Big Decisions, Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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