time of his death, George Washington was the most well-known man in the world and all sorts of folks would just drop in. Sounds crazy, but I guess things aren't so different these days in a sense, with paparazzi informing the voyeurs of the world on the lives and times of the rich and famous.

In the third photo from the top, you can see a portico that connects the house to the kitchen. They had a detached kitchen in event of fire with hopes it wouldn't spread to the house. At his death George Washington had hundreds of slaves who he freed in an unusual move for the times. The grounds of the estate are excellent and though it was hot -- mid 80s with reasonable humidity -- it wasn't unbearable like it can be in mid-August and the paths through the gardens and grounds were a pleasure to walk. I even held Julie's hand. I do believe I snuck in a smooch here and there. Usually when I do that one of the kids says, "Daaaaaad." I think I even asked if she wanted to go back to the car and neck. She just gave me the look. Husbands know what I'm talking about. Anyway, the museum at Mount Vernon was pretty cool. It had tons of historical artifacts, guns, swords, military and Revolutionary War memorabilia and plenty of information on the life and times of our first president. Did you know he didn't sign the Declaration of Independence? It seems he was off fighting the Brits and couldn't jet down to Philly to lend his signature to our country's announcement of independence.

After touring Mount Vernon for about four hours we headed up to Old Town Alexandria, about eight miles away. It's a cool place with colonial-style buildings full of restaurants, boutiques and other shops. We dined at Bertucci's Italian Restaurant and thoroughly enjoyed it. We talked without being interrupted -- except occasionally by the waitress -- and covered a lot of conversational ground. In closing, I highly recommend a trip to Mount Vernon as a getaway for couples. Inspiring, entertaining, enlightening, educational...they all apply. Oh, and fun.

Big Decisions, Part II

2009-08-21T08:11:00.000-04:00

In early August last year, I e-mailed Adam Poole, the Calvary Chapel Corvallis pastor in charge of Cornerstone School of Ministry. I asked him if they were still accepting applications. I had done the same thing a year earlier, but was sufficiently vague about it that I'm not sure he knew my exact intentions. This time I followed it up with a phone call to him. I remember it was outside the Barnes & Noble bookstore in Newport News that I called him and I walked around the parking lot and told him what was on my heart: To head to Oregon for a year of Biblical training. He seemed pretty stoked about it -- we are friends and brothers in Christ, our wives our friends and sisters in Christ and Adam and Grace have four little boys and our families are friends -- and we agreed to pray about it. At that point I had about three weeks to make a decision. It all sounded so crazy, though. The logistics of traveling across the country, the financial aspect, the job situation, wondering where we would live...all those things that normal and sane people think about. I was telling Adam I was just having a hard time seeing how it would work out, that it seemed like it would take a miracle. "There's the parting of the Red Sea, the loaves and fishes and getting the Sabos to Oregon," I told him.

At the time I was reading daily in the book of Jeremiah and one morning I came across a verse that really spoke to me. It was Jeremiah 6:16: "Thus says the Lord: `Stand in the ways and see, and ask for the old paths, where the good way is. And walk in it: Then you will find rest for your souls.' " What spoke to me about that section of Scripture was the `old paths,' which I equated to when we had lived in Corvallis and attended Calvary Chapel there. It's a wonderful church and the Lord's hand is truly on Pastor Rob Verdeyen and the people there. It was a morsel for me to chew on. Then a few days later I was reading in Jeremiah 15:19-21: "Therefore thus says the Lord: `If you return, then I will bring you back; You shall stand before Me; If you take out the precious from the vile, you shall be as My mouth. Let them return to you, but you must not return to them. And I will make you to this people a fortified bronze wall; And they will fight against you, but they shall not prevail against you; For I am with you to save you and deliver you, says the Lord. I will deliver you,' says the LORD. I will deliver you from the hand of the wicked, and I will redeem you from the grip of the terrible.' "

That section spoke volumes to me. Although in the context of the Scripture it was written by the "weeping prophet" Jeremiah during a dark time in Judah (the southern kingdom that fell to Babylon in 586 B.C., when Jeremiah was writing), it was an encouragement to go to the school, that the Lord would be with us on our trip and that He would bring us back. We would encounter travails but the Lord would deliver us. After I read that, I went to Julie and told her what was on my heart and what the Lord had shown me in His word. Her reaction surprised me.

Chore Chart

2009-08-18T11:16:00.000-04:00

We interrupt the ongoing series on "Big Decisions" to bring you this breaking news bulletin. Taylor is now a fashion consultant. As you can see from the photos of Princess Olivia, she's either getting hitched today or playing in the dressup clothes box. We assume it's the latter. But here's the background to why Olivia is so fashionably attired. When we got home from Oregon in June, Julie took it upon herself to design, coordinate and implement the infamous "Chore Chart" that outlines each child's duties each day. Miraculously, the husband of Julie and father to the extraordinary brood of children, managed to escape being placed on the "Chore Chart." Perhaps there's an age limit involved. Either way, as you can see it's quite extensive. Even detailed. Dishes, mopping, vacuuming, bathroom cleaning (trust us, with little boys in the house who are still working on their aim, that's the one detail that you might not want) and the list seemingly goes on for eternity. But we here at Team Sabo headquarters view the chore chart as a thing of beauty and a way for each member of the family to pitch in and truly make this "Team Sabo."

So today Taylor had "Olivia Duty" beginning at 11 a.m. This involves keeping the wee lass occupied while Julie instructs various Sabo children in homeschool and the father of the house "works" for the newspaper by writing newspaper blog entries, calling sources for interviews, digging up dirt, afflicting the powerful, etc., etc. Today Taylor thought Olivia might like to bide her time by trying on dresses. Specifically wedding style dresses. This type of dressy endeavor works for both girls and boys, as Taylor's youngest brothers can attest. Olivia thoroughly enjoyed the experience, parading around the house while Taylor held up the train of her dress. I must say, the tiara was really working for her. Wouldn't you agree?

Big Decisions, Part I

2009-08-16T21:34:00.000-04:00

One of the cool things I like to do here at Team Sabo headquarters is gaze into the rear view mirror and consider the decisions we've made and how God's hand were in them. On the way to church this morning it struck me that something fairly significant happened a year ago. Yes indeed, it was a year ago tonight that the members of the Team Sabo Executive Board convened in an emergency meeting. Well, maybe it wasn't an emergency. It was a big meeting, though. The kids always know something is up when we gather together in the living for room for a "Very Important Announcement." When we met a year ago, Julie and I were praying through a decision to leave Gloucester temporarily and head to Oregon so I could to attend Cornerstone School of Ministry at Calvary Chapel Corvallis. There's quite a bit of background to the story, so let's review some additional historical facts, situations and events.

We had attended Calvary Chapel Corvallis from October 1999 to February 2004, at which point we relocated 3,000 miles east to Gloucester, Va. The School of Ministry was up and running the whole time we were in Corvallis and I had many friends go through the program. It was something I had wanted to do, but for various reasons never took that leap of faith. File it away under the label, "It Wasn't the Lord's Timing." It was something I wanted to do, but never was real serious about it until two years ago. We were on vacation and staying with relatives in Brentwood, Tenn., when we went to church with them. It was during worship that I felt unmistakably that the Lord told me I was going to be a teacher of the Word. I didn't know in what capacity; I mean, for all I knew it was for the 3rd through 5th graders at church, which I was already doing but could probably do better with a better grip on Scripture. I thought it was crazy at first, but as I let the idea marinate I figured I better get prepared because the Lord doesn't just throw stuff out there just for something to do. A couple of weeks later I was at a men's retreat when I told Brenton about it and said I felt like the Lord was leading me to go to the School of Ministry. He was stoked, but it was all just so crazy. Quit my job, move my family across the country, go to the school ... all that in and of itself was enough to get me committed to an institution for the mentally unstable, unhinged and flat out crazy. But then what? Just come back and go back to normal? Could that really happen? So I didn't pursue it.

I really didn't think about it for another year until I was visiting with a friend over the Fourth of July weekend last summer. We were shooting the breeze one day while driving around town when inevitably -- as it does at our advanced age -- the conversation turned toward retirement and college educations for kids and things of that nature. I didn't have much in the way of a retirement fund and certainly no college funds for any of our kids. It always kind of bothered me, as if I wasn't doing a good of taking care of my family, or me for that matter. Which is just the enemy saying a bunch of malarkey. But I did have some money socked away for retirement and as I was talking with my buddy the Lord totally put Matthew 19:16-22 and the story of the rich young ruler on my heart. The essence of the story is that this wealthy young stud was a good, moral guy, but then Jesus got to the heart of the matter. He has a way of doing that, you know? As Jesus says in verse 21: "If you want to be perfect, go sell what you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow Me." The rich young man, as it says in the next verse, "went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions." In other words, following Jesus came at too high of a price for him. As I was talking to my friend about jobs and finances and the like, the thought hit me: What's my price tag to follow Christ? My meager retirement? My house? My job? What was off-limits?

I wrestled with that question for several weeks before I got an answer. Stay tuned for the next installment of this friendly neighborhood blog when we pick up the story.

Oregon Daze

2009-08-14T09:27:00.000-04:00

I spent three days in Oregon last weekend and am just now recovering. Was it a dream? I think not! I have photos! And a few foggy remembories! Perhaps some of you old codgers out there remember the movie "Stand By Me." It's a 1986 coming-of-age film that was shot in the town of Brownsville, which I passed through around 8 o'clock Monday morning. Brownsville is historic by Oregon standards, settled in the mid-1800s by hearty souls who thought the chest-high grass around the Calapooia River would be good forage for their cattle. Brownsville is where the pool table flat fields of grass seed meet the knobby hills that are the goose pimples of Oregon's Cascade Range. It's also home to the Moyer House, which again at circa 1881 is almost pre-historic by Oregon standards.

My trip to Oregon was fruitful in more ways than one, though it was a bit harried by meetings and being tied up in Eugene all day on Monday. On Saturday I managed to stop in at a roadside stand outside of Portland for Red Haven peaches that were delightful. And as you can see above, I skedaddled from Eugene to Portland Monday evening to catch my flight home, but not before stopping at the Burgerville at 26th and Powell in the Rose City for an Oregon blackberry shake and Tillamook pepperjack cheeseburger with bacon. That meal alone was worth the trip. Oddly enough, that same Burgerville made the news two days later when it refused service to a mom on a bike rolling through the drive-thru. The outrage in Portland -- a biking mecca -- was palpable. You never know what people will get worked up about. On a side note, my buddy Sol Neelman is a professional photographer and shot the Burgerville photo with my little point and shoot camera.

My trip was all too brief. Next time I hope to spend more than a few harried days running around the state. But I definitely had an Oregon moment Monday morning about 7 a.m., when I strolled out of a friend's house in Lebanon to walk around the block. I nearly got frostbite. Wow, it was cold! It was like 50 degrees! Oh yeah, I thought, it's cool here in the mornings in summer. I managed to take a couple laps around the block without getting eaten alive by a polar bear or having to call 911 because I was on the verge of hypothermia. This morning I just got back from a run and it was a relatively cool 72 degrees, but the humidity was about 1,000 percent. Needless to say, I didn't have to worry avbout any polar bears.

Letter To Ethan

2009-08-11T23:58:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking often of our little baby who's with the Lord. It's made me think of when Julie got pregnant with Ethan. Taylor was just five months old when Julie managed to seduce me and a little miracle happened. That was the start of where we are now with a dozen kids because we were going to stop after two kids. Seriously. We thought it was all so perfect having two little boys three years apart -- Brenton and Taylor -- who would be best friends and we could still have a life ... boy howdy do things change. It reminded me of an article I wrote that appeared in the Central Oregonian on July 30, 1993. I was editor of the twice-weekly Central Oregonian newspaper in the cowboy town of Prineville when I penned the editorial called "Letter to Ethan" that appeared 23 days after Ethan was born. He was our second baby, after Taylor, who we had at home with the help of midwives. Bear with me because this is going to be a long blog entry. But I hope you're blessed by it.

The call came at 3:30 p.m. I had been expecting it all day, but the voice on the other end of the phone seemed so calm.
It was my wife, Julie, and she was telling me her contractions were four to five minutes apart.
"Oh," I said so casually. "So do you want me to come home?"
"Yes."
There you were, Ethan, making movements to enter this world. Finally, I might add. Nothing personal, but you had made Julie's life so uncomfortable.
With you came sleepless nights, trips to the bathroom five minutes apart and restlessness on your part at the end of another weary day, just as Julie was drifting off to sleep.
I tried to reason with you, asking if maybe you could move off your mother's bladder, or if maybe you would be so polite as to settle down and catch a few z's while Mama was trying to sleep.
We learned early you had a mind of your own. My requests often went unheeded. No matter, though. Through it all I was always so excited to finally meet you.
Were you a boy or a girl? Would I be in my boss's office asking for a raise because my wife had just cleaned out the little girls section of the local department store?
Or would I be wrestling with you on the floor of our house when I got home from work, trying my best to fend off the hard-charging advances of you and your two big brothers, Brenton and Taylor?
I arrived home at 3:45. What a zoo. You were working fast, anxious to get out and see the real world -- all that you had heard but never seen.
Brenton, age 4, was in tears. He wanted me to take away your mother's labor pains. What could I do? There was no stopping you now.
And Taylor, a 1-year-old teething little beaver, had lost his pacifier and was exercising his new teeth on many of the wood products in our house. That little chainsaw in diapers should be sponsored by Homelite.
Order was somewhat restored with the arrival of a neighbor to watch your brothers, but Julie was in such pain and things were happening so fast I was afraid you would just pop right out.
And I wouldn't even have time to boil the water and tear the sheets.
As you know by now, we decided to have you at home. But sheesh, I'm no midwife. Though you were trying your darnedest to make me one.
Our midwife was scheduled to arrive at 4:45, about the same time Grandma Sabo showed up to take Brenton and Taylor off our hands. In between then, people were calling and wanting to talk to Julie and blah, blah, blah.
"Look," I wanted to tell them, "if I don't get my catcher's mitt on in a hurry, no one is going to be there to field our pending arrival."
By 5:15 the smoke cleared and I was given enough things to do to keep out of the way. But, boy, you were coming.
In another half-hour I knew we were close. Julie was working so hard and you were right there.
Ten minutes later, at 5:55 p.m. on July 7, 1993, Ethan James Sabo arrived. I won't fool you. The first thing I checked was the plumbing. Yep, all boy.
You were all purple and wrinkled and your skin was white and peeling in spots. Yet you were so perfect. All that work, all that pain. And here you were, in my arms.
I've held you so often since you were born. I know the feel of your little back, the shape of your head on the palm of my hand. I know how you smell and the taste of your skin on my lips.
Many times in your life you will be hurt, or discouraged. You will cry or be angry.
And always, Ethan, just as I am now on this night, long after the city has gone to sleep and the only light in our living room is the faint glow of the moon, I will be here to hold you.
I promise.

Babies

2009-08-07T08:39:00.000-04:00

This is one of those things I'm not really sure how to say. Earlier this week we found out that the wee baby in Julie was not alive. We went to the doctor Wednesday afternoon after it was confirmed that there was no sign of a growing baby. The doctor can't explain what went wrong or what happened and we just trust in the Lord's plan and His will. We told the four older kids last night after they got back from camp -- they had a great time at camp and were really blessed by the Lord -- and we're telling the other kids today. Julie is fine physically and up and around and things. I think we're both just sad. We're confident the Lord will bring us another baby. Now just wasn't the time.

I have to make a quick trip out to Oregon this weekend to take care of some personal business. I'm on a really tight schedule -- fly Saturday in to Portland, meet a friend for lunch, meet another friend for dinner on Saturday in Corvallis, on Sunday I have to be in Portland for a meeting in the afternoon and I have to be in Eugene Monday morning at 9 o'clock for I don't know how long before flying home Monday night -- so I apologize in advance if I don't get to see many of my Oregon friends and family. I wish I had more time obviously, but it just didn't work out that way for a variety of reasons. God bless.

An Afternoon's Work

2009-08-04T16:32:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was one of those days as a reporter. Early in the afternoon I was in court for a sentencing for a young man who was driving drunk and speeding down a narrow winding road, careened off the road into a tree and killed two of the passengers in his car. The photos above are from a little memorial at the site of the crash, which is about a mile from our house. It was horrible being in court. Lots of tears from family members and friends and in the end the judge sentenced the fellow to 20 years in prison. It was just brutal in there. Reporters are supposed to be detached observers -- just the facts, you know -- but it's not so easy sitting there. Maybe I'll write more about what went on in the courtroom, how the guy getting sentenced was sitting at the defendants' table next to his lawyer and at one point dropped his head on his left arm -- he lost half of his right arm in the accident -- and started sobbing. Or how the grandmother of one of the victims looked at him and said, "We don't hate you Jamie." Or how the mother of one of the victims said they had to move because they lived across the street from the driver, who she would see walking "carefree" down the street in the months before his sentencing.

You can read the story here: http://www.dailypress.com/news/dp-local_moore_0804aug04,0,2985895.story

I get home to write the story and find an e-mail in my inbox about a 20-year-old knucklehead who jumped off the 90-foot-high Coleman Bridge -- and lived to tell about it. I didn't have much time to write the story, but I wrote it first because I was dreading writing about the drunk driver. Some things you just marvel at. This bridge jumper's survival is one of those.

Here's the story: http://www.dailypress.com/news/dp-local_jumper_0804aug04,0,2425929.story

Mr. Fix It

2009-08-02T22:31:00.001-04:00

By now, after you've perused these photos, you're probably wondering how many Sabos it takes to remove a busted up master bedroom window and then install a new one. The answer would be five -- Matt, Julie, Brenton, Taylor and Ethan -- plus our excellent neighborhood neighbor Mr. Alan Wisely. This is what happens when you combine a journalist with little training in the fine arts of shattered master bedroom removal and installation of replacement window, with three teenage boys rousted from sleep at mid morning and a six-foot tall bedroom window. But miracles happen every day and the fact that this window was installed and the back of the house looks normal with siding and all and no one was cut, maimed, injured or otherwise decapitated is testament to a loving, merciful God.

We've already had one big storm pass through and no leaks have been noticed so that's a tremendous blessing. What was funny was the reaction of a friend at church when I informed him that the entire job was finished in the matter of a few hours. I think he was shocked that I pulled that off. Needless to say, I had a lot of help. I'm happy to report that this moment of Team Sabo Home Improvement Triumph is revealing in this regard: I am somewhat useful around here, even for more than writing an occasional newspaper story and knocking up my wife. (Editor's note: Was that necessary? Author's reply: Okay, you're right. I also cook dinner frequently. And have changed thousands of diapers.)

Praise the Lord that the window was financed through a generous contribution from our home insurance policy. Hopefully the generosity of our fabulous house insurance company (Traveler's! They're the best! Their coverage is number 1! Their claims adjusters are number 1! Their -- Editor's note: Ahem. Excuse me. Is this a shameless plug to try and get them to advertise on your blog? Author's reply: Is it that obvious?) cover the damaged gutters as well and we're calling on an estimate. I have to give a shout out to Ethan, who was a big help at the tail end of the project when I was putting the siding back on and he dutifully perspired through that part of the project with me. Of course, at the same time Taylor was gunking up his fingers by caulking, so he deserves ample kudos as well. Where was Brenton you ask? Getting his hair cut. And we applaud that move on his part.

Nature Calls

2009-07-30T21:50:00.000-04:00

It must be something in the genetics. Surely it's a very part of the DNA in every little boy's body. That insatiable, uncontrollable urge to leave his mark in the yard. I'm pleased to announce that the fairly recently potty-trained Ezra completed his rite of passage this afternoon by marking his territory in our yard. At least it was in our back yard. Several times I've seen the obligatory little boy doing his thing, pants and undies down around his knees and whizzing like a garden hose -- in the front yard. I'm sure that's a violation of Homeowner's Association codes and covenants and something that could get the toilet-challenged little lad in big trouble. Ezra at least had the common decency to whiz in the relative privacy of our back yard. While I'm bemused and even proud of this seminal moment in my little boy's life, Julie is confused. Why must all of her boys at one time or another treat the great outdoors as their bathroom?

I try to tell her that they are just doing some "weed abatement" and that it beats us spending 20 bucks on Roundup. I don't know that it's convincing her that peeing in the yard is a good thing. But at the same time, I don't think you can necessarily stop it. It's just one of those things that our little boys have to get out of their system and then we can all move on. If it's an ongoing issue, then we'll address it. But truth be told, the boys seem to grow out of it. Most of us do, that is. Not all, just most.

The Good Neighbor Policy

2009-07-29T20:40:00.000-04:00

We live in a subdivision of 85 homes, two cul-de-sacs, one playground and a sidewalk on one side of the street. In many ways it's classic suburbia. In many ways it's not. Far from it. I'd say at least half the families in this neighborhood are military, folks who are either active service or retired from the Marines, Army, Navy, Air Force, Coast Guard, you name it. Some are cops. Then there's the rest of us. A newspaper reporter, teachers, Wal-Mart clerks, kind of the average Joe types. Right now I'll take our Courthouse Square subdivision over any neighborhood around.

As you know, we got roughed up by a pretty serious windstorm the other night. We still have a tarp over what's left of our window, but a replacement should get here tomorrow. When we awoke Monday morning, we had parts of three trees and a section of busted fence planks in our yard. By two o'clock in the afternoon, our yard was clean and a troop of kids were down in the neighbor's yard cleaning it up. Our next door neighbors, Mike and Amber, owned the tree that smashed through their fence into our yard. Our neighbors behind us, Donny and Christina, had a section of tree hanging over their fence into our yard. We all rendezvoused in our yards about 1 a.m. Monday morning to make sure everyone was OK and then by 9 a.m. the chainsaws were firing up.

Let's get something straight here. Men need no excuse, I repeat no excuse at all, to fire up the chainsaw. (Wife to Manly Man Husband: "Honey, there's a tumbleweed in the back yard. Could you take care of that before my babies get tangled up in it?" Manly Man Hubby to Wife: "Sweet! I'll grab the chainsaw!") Wives, if you want to bless your husband at Christmas, buy him a chainsaw that will buzz through the hardest hardwood like it's butter. That being said, Donny and Mike and I were manning chainsaws and carving up the trees. A while later our friend Jennifer (who doesn't even live in our 'hood) showed up with a trailer and her four kids, and about 83 percent of my kids, my nephew Killian and a bunch of other kids from the neighborhood started hauling debris and wood to the trailer and Donny's pickup. Amber supplied the cookies and Powerade (it was the type of hot, muggy day where Mike was sweating so much he dripped his way through three shirts -- before lunch) and in no time the yard was clear, Mike had repaired his fence and we were just standing around thinking the chainsaws hardly got going.

Never fear, because on the other side of us, Zeke and Erin had a huge poplar tree go down in their back yard. But it snapped midway up and was still attached, creating a danger that needed to be eliminated with chainsaws. So Mike and Donny manned up and took down the poplar tree the rest of the way (Zeke would have joined in but was at work at the Coast Guard station in Yorktown). To top it all off, some neighbors at the end of the street in the cul-de-sac, who we hardly know, had some intrepid entrepreneurial kids decide they'd help us out with the window by having a charitable neighborhood lemonade sale. They showed up yesterday afternoon with $21.65 in a plastic jar.

When Julie and our neighborly friend Cindy were recounting Monday's cleanup, how everyone chipped in and how the Sabo Memorial Window Donation Lemonade Sale was a rousing success, I thought they were going to cry. Who knows. Maybe this was just a dry run for something more serious in store, like a (dare I even utter the word?) hurricane. Or maybe it's just proof that the Lord has blessed us with good neighbors. Maybe it's both.

A Freight Train, In My Back Yard

2009-07-27T11:50:00.000-04:00

The first hint that trouble was brewing should have come after dinner Sunday evening. I looked outside and saw clouds gathering in an ethereal, amber light. I checked the weather and it said we would be under a thunderstorm watch until 8 o'clock. When we finally hit the sack around 11 o'clock lightning was still lighting up the sky. Rain had poured from the sky with so much fury, my neighbor later told me he couldn't see the house behind him that's 100 feet away or so. Thunderclaps were right on top of us, in some cases shaking the house. For Ezra's sake, we kept the doors closed. But not long after falling asleep I was awakened by the sound of what seemed like a freight train outside. Except there's no railroad tracks in our back yard. Or anywhere close for that matter. I was standing next to our bed and glanced at the clock: 12:22 a.m.

That's when a window next to our bed where Julie was sleeping exploded. Julie came flying out of the bed screaming and jumped into my arms. (It's nice to know she knows where to find her hero.) I stood there stunned momentarily trying to get my bearings. Then Julie scurried around to gather up the kids while I tried to assess the damage and figure out what to do next while rain and wind howled in the window. Some blinds were doing a good job keeping the rain out and a short time later the rain stopped and the wind died down. This morning I learned that wind gusts topped 50 mph and parts of Gloucester had 5 inches of rain from the storm.

We cleaned up the shards of glass that had littered the bed and floor and walked around outside talking to our neighbors. Our neighbor's poplar tree had crashed through the fence between our yards and glanced off the side of our house. Two other trees or parts of two different neighbors' trees ended up in our yard. Branches from the poplar tree are the ones that ended up smashing our window; I found poplar leaves and chunks of the branches on our floor and bed. A neighbor down the street who I'd never met brought down a tarp and fastened it around our window to get us through the night. Other than some damage to gutters and a couple of shingles, everything on the house seems to be fine. Though I am in the market for a new window.

The Lord protected us and no one was hurt. About 1:30 a.m., while reliving the sounds and fury of the storm with neighbors, I looked up at the sky and saw stars and felt relieved. After tidying up inside and vacuuming and changing the sheets and bedspread I headed outside to take another look around the house. It was about 2:30 a.m. when I looked up in the sky. The stars were obscured by clouds and off to the north lightning lit up the sky like strobe lights.

Tour de Gloucester

2009-07-25T22:29:00.000-04:00

Julie and I managed to get out today and explore parts of Gloucester we haven't spent much time seeing. Our chief aim was to try and see some of the dozens of historic estates that line the shores of Gloucester, but that didn't go so well. Most of Gloucester's historic homes and estates sit well back off public roads, way down private lanes and driveways and tucked far away from touristy eyes. For example, down on the York River lies the estate known as Little England, a portion of which dates to 1680. You can't get close to it. Over on Ware Neck, a finger of wooded land that juts into the Ware River and Mobjack Bay, sits Lowland Cottage, which was begun before 1670 and is obscured by woods down a long tree-lined dirt driveway. According to my handy-dandy history book, called "Past is Prologue; Gloucester County, Virginia," Lowland Cottage was the homeplace of Robert Bristow, who became the largest pre-Revolutionary War landowner on Ware Neck. But the family returned to England and lost its holdings during the Revolution.

Beyond the boats afloat in Timberneck Creek in that photo up there lies a peninsula of land known as Timberneck. It's the earliest known patent of land in Gloucester County,dating to 1639. The peninsula of land is going to be developed into high-priced mini-estates. But the property also boasts a house called "Timberneck," an 18th-century home with 14 acres of waterfront property that can be yours for $2.9 million. Believe me, it's beautiful out there, though the home is what's known as a "fixer-upper." Have your people get in touch with my people to discuss how to acquire this historic piece of Virginia history. Oh, it comes with a family graveyard as well, the oldest grave being that of 3-year-old Elizabeth Page, who passed in 1693. How cool is that?

We also included a shot of a church in Ware Neck, replete with obligatory graveyard, and photo of a country lane called "Elmington" that meanders past soy bean fields, farmhouses and historic estates near the North River.

The U.S. Capitol, Jamestown, The Smithsonian...Bass Pro Shops

2009-07-25T10:13:00.000-04:00

For the past month my nephew Killian has been staying with us. Killian is my sister's son and flew out here from Bend, Ore., in late June all by himself. He's become such a part of Team Sabo I don't even know he's here anymore. He went to church camp with the middle school group from our church and a few of my kids and had a blast. He's made the pilgrimage to Busch Gardens in Williamsburg something like three or four times, he goes to Friday night Bible study with our kids every week (Editor's note: Hasn't the youth Bible study been at our house all month? How would he not go to it? Author's reply: If you want to split hairs, I guess you can. He seems to go of his own free will and not find somewhere else in the house to hang out.) and I see him carrying around Olivia and generally helping out. It's been a pleasure to have him and we'll miss him when he heads home on Tuesday.

As his days here in Virginia are drawing to a close and he thinks about returning to a dry heat, we asked him what he really wanted to do. We have beaches, historic Jamestown and Yorktown, D.C. is a couple of hours up the road ... the sightseeing options are endless. It took Killian about a nanosecond to say what he really wanted to do: Go to a Bass Pro Shops store. Excuse me? Yeah, to one of the Bass Pro Shops. Apparently they don't have these out West. And Killian loves to hunt and fish -- you'd think he was a native of Gloucester, where if you don't hunt and fish you're a dead ringer for an outsider -- and he wants to get a Bass Pro t-shirt for his dad and grandpa. It just so happens there's a shop no more than an hour from here. So we've assured him that we'll make sure he makes the journey to the closest Bass Pro Shops to complete this memorable month in Virginia. If any of our friends out West need anything, now is the time to put in your order. We accept cash, checks and most major credit cards.

I'm Not Taylor

2009-07-22T21:41:00.000-04:00

Taylor is 17 years old now and apparently he sounds just like me. Even to his friends. Today I had another of his buddies call and when I answered the phone he said, "Is this Taylor?" No, it's not. I'm not sure what to make of it. Flattered that I sound so young? (If only I looked so young.) Or embarrassed that I sound like a teenager? I still only shave once a week, so I guess in that sense I'm kind of teenagery. But hey, at least I don't have to shave my back. (Editor's note: No way. Are you really going to print that? Author's reply: Believe me, I'm proud of it. So yes, it's staying in this blog.)

At the ripe old age of 40 I can still hold my own in Wiffle ball, hoops and other assorted sporting endeavors with these young shavers, so to speak. (I just try and steer clear of exhibiting my blazing speed in the 40-yard dash. The last time I tried that I pulled a hammy.) So here's what I'm going to do to distinguish myself from Taylor on the phone. I'm going all-husky voice. Barry White, look out. James Earl Jones, you got nothing on me. I'm going deeeeepppp. Kind of a Darth Vader type voice, except in a friendly, neighborly way. Without the breathing thing. Mark my words, from now on there will be no mistaking me for Taylor. Voice wise at least.

`Nervous Time'

2009-07-21T21:44:00.000-04:00

It was the bottom of the last inning of the third game of the day that Ethan's baseball team played on Saturday. It was about 9 o'clock in the evening, the tail end of a long day at the ballpark at the Virginia Sports Complex in Ruther Glen, Va., some 75 miles away from Gloucester. Somehow Ethan's team, the Gloucester Devils (Don't ask about the nickname; it's not my favorite.), had managed to surrender a 5-2 lead in the top of the inning. With one out, his team down by a run, Ethan came to the plate. Thinking ahead, to maybe when Ezra is involved in some sort of athletic competition and I'm there watching nervously as all get out, I leaned over to the couple next to me and said, "I don't know if I can do this for another 15 years."

I still get flutters in my gut, my pulse quickens and I have to stand up. Then I sit down before standing up again. I usually holler out, "Let's go Ethan!" or something along those lines but don't say a whole lot. It doesn't take an MRI specialist to see I'm a wreck inside. It's kind of ridiculous really. But I reckon, as other parents can surely attest, I'm not alone feeling the way I do watching my kid play ball. Ethan got two strikes before whacking a ball over the first baseman's head into right field for a single. To say I was happy for him is a little like saying I kind of like kids. He did his job and that's pleasing. He's struggled plenty this summer, but he never got down on himself. He knows he can hit, just like I know he's a hitter. A couple of times during the day after he struck out or got out some other way I'd go down and talk to him through the cyclone fence in the dugout. He could tell me what didn't go right and why and we'd go over how to handle the situation next time. I'd tell him he can hit these guys and mostly he did; he went 4-for-9 with a triple, three singles, three runs scored and 4 RBI.

The next two guys behind Ethan walked and he ended up at third with one out, the bases loaded, his team still down by a run. When the third baseman saw Jacob Houston coming to the plate as the next batter, he blurted out, "Oh no." Well, not exactly those words, but you get the idea. Jacob "Freight Train" Houston pretty much had the run of the place all day, spraying balls all over the field. By a quirk of the schedule, the Gloucester team played all of its games on Field #3. Jacob spent so much time on the base paths at that field there was talk of naming them "Jacob Houston Way." With the infield playing in, the pitcher threw two straight balls and Jacob turned and looked at the dugout and smiled. It wasn't a fair fight. Jacob laced the next pitch between shortstop and the third baseman and Ethan trotted home with the run that tied the game. Right behind him was the guy on second, who scored easily when the ball squirted out of the charging left fielder's glove and headed toward the fence. Game over, Gloucester wins 7-6. Let's just say it was a nice 75-mile ride home.

Yorktown, Va.

2009-07-19T22:06:00.001-04:00

For your reading and viewing enjoyment, we have a historical and quite visual tour of Yorktown, Va., noted most notably for being the colonial port
where the ol' Brit Lord Cornwallis threw up the white flag at the hands of American and French forces in 1781. Julie and I were joined by Claire and MerriGrace for a little walkabout. We love Yorktown. As you can see it's quite a lovely little spot. Even the homes that have cannonballs stuck in the walls are pretty cool.

We found an old graveyard in town at Grace Colonial Church, or is it Colonial Grace Church? Either way, the church dates to the late 17th century and the graveyard out back of the church has a beautiful view of the York River. Not that the interred give a hoot. (Editor's note: Boy are you on a roll tonight. Author's reply: Hey, I laughed. That's all that matters.) I've included a couple shots of graves at the graveyard, including a photo of one dude's headstone who bought the plot, so to speak, in 1674 -- 1674! That's 335 years ago! That's a really, really long time ago!

Another photo is of the epitaph of William Nelson, whose son Thomas Nelson was a former Colonial Virginia governor, signer of the Declaration of Independence and all-around good chap. So good, in fact, a community college in Newport News was named after him. That's big-time. Thomas Nelson's home is the one up there with the cannonball stuck in the side of it from when the Americans shelled the town in the siege of 1781. Now just thinking out loud here, but I'd say a cannonball lodged in the bricks at your home is kind of an unusual exterior decoration, and not something you see every day. In fact, I don't remember one single house in my boyhood home of Bend, Ore., that had a cannonball stuck in the bricks. But maybe it was en vogue in Colonial Virginia. Perhaps a sign of distinction, as it were. As if to say that your house not only was so significant it was targeted for attack, but it also withstood the barrage in fine fashion. Who knows.

Julie is quite interested in finding out more about Nelson's wife, one Lucy Grymes. Lucy bore 11 children, which isn't too shabby. My hunch, and it's just a hunch, is that's what Julie finds among the more interesting things about Lucy. I was most impressed with the five children she cranked out from 1768 to 1773. She slacked off a little bit there after that, but managed to yield 11 children in 14 years. That's quite the pace. Especially back in the day.

And I'll say this for ol' Willie Nelson. That's some epitaph. I've had to rethink things because I just wanted mine to read: "Threw a no-hitter in Wiffle ball against Brenton in 2004." In light of reading William Nelson's epitaph, maybe something more, um, I don't know, more profound is more appropriate. I don't know about you, but reading the William Nelson gravestone leads me to think that they don't make epitaphs like they used to. Now to be perfectly honest, I'm not even sure what those words on the gravestone mean. But they sure sound good!

About That Test

2009-07-15T09:59:00.000-04:00

So for some reason Julie took a pregnancy test. I mean, come on. After 12 kids you would think she might know when she's with child. (Editor's note: Excuse me, but do you know where your car keys are right now? Author's reply: Um, no. Editor's note, part deux: You've had car keys every day for over 20 years. You would think you'd know where they are. Author's reply: What this has to do with being pregnant, I'm not sure. There's a point you're making here but for some reason I'm just not grasping it ... let me go look for my keys.)

So the test came out positive. I'm going to be a dad!

Tests

2009-07-13T21:57:00.000-04:00

Tests come in all shapes, sizes, forms and even people. Academic tests would qualify as tests. I remember once in my freshman year of high school our math teacher handed us all a test. I looked at it and was very puzzled. I didn't recognize anything. At first I thought maybe I had walked into the wrong class. Then I rememberd just a few moments earlier our teacher had taken roll call. My name was called. Either I was an imposter, or I had somehow managed to sit through class for several weeks without so much as learning a single thing. Unfortunately, it was the latter and not the former. So I got up, handed him the test and walked out of class. In that situation, I guess you could say I "failed" the test.

Sometimes a test will come in the form of a child. Say the kid disobeys you. Repeatedly. Then as you fetch your friendly wooden spoon out of the baking implements drawer, the aforementioned child -- who is very athletic -- runs up into his room and shuts the door and locks it. (Editor's note: Don't mention that Eli does those types of things. Author's reply: I won't. I wouldn't want to embarrass him.) In that situation, the test might be after not being able to find a key to the door, not losing your temper and taking a few steps back and crashing into the door, then through the door, like a crazed, steroid-fueled linebacker. That may not be the proper way to handle that test of a 4-year-old whose immature actions include fleeing the scene of his crimes and managing to make it upstairs to the safety of his room to avoid "facing the music." To handle the test, keep your cool. You are the adult after all.

Other tests come in the form of trusting God in financial situations. Or, um, let's see...oh! Here's a good one. Let's say, hypothetically speaking, God took you all the way across this great country to go to a school of ministry for a year. And before you left your good job, your comfortable home, your friends and everything else, you felt the Lord promise you that you'll get your job back when you get back home based on a portion of Scripture in II Kings about the Shunamite woman. But then in the course of that year the company you work for goes bankrupt. They start laying people off like crazy. They impose a hiring freeze. But you head back anyways after finishing the schooling, even though your job isn't guaranteed. You start to think you're crazy and that maybe you should be looking a little harder for a job (kind of a "Plan B" type of thing). But then on the drive home, let's say you're in Tennessee a day away from home, your boss calls and says congratulations it's Christmas and your birthday all in one because you're getting your job back. That situation, trusting the Lord when it seems by the world's standards that it's a pretty ridiculous thing to do, that's called a "test." Lord willing, you'll pass that test.

And then there's pregnancy tests. Let's say, hypothetically speaking, you've had 12 kids. And you're youngest is, oh, 15 months old. And you start to feel a little funny. You've been losing weight by dieting and exercising and then one day you're not losing weight anymore. And you just feel a little off. So you take a pregnancy test. How do you think that would turn out?

Dressed For Church!

2009-07-12T08:23:00.000-04:00

As you can see from the photo of the #11 Sabo, Ezra got into the dress up box. Big time. He asked if he could go to church like this. Um, no. Nice try, though. His older brothers, Ethan and Taylor, are always so horrified when the little guys get into the dress up box and come out looking something like this. Little do they know that they did the same thing.

I have to admit, he's a cute ballerina. And the necklace and pink shoes are really working for him. Our dress up box has quite a collection of gear due to years and years of donations. From Claire's ballerina outfits, to Spiderman costumes, to camo jackets and pirate costumes, there's clothes for every occasion in there.

Except for church. We'll just stick to the shirt and shorts he was wearing under the ballerina outfit. And we have some sandals he could wear to church that are a little less scandalous than the pink Barbie heels.

Guinea

2009-07-09T22:20:00.000-04:00

Down in the marsh grass in southeast Gloucester is the land of Guinea. It's hard to explain Guinea. It's just different. Many of the men who live down there still make a living plying the waters of Chesapeake Bay for blue crab, oysters and fish. It's a hard life and it takes a stubborn, hardworking man to make a go of it.

Legend goes that following the surrender of the British under Cornwallis at Yorktown in 1781, deserters from the vanquished foreign foe took up residence in the Guinea marshes. Today the Guineamen, who may or may not be descended from Revolutionary War losers, speak a distinct form of Southern English that must be experienced to appreciated. It usually involves the word, "Bubba." If I'm hearing it, my typical response is, "Um, could you say that again?"

I was down in Guinea today working on a story for the Daily Press and snapped a bunch of photos. You'll see a typical Guinea house (notice it's raised up; after Hurricane Isabel roared through in 2003, many of the houses got a lift to avoid getting flooded during the next go round), typical Guinea water views, a typical dead Guinea fish in a typical Guinea skiff and another view of a typical Guinea house hidden behind typical Guinea overgrown marsh grass with typical leaves that cut you like they were a saw, as a typical Guineawoman told me.

Guinea is a great, fascinating place peopled by fascinating people. I'm of a mind to spend more time down there. If I spend more time down there visiting with the locals and catching up on my Bubba-speak, maybe I'll even be able to hold a conversation with a real-life Guineaman.