Staff Retreat at Tahoe, March 18-22

After an epic Sabbath involving St. Patrick's Day festivities and my young adults taking over the church service, I was all too happy to hit the road again.  This time, I had a traveling companion--the other associate pastor, Gary Smith, and instead of the 5, we took the scenic Route 395.

I had never driven Route 395 myself before, and it was worth the trip.  It dazzled me with scenery of such intense beauty, from the starkness of naked desert land against the purple sky to the warmth of Red Rock Canyon to forests, frosted with snow.  There are few towns on that highway, and it felt good to be away from the relentless bustle of LA to behold the lovely beauty of sparsely-populated nature.  Gary's company made it even more fun.

Our senior pastor, Donald Smith, arrived at the time share in Tahoe shortly after us.  Together, the three of us shopped for food for the week.  Being native to the kitchen (thanks to Camp Wawona), I took a leadership role with this.  We dined together, then Gary and I lost spectacularly at pool to two young men from the Bay Area.  Knowing better than to continue to challenge such pool virtuosos, we retreated to the room, where the three of us played Upwords, a modified form of Scrabble, before settling down for the night. 

The gentlemen were kind enough to give me the bed, shuttered from the rest of the place, while they chivalrously took the floor of the time share's living room.  As their chatter fell into silence and peace descended on the room, I reflected on how glad I was of it.  I really, really needed solitude and the ability to defrag after such an epic weekend, and to prepare for the weekend to come.

After a good breakfast together, we recapped the service and discussed small group matters at length.  In the afternoon, we walked through the snow to the movie theater at the Horizon to see One Thousand Words. 

There were only two people staffing the whole theater.  Our movie started 20 minutes late because they were cleaning up a popcorn emergency in Concessions.  I didn't know it was possible to staff a movie theater with just two people, and I admired the courage it took them to do it.  The film itself, after all that craziness, was really good.  Although it was a formulaic anti-workaholism morality tale, I liked how it approached the issue from such a different angle.  It was all about finding peace and learning to communicate in ways that are more important than words.

A thousand words.  I would be dead already, just from writing this email, if I were Eddie Murphy.

The following day, we really delved into the conceptual work of the small group series, then went to see The Lorax, which I loved even more on the second viewing than on the first.  The first time I saw it was with my buddy Hillary after a very, very long Sabbath, and the last song in it made me cry, it was so good.  Or maybe I was just tired. But I have been ridiculously obsessed with that song ("Let It Grow") ever since.

The last full day of our retread, we put together all of those ideas into a beautiful whole.  The outline of the series emerged, and I began to feel some excitement about it.  We also cleared the air on some frustrations from the last series, which was needed to build team unity.  I suffered a good deal during the first small group series  because we didn't do this kind of prep work on it, and I write the curriculum.  I go into this one excited and prepared.

For our last movie of the retreat, we saw John Carter, which was so sumptuous, it made me want to read the book it's based on.  Later, I would get a chance to see a number of its props and costumes on display at the El Capitan Theater, but even on this first viewing in a far humbler theater, I was struck by what a good film it is.  It seems a shame that it was marketed so badly.  Would it have killed them to mention that it was based on a book by Edgar Rice Burroughs, who also wrote Tarzan?  Or that it had really good-looking people, great effects, and a compelling story in it? 

After the movie, Don and I took a walk in the sunlit day.  I really appreciated it because of how rarely I get some quality fresh air, sunshine, and exercise back at home.  It was also a good chat.

I made taco salad for dinner--no easy feat with the equipment at hand--and the guys seemed to like it. 

After a final worship together the next day, Gary and I took off towards home.  The landscapes on the 395 had changed; instead of the pure, crystalline snow there was earth and land exposed.  Heading towards Mojave, we almost run out of gas, but fortunately found a tiny station with one pump just after Red Rock. 

Once I had bid Gary good-bye, I tried to treat the rest of the evening as a night off.  I needed to store up my energy, because I was preaching that weekend.  The day after the retreat, I was preparing the most difficult sermon of my life thus far.  It was called "Journey On," and I forced myself to relive the days surrounding my brother's death over and over again in practice, weeping in the sanctuary of my church, until the telling had cleansed my grief. 

In some ways, even though this was the most difficult sermon I've ever preached, something about it makes me really feel like I can journey on myself.  It's been eight years since Justin died, and I've never had the courage to talk about the whole experience publicly in the US before.  Getting it out there and really processing it like that finally helped me to understand what the peace Justin was talking about the night before he died was all about. 

It's a beautiful dance between the hereafter and the hear-and-now.  It's preparing for eternity while enjoying the present.  It's loving the people with you right now while loving the Savior you'll see later.  It's accepting the light of grace for the future while trying to live a grace-filled life now.  No easy task, no strict science, but a wonderful art.

I hope you come to know that peace.  I am still working on it myself, but I'm learning more about it day by day.

A Little PUC Visit

It shocks an appalls me to realize that I haven't written to you since February, and that I am not one, not two, but THREE episodes behind. I apologize. I have been a terrible correspondent of late, and unless I set my priorities to stay in touch early in life, it will not happen as I get older and life REALLY gets crazy.

And it was partly because of life's inherent craziness that I decided to visit the PUC campus in February. Actually, I had a large variety of reasons, and I had been meaning to visit for months. What finally forced me to get around to doing it was a silly promise I made to my friend Diane in January about visiting for Mardi Gras, even though Mardi Gras isn't a terribly important holiday to either of us. Silly or not, I keep promises when I make them, so I stuck to my word and made the long trek across Highway 5 to the Napa Valley.

On that trip, I was shocked to have to pay $4.20 a gallon for gas. Oh, how I miss those days!

There was something cozily familiar about rushing to the caf to get to my 5:00 pm appointment with a church member. I sat in a booth, reading Les Miserables on my iPod, stirring occasionally as someone recognized me, or I recognized them. I was pleasantly surprised to run into my former room mate, Rae, who seems to be doing well. Of the nine room mates I had in my college experience, she was one of the better ones.

My appointment never showed up, and my friends ambushed me instead. With great interest, I listened to the details of their lives over the last few months. Some had experienced great joy; others, intensely difficult, painful life transitions. What was weird about it all was that even though we were catching up, it felt like I had never left. I even went to the library right afterwards, as used to be my habit, and curled up on what used to be my favorite couch (although it's in a different place now) with a book I'd been dying to get my hands on for some time.

What was this book? Walter Rea's The White Lie. Although I'd had a passing academic curiosity about it for some time, my interest in it grew when I figured out that my church, Alhambra, was the last post Pastor Rea held as the book was being published and the controversy over it arose. I'd been familiar with its basic premise for some years, but I never expected the actual tone of the book to be so passionate and punchy, like a verbal assault. I forced myself to keep reading, but it was truly a breath of fresh air to leave the library and visit my friends once more.

We celebrated each other's company into the night, laughing merrily as the power went out and we had to use flash lights to see. It was past midnight when I stumbled through the dark mist of the unlit campus back to my car to spend the night at my Aunt Cheryl's house in Napa.

When I returned to the campus in the morning, I was delighted that the first face I saw at PUC was that of my mentor, Professor Widmer. We met up later in the morning to catch up and to get some advice on various matters. While I was in the Religion Department to talk to him, I was overjoyed to run into Dr. Sheldon, and visit with her as well. I loved all my teachers at PUC, but those two stuck out more for me than others for some reason. I joined the Pastoral Ministry class, and tried to comfort my former classmates as they faced the massively dreaded conference interviews the following week.

I spent a good chunk of the afternoon continuing my research on Walter Rea. I looked through his papers in the Heritage Room, and asked questions of my librarian friends. It really helped me get a better picture of what the Adventist church looked like at that time. I had taken for granted that everyone has access to almost all of Ellen White's writings nowadays. It's weird to think of large chunks of her work being restricted and kept out of sight. No wonder so many people from that generation grew to resent her; they were not getting a well-rounded portrait of who she was. Just a caricature.

A good deal of the counsel I received from different corners of the campus also had to do with my book. I hate to admit it, but I've been pretty stalled on publishing arrangements for it. I guess I got discouraged. Whether or not it ever gets published, I still believe the creation of the book was an inherently useful act, as the ideas in it can always be used in a different way later on. It still forced me to engage with themes I deal with as a pastor all the time now. Still, I'd like to see it published.

I spent a delightful evening meeting with the other members of the board of a fledgling non-profit, Message of Grace Media. In this meeting, it felt like we finally figured out what we were really all about, and actually got things done. I also really, really enjoy their company. I don't know if Christian Edition has anything to do with this, but I've always sensed that there's a need for a community not comprised of people you work with to which you contribute your time and creativity. Message of Grace Media fills that need for me. It has almost nothing to do with my regular pastoral work, and for that, I find it utterly refreshing.

After that, I stayed up dangerously late with my buddies in Winning, playing drinking games using soda and generally getting in the girl time we all needed. I stayed past midnight to wish them a happy Mardi Gras, then reluctantly drove off the campus, wondering when I'd get a chance to visit them again. I slept like a rock at my aunt's house, and took the time to visit my great grandmother in Yountville before starting the long trek home. While I was at PUC, I took Sabbath afternoon lunches with Grandma Anabel for granted, and now I treasure each one. Like my visits up to PUC, I don't know when the next one will be.

The trip was short, but so intense and squeezed between so much activity, that it made me sick. I had a terrible fever the day after, but I went to work anyway. Even though my body was right to tell me to slow down, I did not regret the trip. I will always treasure the memory of that little jaunt up to PUC. In some ways, I feel like I did college too fast and entered the professional world too soon; for those few short days, I actually felt okay with being my own age.

Thank you for being patient with me at whatever age you met me. I wish you the very best, and hope you have had a happy Easter.

Happy Valentine's Day from Seattle!

Yes, it's Valentine's Day and I'm in Seattle, writing from a hotel room only a few blocks away from the legendary Space Needle.

I embarked on this crazy adventure on Sunday after recovering from a crazy breakfast-for-dinner Pajama Party the night before. Before boarding the plane in Burbank, I followed the suggestion of one of my young adults and bought myself some Zebra Popcornopolis popcorn and discovered that it was indeed as delicious as I thought it would be. My flight to Oakland passed pleasantly uneventfully, and once I landed there, I procured some Fenton's ice cream just so that I could photograph it, thereby proving to my young adults that it is a real place, not someplace Pixar made up for the hit movie, Up.

As I was enjoying said ice cream, I looked up and spotted a smattering of much-missed PUC-Ites--Jessica, Geoffrey, Cameron, and the new chaplain, Laffit Cortes. I was delighted to see them, and laughed with them at the crazy coincidence that we had wound up on the same flight. They were lucky to get on that flight, as it was oversold, but they made it. Arriving at Sea-Tac, I took the city's amazing public transportation system to the center of the city, meeting a very nice couple recently returned from Indonesia along the way. I was pleasantly surprised when I got to my cheapo hotel on Sixth Avenue and discovered that the bed is comfy and unlike the naysayers on hostelworld.com, it does actually have hot water.

Once I had checked in, I walked over to the Westin to check out the space we would all be meeting in for our gathering, the One Project, and to see who I would bump into in the lobby. I wasn't disappointed; one of my former youth from Yountville, Gilbert, totally took me by surprise and we spent a good time catching up on each other's lives from the past few years.

Because I wasn't staying at the fancy-pants Westin, which provided breakfast, I scoped out the McDonald's between the two on the way. I had the surreal experience of eating oatmeal with a spiny-looking fish staring me down. That was surreal. Over at the Westin, I also had the pleasantly surreal experience of meeting one of the acquisitions editors for the Review and Herald, which reminded me that not all hope is lost on getting that book of mine published.

Then began the first batch of One Project meetings. They were very clear about it being a gathering, not a conference or a symposium. The room's arrangement reflected that--instead of straight rows of chairs, there was a platform in the center of the room with tables all around it. The people at these tables also reflected an incredible cross section of the Adventist church--men, women, high school students, college students, pastors, random GC officials, publishing house representatives, writers, church members of all professions, of all races assembled in the name of Jesus.

The music chosen for the gathering pulled from the experience of this diverse group--both hymns and contemporary music were represented there. The first day's meetings took different focal points in Adventist history--1844, 1888, and 1957--and applied the lessons learned about how the church handled Jesus' legacy to the here and now. Each speech was followed by a half hour discussion period, which gave everyone a chance to explore these ideas and discuss the messiness of their applications.

To my surprise, half the people at my table were from cities less than half an hour away from my church in Southern California. So, I enjoyed lunching with them at Il Fornaio as a sort of celebration of the start of what looks like some beautiful friendships. It's a strange world when you travel 1,000 miles to meet people who live less than 50 away.

After the afternoon batch of meetings, one of my PUC friends and I headed over to explore Pike Place. We probably spent over an hour there, exploring the fruit stands and a vintage print shop, and, of course, taking a look at the original Starbucks. Stopping at the Westin to pick up my belongings, I found out that he had been there earlier in the day already--and hadn't said a word about it the whole time! I teased him about it, and he said, "Well, I wanted to give you a chance to tell the story." I'm not sure I would have been that gracious a traveling companion. Over dinner at a great Indian restaurant, we swapped stories about PUC and about ministry, which was the sort of camaraderie I've been missing since my schedule started isolating me from non-work people for the last few months.

Later that night, my colleages and I met at the Westin to work on planning the Pheron Retreat, a Young Adult retreat the weekend of March 30-April 1. After getting the big blocks away, though, we fell to talking. The conversation fascinated me, as it exhibited an honest authenticity that we rarely achieve back at home in the context of the various rooms in the conference office where we meet. We probably shot the breeze for an hour or more after we had finished the business of the meeting itself.

This morning, the discussions on doctrine and mission really moved me. One of the emerging themes of this whole event has been of trying to embrace Adventism as it describes God, rather than as it distinguishes it from other religions. This concept, as far as I'm concerned, is the hope of the church's survival--being Adventist for the sake of being Adventist leads to isolation, while being Adventist for the sake of highlighting various aspects of God's character will keep it in a state of beautiful, dynamic, loving service to the world around it. Just like Christ would. Food for thought, at least.

Speaking of food, over the lunch break a group of PUC-Ites and I made the obligatory walk out to the Space Needle and the Experience Music Project, laughing and chattering as we went. On our way back from lunch in Pioneer Square (at least, I think that's what it was), we were puzzling over a crazy-looking place called the Wexley School for Girls. Amused by our bewilderment, one of the men inside invited us in to have a look around; it's a marketing agency. But I've never seen an office like this. Their meeting room has a white grand piano converted to a table as its centerpiece. Their main office floor is a mini-golf course, with workstations next to each hole. One of the executive offices is a lifeguard tower. On one wall, there are framed, voided checks. I asked the man what that was all about. He said, "At the end of their first three months working here, we offer everyone $3,000 that they can take and leave, no questions asked. If they decide to stay, we void that check and frame it to remind everyone what they gave up to be here."

That amazed me. These voided checks framed a beautifully-painted mission statement: "We are brave crusaders. We are wildly successful and selfless with a fanatical commitment to our work and to each other." As my friends and I walked out of there, we reflected that perhaps we had learned more about good ministry and Christian community from this random encounter than from all of our meetings, as good as they were.

The gathering concluded with an impassioned speech on Christian community and with communion. I don't know why, but I got really emotional about this particular communion. Perhaps it was the collective experience of the two days, or the hope of seeing a movement within the Adventist church that is offering a focal point that leads to beautiful unity rather than eating each other alive, or a personal reaction to being reminded of the love of Jesus, who is always with me, but it was powerful.

Tomorrow, as soon as I get off the plane, I'm going back to work. But I will return refreshed by a greater hope and love than I could have possibly encountered in the routine ways I have come to spend my weekday life, even my days off. Sure, I'm spending Valentine's Day single and alone in a city far away from home, but in many ways, this is one of the best Valentine's Days I've ever had, if not the best.

I wish you all a Happy Valentine's Day, full of the love of Christ.

Two Two-Day Adventures

Once upon a time, I was a good little blogger who actually wrote to you about one adventure before embarking on the next one. In the spirit of those good old days, I am condensing the last two before I go to Seattle next week.

Sore from karate and Sabbath morning's working demands, I took off in my car on the 14th of January, unwinding to the apostle Paul's monotonous voice on my audio Bible. City gave way gradually to mountains, then to desert, where the clear blue sky meets the dusty earth. I had been irate about the regional pastor's retreat I was headed to because I felt like my friends in teaching needed it far more. However, it did me great good to see my colleagues that evening at the Doral Princess Resort in Cathedral City as we roasted our beloved Regional Director, Gerard Kiemeney, on his 60th birthday.

On Sunday, I found myself growing more comfortable with a few of my colleages that I don't see as often--Mitch Williams from Downey, the Paschals, the Fredericos, and others. There were twelve or more of us all crowding up a local Indian restaurant after the morning batch of meetings by Dr. Arlene Taylor. I have waxed poetic about this woman's work in a previous letter, and I've got to say, the review was incredibly helpful and refreshing. Back at the hotel, I swam with some of the families with young children as I watched the sun set, a magnificent purple tapestry.

After the evening meeting, I felt compelled to go to the prayer room Miriam (one of only two other female pastors working in our region) had set up. There were many stations, including a self-portrait in clay, communion, artwork, and various others. It was the clay station that got me the most, though. I found myself spending a long time at it, breaking the clay into tiny, tiny little pieces. So much of the last few months has been about brokenness. Then, slowly, I started to put them together, constantly having to go back and reattach different little pieces, until it was a beautiful mosaic of a flower. God can take my brokenness, I believe, and make me into something more beautiful and whole than I was before, if I let Him.

I returned to the room, a little more at peace than I had been before, and gleefully indulged in girl talk with my room mate--one of the young adults from my church. The next day, I spent a delightful time with my relatives out in Desert Hot Springs. It was so good to see Grandma, so sweet to spend time with my cousins. I played Mario-Kart with them in their room , and they were very gentlemanly about my lack of skills. There was a cheerful, teasing fun to the whole thing and it made me wish I could make it out to the desert to visit them, my aunt and uncle and my grandmother more often.

A mere three days later, I was on the road again. Or rather, in the air--Thursday of that week, my father and I took off for the Ralph Carmichael concert we'd been preparing for since before Christmas. Landing in Oakland felt like coming home, and it was surreal to have to rent a car out of there. We made good enough time, though, that we were able to have lunch with my great grandmother in Yountville before attending to concert business. Even though she would be there for the concert, the meal actually gave us time to talk, which we relished.

Arriving at the Napa Community Church for sound check, I was immediately impressed at the band's setup for the concert. I could tell it was going to be an incredible night. The choir was a motley mix of singers from the Napa church choir, people associated with Pleasant Hill, and singers from Christian Edition. The charts we sang were lively and rhythmically challenging. The real star, though, was the band--we could feel the floor beneath us vibrate from the great sound of the brass.

Between sound check and the concert itself, though, I was glad to greet and give well-wishes to Jim Pederson, for whose birthday the concert was organized. It was a joy to see both him and his family, and as I was greeting his daughter Lisa, I couldn't help but think about how fast time has gone. It seems like just yesterday Lisa was in high school, I was in Junior High, and Jim was the Napa pastor. Now, Lisa is out of school and married, I'm a pastor, and Jim is a conference president. In the fellowship hall where we were all feasting on Jim's scrumptious soup and Debbie's delicious desert, it was also strange to think that I'd been a youth pastor there only a year and a half ago, and so much had changed.

When it came time for the actual concert, it was as though time had been suspended. Did it last two minutes or two hours? The music was so rich, so energetic yet divine, that instead of it having timelessness, it was a music of timefulness. It was full of Ralph's collected life experience, full of the many different instruments lent to that singular purpose, full of the affection of the many attendees who had come to spend a good evening together, full of the Biblical and the film narratives that weave throughout Carmichael's work.

Later in the evening, I would enjoy the company of my mentors--Marvin Wray, Jim Lorenz, Roy Ice. At four the next morning, my father and I would be frantically heading towards the airport to get to work as dawn would cross the Los Angeles sky. Twenty four hours later, I would be holed up in my office, desperately trying to finish writing small group materials on the eve of our church's small group launch. Forty eight hours later, I would be crashing at home after the effort it had all cost.

But for that evening, while the band was playing, none of that mattered. The advice I needed from my mentors did not matter. The airport did not matter. The small groups materials did not matter. My own physical and mental limitations did not matter, because for a rare, beautiful moment of timefulness, all of us in the room were made one through the power of great music.

Two adventure of two days each--or rather, two nights. Two birthdays. One adventure about the hopeful future, and another about the joyous past. May you also be able to celebrate them both.

Christmas in Napa, December 17-27

Yes, I am aware that I am more or less a month late in writing about this. I apologize for how long it's been--I care about each of you deeply, even if I have not had much time to write.

After my father and I got to sing in a rousing Christmas cantata at my church, my family packed its bags and drove into the night, only to arrive at my aunt's house in Napa at four in the morning the next day. After a few hours of sleep, we took off towards Oakland to usher for the Calfornia Christmas Revels.

Arriving at the edge of Lake Merrit felt like home. Embracing old friends, standing once more in the Scottish Rite Theatre--it was all so wonderfully familiar, and filled a deep soul need. Seeing the eccentric dress of the Bay Area theatregoers, hearing the brass fanfare, the smell of the must--all of it was a "Welcome Home." I was eager to catch up with the Pleasant Hill students I missed, but I did manage to watch the show. My friend Janet was radiant in a glittering emerald green gown. She did not recognize me until we passed during Lord of the Dance second show, and her surprised joy was delightful to see. The show itself was tightly constructed, woven around the story of Sir Gawain and the green Knight. It did great good to hear the familiar music and to see the faces of the Revels cast.

Monday, we ventured to Walnut Creek to do some last-minute shopping and to get our hair cut. Salon Indulge, where our friend Sabrina Brinley works, is full of comforting textures and smells. Catching up with her was half the joy of it; getting my hair cut was just a plus. It's not that I'm too lazy to find a place to get my hair cut near where I live, although that's a part of it; there's just a certain joy to having a friend, rather than a disinterested stranger, wave scissors over your head.

To use up some time share points, my parents and I spent two nights in Tahoe. This was a time to catch up on sleep by the cozy fire, to pity the Hawaiian stranger who had come all the way to California to be greeted with absolutely no snow. Halfway through our visit, we took a drive around the lake and went to see Hugo, an incredible film. I hope it will reawaken interest in many of the old silent films it quotes; there is something glorious about seeing them on a big screen.

We took our time getting out of Tahoe, stopping at gift stores and a vegetarian restaurant named Sprouts. Along our way, we stopped also in Placerville, and put red poinsettias on Justin and Grandpa Leonard's graves. I wanted to put movie popcorn on Justin's grave, also, to honor his movie-loving memory, but Mom thought it would be in poor taste. I had not been there in a while, and I noticed that the granite is already starting to distort with time.

In the evening, my father and I went to Pizzeria Travigne in St. Helena to visit a pair of old friends of his. The food was incredible, and the conversation both fascinated me and taught me a good deal I could apply another venture I've been participating in of late: a new media ministry. Listening to these media veterans tell their stories was inspiring, challenging in the greater scope of what it takes to do well at it, and incredibly interesting.

The next day, we drove up valley, where we indulged in Giugni's sandwiches, the rich flavors stirring up intoxicating memories of last year. We drove to the castle near Calistoga, which was decorated with wreaths for various charities. The cellar's gift shop was full of rich textures and scents, from citrus to must. From there, we continued back to Walnut Creek for the annual (and, sadly, most likely the last) Christmas caroling party at the house of our dear friends, the McMillans.

I sat down next to my father at the piano and bravely sight-read a good many complex 14th-century Christmas carols before I bowed out to talk with my friend--no, sister--Caroline. Although this has been a holiday ritual for many years now, there was a special sense both of basking in the presence of beloved friends and of sadness in the knowledge that we were all parting ways--geographically, at least. The man who had played merlin at Revels did some amazing close-up sleight of hand for all of us, weaving his tricks with wonderful stories. He closed with a speech on the nature of mystery and deception and the humility that stage magic gives you about these things. A mystery: life tends to rhyme with itself, even if it never fully repeats. Will my friends and I ever live near to each other again? Will we ever sing those crazy-hard Christmas carols in their living room again? A decade of my life has called their house another home to me. As we have moved to LA, and they to Los Alamos, I can only hope we continue to strengthen that long-reaching friendship.

The morning of Christmas Eve, the whole family attended Napa Community Church's Christmas program. It was good to see two of my mentors there--Marvin Wray and Roy Ice, and to hear Gary Piner's orchestra. The music Gary chose had excellent emotional depth to it. It was equally refreshing not to be concerned with taking copious notes on the service. Lisa's tree in the foyer sparkled with purple and gold--a sight well worth seeing. The whole family enjoyed a good lunch at Compadre's, laughing and talking. The real party was yet to come, though.

After sundown, the party was massive. Everyone was there. I can't remember the last time I'd seen everyone from the extended family assembled in one room. Lisa had transformed her garage into a dining room glittering with decorations and shining with candles. The meal included the best of everyone's culinary delights--Amy's bread, Doreen's soup, various exotic cheeses, Christmas punch, and Grandma Anabel's almond bark. The "As Seen on TV" exchange was a real hoot. People actually got into stealing items this time, and there were enough of us to create an element of surprise.

As the evening wore on, I enjoyed watching my cousin Sam gazing at a fish lamp his mother had won in the exchange. It's nice to know that even though he's growing fast, he's still got a sense of child-like wonder.

On Christmas morning, my "adopted younger brother" called us all the way from the Philippines. He did not have much time to talk, but it was good to hear his voice. Christmas brunch was a glorious array of fritata, biscuits, and coffee. We barely had a chance to digest that before it was time for Christmas dinner at my great grandmother's place in Yountville. And what a feast! Walla-walla loaf, potatoes, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, pumpkin pie, and Martinelli's--it was like Thanksgiving for Christmas. We retired to upstairs, where we all indulged in lazy conversation as my parents and I worked on a puzzle. Several hours later, when the puzzle was finally finished, we scoped out the lights in Napa, soaking in the last of the festively glittering Christmas cheer.

I spent the day after Christmas visiting friends in Angwin. Something about Silverado Trail and Sanitarium Road seems to welcome me every time I drive them. Even though I returned to campus no longer a student, I felt like I belonged there. Just like the sense of homecoming I experienced in Oakland, I felt like I was at home in that misty forest high above the Napa Valley.

Our last appointment of the trip was a rehearsal for a magnificent concert--which will be the subject of another episode of Jillian's Journeys sometime soon. All in all, the trip did my soul great good, and I was glad to see so very many of you on it. I'm learning to love LA again--after all, I was born here--but I will always have a piece of my heart that belongs to the Bay Area and the Napa Valley.

So, a month late, I wish you all the goodwill of a Merry Christmas. After all, what silly rule says we can only celebrate the birth of a Savior--and the love He represents--one day of the year?

Thanksgiving in Yosemite, Nov. 22-25

After working diligently for some months, I took a few days off a little while ago to spend with my family for Thanksgiving. On Tuesday of that week, I enjoyed a scenic drive out to Simi Valley, where I met my grandmother, my aunt, my uncle, and my cousin from the desert at the Reagan Library. When I got there, I was struck by the natural beauty of the place--I could have spent a good deal of time just writing on the grounds. When my family arrived, we shared a tasty traditional Adventist picnic while we caught up on each other's lives.

The museum itself gave me a good deal to think about. The exhibits about the economy could have practically been written yesterday, but the solutions proposed for it then are so different from the way the question is being approached now, from all sides. The oval office replica was as impressive as I remember from when I came to the Reagan library as a tiny child. I'd forgotten the degree to which the president is allowed to customize it. A president can put up the portraits of two former presidents on his or her wall--Reagan has Washington and Jackson. Not the two I would pick, but to each his own. Reagan's Oval Office is decked out in warm Southwestern tones, with Remington sculptures on the surfaces.

Air Force One hangs suspended in a large hanger with a vast glass wall overlooking the Simi Valley. Inside the plane, there were state rooms for President and Mrs. Reagan. Even the seats for the press would put the first class seating I envy on my way to economy class flying commercial to shame.

More than the plane, I found the section on the friendship between Reagan and Gorbachev fascinating, for a variety of reasons. My favorite part of the whole museum, though, was the Christmas exhibit. It was a display of Christmas trees, each decked out to represent a different decade of American history. It was a great review of my history, and it was great watching my grandmother reminisce about her childhood in the 30's. We exited the museum just in time to see the piece of the Berlin wall silhouetted against the most glorious sunset. That night we celebrated grandma's birthday at Olive Garden, then parted ways with my aunt, uncle, and cousin.

After a long journey the next day, we arrived in Fish Camp and greeted my uncle Mark warmly, We shared a meal of that amazing Quattro Formaggio pizza at the Timberloft, discussing the Yosemite's concessions contract, which is up for bid. Once back at his home, we caught sight of my aunt Shirley before she went to bed.

Thanksgiving morning, Mark made us some delicious hot chocolate, then we headed to the Ahwahnee for breakfast. I'm not a fan of eggs, but the eggs Benedict there was phenomenal, with a hollandaise sauce bordering on a spiritual experience. Just as delightful as that warming meal was the stroll we took afterwards together through Yosemite. Even though winter has already descended on the park, the trees are alight with autumnal fire, leaves cascading like golden rain.

After the now nearly-ceremonial Visitor's Center stop, we returned to the house to prepare for Thanksgiving dinner. Shirley taught me how to make a pie crust, and together we made the pumpkin and pecan pies. As she warmed up the rest of the meal, my parents, Mark and I sat around the fire, lazily engaged in conversation while watching their cat, Jemma, stretch out on the rug. We helped Shirley set the table, which glittered with Fostoria crystal and candlelight.

The meal was delicious and filling. I felt sleepy for the rest of the evening as we talked into the night. What did we talk about? A little bit of this, a little bit of that--but talking fills the air to provide an excuse for being together. The content is not always terribly important.

It was sad to have to leave so soon the next morning. The next day, I would hit the ground running with a busy Sabbath, but my Sabbath was the drive back to LA with my parents and grandmother, watching the fiery trees pass. Stopping at a random tourist trap, Bravo Farms, which does cheese tastings to die for. Closing the day with a fine vegan meal at Happy Family in Monterey Park before we said goodbye to my grandmother for the weekend.

Since then, I have been running nonstop. Even my few, precious days off have been stuffed to the gills with various activities and pursuits, and this is the first one in which I have had time to write to all of you. Some of you have heard rumors that my book, Seventh-day Awesome is being published. It is not a sure thing yet. Pacific Press has responded to my query with a request for a proposal, and I have not yet sent it in (for the same reason I have been so long in writing to you). Please keep my manuscript in your prayers. I will be preparing it for submission today.

Also, I will be praying for each of you as we enter this busy holiday season. It's so easy, so very easy to let the pressure of this busy time become a temporary sentence to Hell instead of a joyous celebration of those things that are most important to us--God, family, and friends. Today, I celebrate you and thank my Maker that you are in my life.

Justin Day 2011

For those of you who are familiar with Justin Day, perhaps you know that this year was an anomaly of sorts. Usually, I post the suggestions I drafted up for the observance of Justin Day several days beforehand. This year, not so much.

Yesterday was Justin Day. For those of you who are not familiar with it, Justin Day commemorates the birthday of my brother, who would have turned 25 yesterday had he lived. Instead, he is frozen in time at age 17, the age he died in a hiking accident on Peru.

This particular Justin Day was harder than usual for my family. Harder for me, too. Justin was born here in Southern California, in the Northridge hospital. He barely survived his own birthday, and it took the heroic actions of a team of doctors to give us the few 17 years we had with him. As a child, he loved Universal Studios and admired the daring of the stunt men he saw working there. Even though the last six years of his life happened in the community of Pleasant Hill, Justin was a native of Southern California, through and through.

When we would visit Justin and I's home region of LA, Justin would stick his head out the window, breathe in the smog, and go "Ahhh!" the way some do when they visit the mountains.

This is the first time we have observed Justin Day in the area he was born. For me, it was the first time observing Justin Day with my parents since college started. Somehow, that was harder than when I'm on my own; I wasn't there for his birth. For me, it is a commemoration of his whole life; to them, it is a very specific day they remember vividly.

Yesterday, to celebrate, I wore a shirt Justin brought back for me from Romania, and carried with me the karibiner that says, "No Fear, No Regrets, No Holding Back." When we went to the movies for the evening, the films we saw reminded me: Justin's short life was not in vain. He touched many lives both before and after his death, and his memory has been an ongoing source of inspiration for me. Although I do not believe they are aware of it, in a very real way the people we love never truly leave us. Justin Spencer, Dean Spencer, Leonard Knapp, Joyce Gutsche, Sonny Ines--they may all be sleeping in Jesus, but their lives and legacies continue to live on in everything we learned from them.

No fear, no regrets, no holding back. That is Justin's legacy, and worth living every day of the year, not just on October 1, Justin Day.

King's Canyon, August 19-21

It was a merry band of 11 that boarded a 13-passenger van headed for King's Canyon on Friday noon. The goal? To build a sense of community and belonging among the young adult group at Alhambra SDA Church. In short, for us to bond as a group.

And bond we did! We were not even past Six Flags when we realized that the air conditioner on the van was broken. We called the rental company about it, stopped at a garage, and decided that we would rather press on than leave it be. This had the potential to be a really nasty situation, but everyone was so positive despite the horrendous heat that it just gave us one more thing to laugh about together.

Thanks to the delays, we set up camp in King's Canyon in the dark. This, too, was an unexpectedly good team-building activity. We talked into the night, then rose early in the morning.

After chatting around the camp fire, we all made beautiful sandwiches and then set out on a hike to a waterfall. It affectionately reminded me of some of the hikes I'd been on with my aunt and uncle in Yosemite. There were lush forests, stark granite, and creeks to traverse. It felt so good just to be walking in the open air again. When we arrived at the waterfall, we ate our sandwiches and refilled our bottles with fresh water from the river.

On our way back, I enjoyed talking with one girl who, like me, enjoys stopping every now and then to take in the scenery. There was some wonderful scenery to take in. After the hike, some of us went back to the river where we submerged ourselves in its freezing depths. Even though there was a good rock to jump off of and I enjoy cliff diving, I'm glad I didn't. Just getting into the water the normal way, I thought I'd forgotten how to swim, it was so incredibly cold. My new friend, though, wholeheartedly dove off the rock twice without showing the slightest sign of being bothered by the cold. We all admired this before we took a group picture and got out of the water. Sometimes, the body gets used to cold water; this cold water stayed cold no matter how long I was in there, though the sting in my joints wore off after a while.

Back at camp, we all dried off in the sun and closed the Sabbath with haystacks for dinner and a very loose-form worship by yours truly. Then, we made smores. For the first time, one of the people along actually inspired me to try to cook the marshmallow for real instead of just torching it. This was. . . oddly rewarding. I'd never tasted such a good smore before. But I still like charred marshmallow, if only for all the Pleasant Hill Pathfinder memories.

Fully satisfied, we settled in to playing games around the fire. We played a good round of zip-bong, a word game, and several rounds of Psychology. Just as we had called back the "psychologist" for the fifth or sixth round, suddenly an uproar came from a neighboring camp.

"BEAR IN THE CAMP!!! THERE'S A BEAR!"

Suddenly, the mood around the fire shifted. In a matter of minutes, toiletries were shut away in the bear box. The dying embers of the campfire were being revived. Then, all of us crowded into the van, some of us more tense than others. In the darkness, we waited. Some of the girls panicked. Some of the guys joked about how there was no bear. Inside my head, I was thinking, "Couldn't my outdoors-y relatives and friends have mentioned just once what to do if you meet a bear at night?" What I actually said was, "Why don't we pray about this?"

So we prayed for the bear (because, after all, they get shot if they get too close to the camps too many times) and we prayed for the general level of panic to go down. Eventually, it did. We left the van, tended the fire, and actually went to bed. We never found out if the bear was real.

The trip back out of there was fortunately not quite so thrilling--just gorgeous vistas of the canyon on our way out. We stopped for lunch in the town of Kingsburg, where my new friend and I discovered THE BEST small-town ice cream place (no offense, Big Dipper). It's called Jeb's Swedish Creamery, and it is in a different league from almost anything I've ever tasted. If you ever visit the small town of Kingsburg, GO THERE. It's AMAZING. Someone needs to tell the Food Network they exist; they deserve the recognition.

We made it back to the church all in one piece without leaving anyone melted in the van or eaten by a bear or drowned in a river. I was quite happy about all of that. Furthermore, the group really did grow closer from the experience. It seems like everyone made at least one new friend (including myself), so I consider that a successful trip. It was good to get back out into the wild and clear my thoughts, too; I would have gladly stayed longer, even if I was exhausted afterwards as it was. I promised you all a sunnier letter this time, and I'm so glad I could deliver on that. I hope that you find sunny things to think about, too.

Summer 2011 in Review

Every summer seems to have a song that reflects its special character in time. This summer, that song was Toby Mac's "Hold On," which is cheerful enough to be a song of celebration, yet acknowledges the difficulties of life.

It has been a difficult summer.

After the cruise, my parents and I started on the difficult task of packing up the home we've lived in for twelve years.

We did take some time one weekend to visit our friends, the McMillans, in Los Alamos. They've been like a part of our family for the last ten years or so, and we've really started to miss each other since some of them moved out to Los Alamos. We walked the streets of Santa Fe together, looking at one of the most incredible photo galleries I've ever seen--a photographic history of the United States. Our time together ended with a wonderful opera, Gounod's Faust. More wonderful than the opera, though, was just chatting with my friend Caroline. I'm looking forward to living a little closer to her this year.

I also took some time to drive down to Yosemite to visit my aunt and uncle who live right outside its southern border. That visit fed my soul, too, with a good hike up Sentinel Dome and long, deep discussions about life and philosophy with my aunt. She and my uncle sent me off with a handsome graduation gift: the first full-size print of her impressionistic Yosemite Falls painting.

When I got home, we turned right around to do the impossible: find a place to live in just two days. Originally, we only allotted one day, but that proved to be completely impossible. We actually managed to find a house to rent that was not surrounded by concrete. It is a welcome retreat from the hustle and bustle of life in Los Angeles.

Driving away from the house wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. I had one last errand to run at Pleasant Hill Adventist Academy, and it was all I could do to keep my eyes dry while I talked to the office staff there for the last time. As I walked back to the car, I looked over at the black granite bench that sits there in memory of my departed brother, over at the playground where I fell in love for the first time, over at the classroom where I'd spent so many evenings hanging decorations for my mother. As I got in the car, I looked over at the church where Pastor Torkelson had baptized me, where I had been inspired to my life's calling, and it was too much. I cried.

The day after we arrived at our new home in Sunland, we drove out to the desert. My grandfather was in the hospital, dying. He had cheated death many times, but we could all tell somehow that this was the end. The last thing I said to him was, "Good night. I love you. Happy Sabbath." And what was death to this man other than a much-needed Sabbath rest after a very long week of a life?

It is hard to describe what it's like to start a new job just two days after that. I'm sure that all college graduates feel overwhelmed their first day on the job, and I was no exception. Work is for the living, and my mind was on the dead. I pulled myself together enough to tell stories at a Vacation Bible School, attend a board meeting, and introduce myself to the church. In a way, it felt like telling stories to children was a way of honoring my grandfather, who loved to tell stories.

I read the 23rd psalm for the cryptside service at beautiful Montecito. I've never struggled so much to read such a short text before. His crypt overlooks the hills of Loma Linda, where every day people are healed through the diligent work of doctors and nurses. He, too, was diligent as a teacher. A week and a half later, there was a service at the Desert Hot Springs church. There were things about him even his family didn't know about him, like how he'd done the grunt-work for a medical research project that saved thousands of lives in Vietnam. The sermon wisely acknowledged the pain we all feel at his loss, and did not try to belittle it by saying, "There, there, it'll be all right. . . whenever Jesus comes." Instead, it said, "We miss Dean. There is pain. It takes time to work through pain."

Time moves on, and the living are still around to feel its relentless progress. School starts this week for my parents at historic San Fernando Valley Academy, and this weekend I'm headed to beautiful Kings Canyon with my church's young adult group. It has been a difficult summer in many ways, but as that Toby Mac song so wisely says, "Hold on just another day or two; I can see the clouds are moving faster and the sun is breaking through."

No storm can last forever, and neither will this one. Thank you, everyone who has sent our family notes of sympathy or come to the funeral. You are the rays of light that are breaking through the clouds. My next letter will be much sunnier, I assure you.