"Never be afraid to try something new.  Remember that a lone amateur built the Ark.  A large group of professionals built the Titanic."  Dave Barry

WELCOME to Mark's Ark, the world's only online Christian newsletter to publicly decry the fact that supermarkets prepackage their ground beef in quantities such as 1.05 and 1.1 pounds, when almost all ground beef recipes require just 1.0 pounds.  Perhaps Mark's Ark should follow that lead, and provide an unwanted additional 10% of commentary that you would rather not read but have no choice.

I'M ALL BETTER NOW
When I was a kid I loved watching the Charlie Brown Christmas special.  I loved it all the way through my teenage years without missing a beat.  I still loved it in college.  Suddenly, as a young man in my twenties, newly gainfully employed and living on my own, something happened that made me sad.  The Charlie Brown Christmas show came on one evening, and I found myself flipping the channel to check on a basketball game.  Finally, I gave up and just watched the game.  I admitted to myself that I no longer wanted to watch Charlie Brown and it made me sad, but not so sad that it made me watch anyway.  It wouldn't have been right to do it under duress.

Our son Jacob is now 6 and loves to watch the Charlie Brown Christmas special.  I am sincerely happy to report that tonight I not only watched it with him, I looked forward to it for two days and didn't even consider that a good basketball might be on ESPN.  I loved it when Charlie Brown sought Lucy's psychiatric advice for five cents.  I loved it when Linus told the real story of Christmas while holding his beloved blue blanket.  I especially loved it when the Peanuts gang did their unique, utterly fantastic dancing while Schroeder wailed the classic Peanuts theme song on his tiny piano.  That song is still stuck in my head two hours later.  I hope it stays there.

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JUST AS I AM

It has long been said that the best way to learn something is to teach it to someone else.  Likewise, when speaking of church work, it is often said that the surest way to receive a blessing is to minister to someone else.  I have experienced this firsthand despite my best efforts to steer clear of some blessings God wants to give me.

A couple of years ago I made some new friends that are not like any of my other friends.  Most of my friends are guys in their thirties who have one to three kids and whose attitude toward the minivan has shifted dramatically of late.  "I'll never own a minivan!" we used to proclaim with pride, as if that courageous stance deserved some kind of medal.  Morons.  Now we stand around and hold deep and thoughtful discussions about the merits of the automatic sliding doors and folding rear seats.  (I wonder if such dramatic changes of opinion are genetically built in with age or are cultural.  My minivan purchase has now made me question my level of commitment to never wearing dark socks with shorts).

Anyway, my new friends are named Miss Sandy, Miss Marie, Miss Virgie, Miss Josephine, and Monty.  Like me, most of them pilot vehicles they never planned on owning, but theirs are the wheelchairs they use to navigate their nursing home.  I came to know these good folks as a result of that most dangerous cause of church volunteerism: guilt.  I wish I could tell you that when our Sunday School class was asked if we would minister to some nursing home residents that I had eagerly raised my hand, sensing God's Holy Spirit's call to action. Nope.  First, I asked around to see if I could find other volunteers in order to limit my involvement.  Several other couples agreed, and we began going once per month with another couple to visit and sing hymns on Sunday evenings.

Everything started out pretty swell.  A piano-playing class member recorded a tape of hymns for us to use as background music.  The five to twelve residents who usually attended our little "church service" seemed to enjoy themselves, and I decided it wasn't so bad myself.  Then the piano-playing guy and his wife moved out of town.  Another couple started volunteering weekly at another nursing home.  Our class reorganized and others began serving in other areas of our church.  Our son (age three at the time) decided he did NOT feel comfortable around some of the residents, who were a little too eager to say hello and pinch his cheeks.  Thus, if my in-laws were busy and couldn't baby-sit, my wife stayed home with our son and I went alone.  This is how it came to pass that about once a month I found myself alone in a room with these people, sitting beside a tape player, holding sheet music, and hoping beyond hope that none of the nursing home staff would walk by when I tried to hit a low note, a high note, or really any of the other notes.  When I was in college and pictured what I'd be doing in my spare time in my early thirties, this wasn't something I considered.

I assumed that my new friends shared my dislike for the place.  It smelled funny and there was a loud phone or alarm at the nurses' station that rang incessantly.  My new friends even seemed not to like each other very much, often snapping at one another harshly over minor disagreements.  We sang "Amazing Grace" every time, and without fail Miss Marie would tell us that it was her favorite hymn because "my daddy used to sing it to me when I was a little girl."  She didn't realize it, but she told us this so often that the other residents would sigh and roll their eyes in frustration.  Based on these and other examples, I assumed these people were miserable.  I found it touching and pitiful when they would sing the classic hymn "Just as I Am" off-key from their wheelchairs.

God, forgive me when I run from your blessings.