We are still missing our dog Hope, but it's getting a little better. I confronted my angst and went out to her favorite running fields by myself this morning. It wasn't so bad, really. I pictured her running through the tall grass the way she used to. She would run, gazelle-like, with her head appearing above the grass periodically. She was never a "proper" walker. She loved to stop and smell everywhere, and I always let her. When she was very young, she would follow me jogging for two miles. She wised up after a while. I won't forget the day I took her out running, and after about a quarter of a mile, she just sat down on the road, watching me run ahead. I finally stopped and turned to look at her. I could almost hear her words - "this is really silly, Dad - I'm not playing this game anymore."

Hope's death brought up several theological issues for my 4-year old. The first, of course, is "is she in Heaven with Jesus?" OK, I don't care what the Southern Baptist party line is, my answer is "of course she is, and she has all her legs and no cancer, and she's happy." If you, dear reader, want to tell her (or me) anything different, be my guest, but you had better be able to back it up :)

Another burning issue came up when my daughter decided to pray every day until God changes his mind and gives her back. "He'll understand - it was just a mistake." I had a fleeting thought related to the movie "Pet Semetary," but I let it pass.

My daughter is very compassionate, and she has really been good to her Mommy and Daddy these last few days. She brings us tissues and draws us pretty pictures when we get sad. Thank you, sweetheart.

No funnies or deep thoughts tonight. Just sadness mixed with relief. We had to have our family dog, Hope, put to rest. She had become so incapacitated it would have been cruel to let her live any longer. We will miss her, and always think of her fondly. It will be a long time before I can go to visit her favorite fields to run in.

Time to step out on a limb. The Lord gave me a vision the other night (or, as my friend u.t. likes to say, it might have been the pepperoni pizza before bed - only time will tell). Pro-life people like me are adamant in the belief that life begins at conception. This is fundamental to our belief in the sanctity of the unborn, and to our opposition to abortion.

In spite of our strong words, we live in and accommodate to a culture which measures the age of our children from the day of their birth, rather than from conception. By our actions, we are belying our beliefs, although it's probably unintentional for most of us - we just never thought about it.

I would like to propose a grass-roots revolution in the behavior of pro-life Christians. I suggest that we begin celebrating "Lifedays" instead of birthdays. We should estimate the day of conception and tell our children "this is the day God gave you life." After all, what are we really celebrating on a birthday? The day you kept your mother in terrible pain for hours on end, or were removed surgically from her womb?

We should acknowledge that our choice to celebrate Lifedays instead of birthdays will not be a legally binding change - yet. School records and legal documents will still use the cultural norm as their reference. But just think about the consequences of our testimony if we act on our beliefs. Eventually, there may be a culture shift of significant proportion, and it could be that as this idea sinks in, school systems and other governmental agencies might acquiesce, and even support the idea. The ultimate consequences would be to re-affirm the value of the unborn child in our society, to save the lives of the unborn, and to bring glory to God.

And I'll bet Hallmark will be tickled pink to have an entirely new type of card to sell :)

I've lost confidence in the ability of our weather forecasters to predict anything ahead of time (they are OK at telling you what happened after the fact - just ask anyone who used to live in New Orleans, if you can find them). Here's a verbatim statement from our taxpayer-funded meteorologists at weather.gov:

AT THIS TIME...WE ARE FAIRLY CONFIDENT THAT THERE WILL BE A SEVERE WEATHER EVENT SOMEWHERE ACROSS THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI VALLEY THROUGH THE DEEP SOUTH...ALTHOUGH OUR CONFIDENCE IN THE EXACT EVOLUTION OF THIS WEATHER SCENARIO IS NOT HIGH. UP THROUGH THIS EVENING...THE MAIN COMPUTER MODELS HAVE CONTINUED TO OFFER DIVERGENT SOLUTIONS IN THE MANY DETAILS THAT WILL MAKE A SIGNIFICANT DIFFERENCE IN WHAT HAPPENS...AS WELL AS THE EXACT TIME AND LOCATION.

Wow. Hey - I think any old geezer like me with arthritis could do better. It seems that as technology has advanced, the accuracy of weather forecasts has decreased. Apologies to anyone reading this (both of you) with friends who are in the weather business, but I have this image of a guy in Birmingham eating a greasy burger with french fries, watching re-runs of "Whose Line Is It Anyway," and flipping a coin while the completely divergent weather models run on the monitor behind him. Pat Dye (former Auburn football coach) has been quoted as saying "the trick to beating the other team is to score more points." I'm not sure how that fits in here, but I couldn't resist throwing it in. Anyway, the keen folks at weather.gov should re-program those fancy computers. All they have to do is look out the window and watch the birds. Here's a revised computer model:

Are birds dry?
Yes - IT'S NOT RAINING
No -
Are they white?
Yes - IT'S SNOWING
Are they covering their heads with their wings?
Yes - IT"S HAILING
Are they frantically digging for worms and acting weird?
Yes - HURRICANE COMING
Are they spinning around rapidly in circles?
Yes - TORNADO

Well, it's only a thought. I'm just upset because I spread fertilizer yesterday, trusting the forecast for two days of rain that hasn't happened yet. Now I have visions of my yard turning into a small dustbowl. But then I guess I can write my long-awaited novel, "Kudzu Flowers of Wrath."

The dog is curled up in her foam bed, lined with an orange, red, and green beach towel. The cat is fast asleep in the car seat we left in the front parlor, after my daughter's playdate. They are both noble creatures in their own ways. They don't fret about tomorrow. They don't ask for more than they have. They don't strive for undue recognition. They give love freely. They are happy to play, eat, and snuggle. What wonderful role models.

I have a friend I'll call Sam. Sam is one of the most interesting people to talk to. He has lots of amusing and interesting stories. He is well read, and very intelligent. He has taught college-level economics.

But Sam is beset with a whole lot of intertwined physical and mental problems. He's nearing 50, and just this past year both his mother and father died. He lived with them, and now lives alone in their house. He tries hard to stay alive. He has tried to commit suicide several times, but he doesn't really want to. It's just that there are no real solutions to his problems.

The state of mental health care is tragic. Some might say Americans have the best medical care in the world, but if so, it's sad for the world. Try being so chronically ill you can't work, having only a handful of people who even acknowledge your existence, much less advocate for you, and then try to thread your way through the incredibly complex medical and mental health systems. Sam has at least 7 doctors, psychiatrists, and psychologists to deal with, as well as attorneys and financial advisors. Sometimes he makes good decisions, sometimes not so good, just like me.

Some people have said to me "you're so good to be a friend to Sam." That's not right at all. I'm not his friend out of duty or pity - I really care for him, and it's mutual. I'm not a substitute for his parents, his doctors, or his lawyers. I just love him, and I pray that God will sustain him and comfort him, and even restore him completely. He has just learned that he has been accepted for a relatively new type of treatment for chronic depression- the vagus nerve stimulator implant. I hope it works.

I liked the music from "The Corpse Bride" so much I bought the company. No, actually, I bought the sheet music for "Victor's Solo." It's a beautiful, haunting (duh..) short piece, vaguely reminiscent of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" in the beginning. I played it several times through, and I realized it's not very sophisticated, but it sure is pretty.

Our orchestra director at church is in his early 30's. His knee "tricked out" on him, so we had a short conversation about age and body mechanics. I told him when I was in my 20's, my body was my best friend. It would do anything I wanted without complaining. In my 30's, we developed a "mutual understanding." I didn't try to push to hard, and it would let me get away with a few foolhardy activities. In my early 40's, this changed to more of a stand-offish relationship.

Body: "Look, I've been trying to explain. You just can't do some of those things. I'm fragile - you know, mortal."
Me: Yeah, I know, but can't we at least talk about this a little?
Body: We already covered the main points. There's not much to discuss.
Me: But we used to be so close...
Body: Topic closed. Next....

In my late 40's, after various medical procedures including back surgery...
Me: Hey, let's go running or dig up the yard, or something fun.
Body: Ha Ha Ha. Ha Ha Ha. Ahem. No.
Me: I've got to do something to burn off steam.
Body: OK - go for a walk, but make sure it's on level ground, and dress warmly.

Can't wait for the next decade...

My daughter went to sleep fairly easily tonight. She said she would try to stay in her own bed. I told her if she did, I would let her print all she wanted tomorrow for free. (She loves to print coloring pages from PBS Kids, but she has to earn "printer points" by reading.) She said "I can't do that - we'll run out of ink." I said, "honey, if you sleep in your own bed, I'll buy barrels of ink and truckloads of paper. " Then I said, "and I'll dress up like any character you choose." Whoops. She looked at me gleefully and said one dreadful word- "BARBIE!" I swallowed hard and said, "yes, if you sleep in your bed, I'll dress up like Barbie." So if you, dear reader, happen to see me in this condition, I hope you will understand. As for me, I'm really looking forward to hearing the pitter-patter of those little feet tramping into the bedroom in the wee hours. But don't tell my wife.

Thanks to my friend, U. T., for the comment on my previous post. He knows what I'm talking about. His office hours look like the floor of the NY stock exchange. He's a good, enthusiastic teacher and a really smart fellow. He's a good musician, too.

I was diagnosed with influenza today, but I'm suspicious. I had searing, burning pain in my lungs, but no fever or upper respiratory symptoms. A blood test was performed. In response to my inquiry, the physician said the blood test didn't show bacterial involvement, and based on a pattern he had been seeing, that suggested early onset of flu. He said he couldn't perform a specific flu test unless I was further along with symptoms. I was prescribed Tamiflu and Lortab (for the aches and pains that were sure to ensue).

Here's the intriguing part. The clinic I went to adjoins a drugstore. I'm told the drugstore owner is the wife of a physician at the clinic. Presumably Tamiflu does no obvious harm to a patient who does not have flu. Just suppose I don't have flu, but allergy-induced bronchitis. I'll get over it soon enough, I might credit the Tamiflu with "curing" me, and the drugstore makes a sale of a very expensive (and profitable) drug. Hmmm.

I've just spent several hours trying to correct mistakes in my tax returns made by major bugs in TurboTax. Next year, it's back to pen and paper. For years I filed forms I prepared myself in about 20 minutes. I've never spent less than 2 hours with TurboTax, and I now have very little confidence in it. The only advantage I ever saw in it was e-filing and automatically transferring last years' data, but it's not worth the hassle.

We watched Tim Burton's "The Corpse Bride" tonight. Very funny and clever. The skeleton dog stole the show for my 4-year old.

I get lots of positive comments and high marks from my students on teaching evaluations. That's good. I was recently told by my boss that I am not publishing enough, and more seriously, I'm not bringing in enough contract research. That's bad. Now, in case you don't know how the system works at a research university, here's a primer.

Professor have idea. Professor spend long hours writing proposal, only to find out halfway through that other professor has commercialized the same idea and started company to make product. Professor start over. Finally professor submit proposal. After many moons, professor get rejection letter with nasty comments from impartial reviewers. Professor start over. After several years, professor get pittance of funding. University skims 1/3 for overhead. While conducting research, funding agency cut budget. Research finished on shoestring. Graduate students go hungry. Professor go hungry. Professor submit results for publication. Paper rejected with nasty comments from impartial reviewers. Paper re-submitted. After several years, paper published. Repeat entire process.

The key thing here is the 1/3 skimmed for overhead. This is money that goes into the budget of the administrators, which is their lifeblood. Don't get me wrong. Administrators are not bad. The funding process is not inherently bad. But the system has been perverted when the pressure to generate research funds far outweighs the need to teach well. I fear this is happening where I work, as well as at many other universities.

There is a way to bring a balance back. A discipline-specific universal college graduation exam should be put into place by which the amount of learning achieved can be measured quantitatively. Publicly ranking colleges by this metric will force administrators and teachers to put teaching back on par with research grants. If I were a parent about to send my child to college, I know which one I would care about the most.

Now, back to the proposal...

I carried a screaming, kicking 4-year old out of the bookstore last night. She couldn't choose which coloring book she wanted, so she held on to as many as she could - which was two.
"Choose one."
"I want them both."
"Make a decision, sweetheart"
"I did - I want them both."
"I meant, make a decision that I like."
"I don't like your decision. I want them both."
"One more chance, then we're leaving with NO books."
"I'll scream really loud."
"You won't be the first 4-year old who left a store screaming."
Halfway home, still kicking and screaming, she said,
"I made a decision, go back."
"Too late"
"But I made a DECISION"
"Just out of curiosity, what was it?"
"I WANT THEM BOTH!!!"
About 30 minutes after arriving home, the decibel level decreased to slightly less than the inside of a jet engine during take-off.

A little later, she drew a beautiful picture for me.

Yeah! She's back! We survived the long weekend without Mom, thereby proving that you can keep a 4-year old alive and fairly happy for at least 4 days on chocolate chip cookies and vienna sausages. Tammy had a busy, exhausting weekend, but came back in good shape and high spirits. She had to climb over a wall into a locked storeroom at one point to get sugar- I'm so proud of her. I knew that survival training would come in handy sometime. It's amazing how quickly she got things back to normal in our house. I wish I could see inside her mind sometimes. I have a theory that the male and female brain are different (oops - now I'm going to get fired from my job as president of an ivy league school). Men are OK at pursuing things single-mindedly, but women seeme to be adept at multi-tasking. Is this a new observation? I don't think so. I do laundry, wash dishes, and the other household chores, but not really the same way. I operate in survival mode, sort of like triage. Girl stuff in pile A. Boy stuff in pile B. Dog stuff...um..fend for yourself. You're a dog, instinct should take over at some point. But Tammy, without even trying hard, has everything in order AND smelling good. That's impressive and amazing to me. But that's not why I love her so much. It's hard to put into words, but anyone who knows her understands. She has a way of drawing the best out of everyone around her, without putting on airs. She really is a lamp on a hill.

Tammy leaves tomorrow for Tres Dias (Spanish for "Three Days"). This time, she's working in the kitchen. As a candidate (first time), it's a great opportunity to retreat from the world and get close to the Lord. As a worker, it's an opportunity to serve others and to be a blessing to new candidates who are experiencing that closeness for the first time. It's also a marvelous opportunity for Dads to get close to their kids. Really close. 24/7. I'm not worried about it - we've done this before, once. We didn't burn the house down (we spilled juice on all the matches, and besides all the flammable substances were covered in some kind of weird goo - bubble soap, I think.) No one went to the hospital, though the insane asylum was looking like a pretty cozy alternative by Sunday afternoon. The dog was reverting to feral behavior, trying to bury her food in the carpet (her futile scratching was as close as it came to getting vacuumed). She finally gave up and just hunkered down in the corner, glowering, with a little slobber dribbling down her chin. No wait, that was my daughter... When Children's Services came (anonymous tip from the neighbors - they go so overboard about screaming, especially when it ends in gurgles and pitiful wailing), I explained the loose bricks barricading the kitchen as "an experiment" in pizza cooking. But the truck axle across the bedroom door was a bit trickier.

All kidding aside, I'm looking forward to spending lots of "quality time" (see first post) with my daughter, and to hearing about the wonderful things God has in store for my wife.

We'll only be blowing bubbles outside this time.