Home again, home again jiggidy jog!

Dear sweet Vanessa met us at JFK around midnight! She is the ever present calm reason. I was so happy to see her! Traffic was nasty and she negotiated it well and got us home alive. Thank you Nessie. We had a lovely breakfast treat with Tom, Vanessa and Sky-man before heading home the next day.

The last couple of days in Mexico were a whirlwind. We went to Manzanillo on Sunday and shared a worship service with the saints there. Stephen was delighted to be able to preach in front of the roaring ocean! Something very organic about the gospel in that situation. The saints, both Mexican and gringo's, were so kind and received us well. We were blessed to share a dinner and chat with some very special people. We were especially happy to share time with a lovely young woman that is the daughter of Wycliff missionary parents (parents also there). After the service, we were taken to spend the night at the home of Warren and Jean Scheifele. Their home is on the side of a cliff directly overlooking the Pacific ocean. Wow! The bedroom we were offered had french doors on both sides of the room that we left open all night. The ocean and mountain air rushed through our room and we slept well. Occasionally, I woke to the sounds of tropical birds and animals making their nocternal shouts. It was a paradise like none that I have ever seen. They were kind and thoughtful hosts and had a story of their own that was touching. When Jean was 16 years old, she was in an accident. She and three other relatives were in a car that collided with a train. Jean was the only survivor. She was in a coma for a long time. The doctors said she would be a vegetable person. Well, this lovely mother, wife and enthusiastic child of God is not only normal, but very bright. She is a whole and complete person in every way.

Warren drove us to the bus terminal early the next morning and deposited us. The bus was a spacious comfortable bus. They provided a sandwich and drink for the trip. Arriving in Guadalajara, our cousin Rick picked us up. We were so happy to see them again and spent another evening basking in their home and love. They were just the best! Rick drove to the airport to begin the journey home.

The dogs were happy to see us. The cat is his old nasty self. Sandy (my dog) really bonded with the grandchildren and seemed like she might jump ship for a while. Hannah, Grace and Elijah were very diligent dog caretakers. Hannah even got used to picking up poop with a plastic bag!

Ten days after arriving home, I went in for major surgery and three days later had my 62nd birthday. Things , they are a changing.

I am happy to be home and see family and friends. BUT-Mexico is calling. Love to all of you that read this blog. Mitzi, mom, meema

Home again, sometime in September.


Remember Mitzi saying, in the August 20th posting, that "the internet place is run by a very smart fellow that is crippled"--? His name is Santiago. He won't leave my memory. There was something special about him, and it turned out he was a very devout Christian.



In Mexico, "Christian" more or less means Protestant, or at least not Roman Catholic. A friend told us about a woman whom he and his wife befriended and who later asked them, "My children don't play with your children, do they?"



"I don't know," answered my friend, "but why do you ask?"



"Because my children have been raised Catholic and have been taught not to play with Christians," the woman replied.



At our last venture to Santiago's internet cafe, he told us why he loved Jesus. His body was mangled in an accident and because of his trust in Mark chapter 11 and verse 24, he is able to walk. In Mark 11:24 Jesus says that "whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours." Through that experience and the guidance of other Christians Santiago had learned to trust in God and not in the sole authority of the Roman Catholic Church; therefore, in Mexico he called himself a Christian.



Even before telling us his testimony, Santiago (who spoke no English) and I had a lengthy conversation in Spanish. We translated words through the computer when we weren't sure. He is a middle-aged man now working on a Master's degree at the University of Guadalajara so we have a lot in common. Santiago's deepest love is telling his people about Jesus.



"Santiago, can Mitzi and I come live near you, immerse ourselves in the Mexican culture, and help you tell others about Jesus?"



"San Felipe, can Mitzi and I live in your hotel and, through teaching the Bible and painting the parables of Jesus, work through you with the Mexican and English children you have so much to do with?"



"Dear Gringo friends, may we come to your church at San Patricio, maybe preach once in a while, and maybe teach a Bible class up the coast where the Catholic alligators are?"



And so forth....



Lord, what would you have us to do?

Sabado, Augusto vientitres, 2008.

Good morning all,
Last night was not posted because we were too tired and watched CNN with speculation about Obama’s vice presidential choice. Does anyone understand “vetted”?

Yesterday we popped up and took the early bus to LaManzanilla. Another chicken bus for sure. The windows had holes in them, and the bus driver had a cross with Jesus hanging in the front of the bus. He also had a bouquet of silk roses at Jesus' feet and a rosary around the whole display. Further, there were signs in many places, in Spanish, affirming or appealing to Jesus. We now have enough Spanish to be able to read most signs. It was probably a good thing that this particular bus driver has a tight relationship with Jesus. We were plodding along two lane highways with gas trucks and other huge buses passing us in no passing zones. The only additional tidbit is that in many stretches of that road, there are sheer drop offs that there is no place for the bus to go but down. This sign says, "Come, Jesus, and eat with us!"-- Comforting on the edge of a cliff with a muffler-less trucking pressing by; now or later, Jesus, please eat with us.
As we were departing the bus at our destination, a young woman began speaking with the bus driver in Spanish. I was surprised because I thought she looked of European decent. After we got off the bus Stephen began speaking to her and it turns out that she is Swiss but speaks Spanish fluently. She is on a three month holiday, backpacking through Mexico, alone. If I were her mother, I would feel better if she had a friend, male or female, with her. However, the people of Mexico are generally kind, generous and helpful. There are a few in every crowd, but I haven’t met any bad apples yet.

We walked through the center of town and stopped at the fisherman’s confederation—roughly, a place where the fisherman gather and gossip while cutting up the catch of the day. There is a bathroom (bano) there too! The cats and pelicans were waiting for the leavings. While there, we spoke with an elderly man (Lorenzo) who was just hanging out and gossiping with the guys. He was a construction worker that had been in a work-related accident about 6 months ago. He can no longer work and there is no disability in Mexico. He did spend about two hours with us and took us on a tour of the town. We did get to see places we would not have seen otherwise. When we parted with Lorenzo, we prayed with him. He took off his baseball cap and “Gracias Senior’d” (thank you Jesus) with the best of them. Stephen was praying for better health for him. We gave him 50 peso’s for his kind tourist directing. A very sweet and humble man. His children are all in California. Many Mexican families are splintered with part in USA and part in Mexico. Painful decisions are made to improve the future of the children.



We returned on another chicken bus and arrived in time for a 2 and a half hour siesta! There are many things I like about Mexican tradition. Stephen made lovely omelets for supper with red peppers, onions and garlic—an unbeatable combination.
I am sure that you are interested in the daily events and how they differ. Now you are going to get some potty talk. In all of Mexico you throw toilet paper in the trash can next to the toilet. Do not flush the paper--the septic systems can not deal with it. It does not matter if it is in the city or country, in the mountains or by the shore--don’t flush the paper. Also, only flush the toilet when necessary (#2). When the chicken bus arrived in town yesterday, I got off and had to GO. A man was standing in the town square. I asked about banos publico and he pointed to the police/administrative building. I asked the secretary in the building and she pointed out back. There is a charge of 5 pesos ($.50) to use the bathroom. However, a man that spoke English came out and explained that I should use the men’s bathroom because the ladies “is not clean”. I found out later that not clean really translated to plugged and overflowing. I did go into the men’s as Stephen stood guard at the door for me. NO WAY--I walked out without using the facilities. I wandered down the street and found a fruit store open with a young lady operating the store. I requested banos publico--she shook her head no. I did the little girl dance complete with hand motions. She laughed and took me to the bano in the back courtyard of several stores. She handed me some napkins to use as toilet paper. The bathroom was a small cinderblock room with no door or windows. It did have a piece of fabric hanging over the door. It had a toilet without a tank part. Another words, you sit on the no seat toilet and do your business. But, it was very clean. There was a bucket next to the toilet and an open water trough in the court yard. Oh yeah! The toilet can be flushed after all. And they even had soap next to the water trough. I paid that young lady 10 peso’s as a thank you--and it was worth every peso. It is of note that if you are traveling in Mexico, always have toilet paper in you backpack/purse and hand sanitizer.
Today it is raining and very windy—I love it because it cools down the environment. We will be going to visit some new friends to say good-bye. I can’t believe that we leave Melaque tomorrow. Love to all, meema







Mitzi saved yesterday’s alligators (cocodrillos) for me. We saw them before, but this time with a camera. They are huge, a least 12 feet. Mitzi is wondering whether alligators have friends. They don’t seem to have much passion, lying there like logs and focusing on decisions like having head under water and body up, body under water and head up, or both up, or both down. Do they know that whatever they decide they make us gawkers tremble by there mere existence? They just look mean, with a thick hide and lots of size to back up any inclinations they might have beyond body position. I’m tempted to draw some human comparisons but will resist...Well, come to think of it, I guess I can't resist human comparisons altogether. As we watched the alligators, one large fellow moved next to the snout of another. “Snap!” went latter fellow and away went the former fellow! The human comparison? Recall that there had been talk of setting up a Protestant church here in the alligator-town of La Manzanilla.
A few years ago, one man tried to do just that. The priest of the local Roman Catholic Church--whose building takes up much of the center of town--was not at all happy with a Protestant preacher in his backyard. And the hapless Protestant? "Snap!" went the Catholic and away went the protestant!












Right after taking a picture of the “Peligroso” (Danger!) sign regarding alligators, we saw a man in the water just off from the danger sign. He was digging for something. He was hunting for oysters. There must be an understanding between alligators and Mexicans. Something like “I’ll feed on only a few hard-dug oysters if you don’t feed on me--please.” It reminds me of a hero Indian medicine-man of my bygone years who would get herbs from rattlesnake territory, but only after a dance of sorts in which the chief rattlesnake and my Indian hero agreed to a bargain. It's been called the "territorial imperative". Do wealthy American/Canadian Gringos, in effect, offend the natives down here with high-walled homes, isolated in the hills, and a seeming inability to learn the language? I confess I’m stuck on chapter 11 of the Spanish book and may never really be a fluent speaker.

Today it rains. Lluvia. We visited new friends—more septuagenarians—for coffee and all sorts of talk. These “Gringos”/”foreigners” down here are brave people, pioneers of sorts. They have interesting stories as to why they are here and why they stay full time. Always their stories involve risks and difficult choices. Most of their stories put to rest my high-minded notions about learning the language and living among the natives. A serious missionary of the old-fashioned sort could be a loving go-between of two very different groups, but in the meanwhile I either come down here and do something or shut up about what others have or haven’t done. Writing from a distance is certainly less risky and dangerous than the distance of living in the hills behind walls and speaking English! Mitzi and I are still adventurers at heart, however, and all of this may soon change.
We have been so blessed by these Gringos, increasingly, taking us in and helping us to digest the present and look to the future—or to just plain have fun! We will miss our new friends. Already, this morning, while dressing, I felt a bit homesick about leaving. Another recent experience is being a little confused about English words—no, I mean, more than the usual, senior-citizen searching for a word. "Balcony"! That’s the word! It just wasn’t there this morning when commenting on the construction work going on at our local tienda. Not there, I mean, in English, let alone Spanish. I can say more Spanish words than Mitzi, but my accent is wrong so the natives don't understand my Spanish or my English. Mitzi's accent is good so what little Spanish she knows goes much further than my larger vocabulary of gibberaical Spanglish. Also, and this is important, Mitzi is able to hear (understand) what the natives say. Actually, between the two of us we've come a long way linguistically, but there are many miles to go. Can you imagine early missionaries almost anywhere? Truly, that was a form of "speaking in tongues".

Tomorrow we go to church in Manzanillo, and I get to preach to these lovely new friends plus others. It turns out that most of our new friends will take the trip south and be there for the service. Pray that God will use me in a way that glorifies Him. I am excited.



This trip was so blessed by our contact with Rick and Leigh. We return to their place tomorrow, stay overnight and have a specially-cooked breakfast, and then take off from the airport at Guadalajara. We will be sad to leave the Fredericks and my old cousin resurrected.

Thursday August 20th (I think)
I heard Anjelica, the cleaning lady, come in the gate and go upstairs this afternoon. I looked out to say hello and was startled to see a green parrot sitting on the railing by the first stair. I thought it was a wild parrot and immediately took it’s picture. Then Anjelica came down the stairs and the parrot jumped on her hand. Hiss name is Pedro according to Anjelica. Off she rode on her little scooter and Pedro sitting on the handlebar. Later, I saw Anjelica across town and Pedro’s feathers were a little ruffled from the speed but, he was holding on tight.

August 21st, Thursday.
Pelicans. Los pelicanos. Amazing. I think there are two kinds. One kind is big with those well-known beaks that carry stuff inside, but there seems to be another kind. They are smaller, more streamlined but, oh, can they ever dive! They rise up slightly, turn down sharply and torpedo into the water, usually straight as a plumb-line. At the last instant the wings slide up and, seemingly, into the body so all that’s left is an arrow—by the time they hit the water “arrow” is a better word than “torpedo”. These fellows are sleeker than real pelicans—type one above--and, by comparison, they seem like my grandchildren doing flailing cannon balls in the water. There’s also a bird the goes underwater until you think he must have tripped into China. The first time I saw one of them today was coming out, not going in. “What the…?” He suddenly just appeared, his bill and long neck somewhat snake-like. The water is so delightfully warm that there was no chill going through me, but I sensed that mild sense of danger of not being sure, especially when above me were these prehistoric black birds that I keep forgetting the name of.


Our friend, Marie, wasn’t dangerous and, in fact, the barber spoke excellent English and she gave me a fine haircut. Actually, Marie had said the barber spoke English as we discussed the dangerous, female trip the night before, but that piece came at one of those typical moments when I think I am being a delightful male host and picking up well less than half the information that is going on around me. Marie’s husband, Cornelius, remains calm during Mitzi and my hair-cuts, or our sauntering at least a mile down the aisle of market day, and through the endless shops with Mitzi and Marie trying to find just the right thing for each one of our family at home. Did I see a slight smile on Cor’s face when Mitzi finally made a purchase?
Cornelius is a very fine artist. As I watched him through these three hours of this ladies’ venture, I got to thinking that, far from watching and waiting for Mitzi and Marie to get done or, at least, get hungry, he was painting everything as we went along. His canvas was varied in size and shape and soon I thought I could see the colors he was applying by the expression in his eyes. I learned something from Cor, and I doubt that in the future such ventures are anticipated with as much temerity as this one was—remember, the night before. I’m not an artist and can’t paint the event as Cor does, but maybe I can write about it as we wander along. As Mitzi said, I was taking pictures, but with these new, digital cameras (and Mitzi got us a prize from e-bay!) I feel like I am cheating. Like the “old man and the sea” with a ray-gun--the poor marlin! Or like deer when they are chased into an early morning firing squad. Anyway, I learned something about lengthy shopping and will never be bored again. That’s important, I think, now that I’m almost seventy. Shopping boredom means still another day home at la computadora while Mitzi is out having fun, and I don’t want that. Cor is seventy-seven, and has learned much how septuagenarians cope.
I spent time with another septuagenarian this morning, although this man is only seventy two. He has a steel rod through his back, one down through his left thigh and still another down his other leg, has two replaced knees, lives in constant pain, and says he wakes up with happiness nearly every day. What a talk we had and it was me that was close to tears when he and his lovely wife and Mitzi and I prayed together before we left. My seventieth birthday is a week from today and I think, right here at the last hour, God is temporarily weaning me from children and grandchildren and giving me a deeper peek at seventy-year-old wisdom and courage.

What is romantic love? Now that children are back in school and vacationing Mexicans back in Guadalajara and other places distant from this vacation resort, we have the ocean and beach to ourselves with the pelicans and their friends and fisherman and occasional young people in love who hold and delight in each other even in the sea. Truth is Mitzi and I walk into the water holding hands, but usually the normal, young pattern changes. We stand there watching the birds (me) and deciding we want to fish with nets (Mitzi), but then the romantic spell is broken when Mitzi says, “Let’s sneak up on the pelicans.” There were five of them, and we soon are sneaking up when Mitzi touches my shoulder and says, “Stay down, Stephen. There’s too much of you showing. Do like this.” Only her face and curly new haircut are above the water. I stoop down and follow her toward the pelicans. Two things happen at once so I never will be sure that we couldn’t have snuck up on the pelicans. First, the pelicans (type one) flew away in their lumbering way but (second) at the same time Mitzi screeched, bitten (or whatever they do) by a jellyfish. We’re home now and, oh, how much we look forward to margaritas tonight!

of mermaids and midgets

Stephen and I decided to go out for cheap supper tonight. We went to the main street in town and sat at a table on the edge of the street to order our tacos. While sitting there I said to Stephen that we had not brought our camera so we might see mermaids swimming by. We did not see a mermaid but we did see:

A young (12 or 13) man riding a big brown horse up and down the street.

A Mexican midget (honest) riding by on a very small 4 wheeler. The 4 wheeler looked like something that should have been in a circus. The midget looked like a normal midget.

A bunch of young men (older teens) riding up and down the street in an open dune buggy. Of course, music blasting while they were yelling to be noticed.

As the world over, young men and ladies just plain checking each other out. Here they are a little more polite about the process. And--grandma is sitting on a chair outside next to the door.

Actually it is a little like watching a late 50´s tv show. I remember cruising main street with girlfriends in someone's car. The windows rolled down and yelling at friends. Of course, with grandma watching no one would be that disrespectful.

The big finale was as we got up from the table and were walking away. Two open-backed army trucks loaded with uniformed soldiers caring automatic weapons rolled by.

Where was the mermaid? love to all meema

Wednesday, August 20, 2008



Cornelius and Marie arrived at 10:30 to take us to get haircuts and go to the local weekly market. We went to the home of the hairdresser and she spoke perfect English. She had immigrated to the US over 40 years ago and became a citizen. She went to hair dresser school and worked at that for many years. Then she moved to Las Vegas and became a money person in a casino. She developed arthritis in her hands and could not do hair all the time. Eventually the hotel she worked for was torn down and she decided to retire in Mexico to be near her mother and sister. I am never immediately satisfied with a hair cut. I always expect that a new hair cut will make me younger, 100 pounds lighter and beautiful. I guess I got my $3.00’s worth.
After the hair dresser we all walked through the street market. Steve bought two SOS pads and I bought nothing. Marie kept trying to get me to notice things but I was overwhelmed by so much stuff in such a small space. Then the four of us drove to the next little town south for lunch and sightseeing. We could have walked the mile down the beach but didn’t. I had a Mexican variation of a chef’s salad which was just right. We walked quite a ways, looked in shops, and watched a Marachi band playing under a huge and old tree. There is not much here to buy. Correction--that I want to buy. We had lots of laughs and enjoyed the day with new friends. Nap time then off to the computer store to use the internet.

Love to all, meema

Tuesday, August 19th, 2009.

We had red snapper Italian style last night. It reminded me of my former mother in law, Elsie. Many Italian families have a tradition of fish for Christmas Eve dinner. Elsie used to make red snapper with red sauce, pasta and all the fixins for dinner. I fudged it but it did come out well. I was feeling much better after waking up this morning at 10:10 am (that would be noon ny time) I walked out to the patio and noticed that Stephen had already picked up the “car”. We are getting well known in town because of the car.
Last night we went out for a drive around town and to the internet café. The internet place is run by a very smart fellow that is crippled. He does not speak English but one of his friends does. He has been able to be very helpful to us. I did notice that the owner was wearing a t shirt that said (roughly) Mexico helps its disabled people. There was also a sign in the store that said something to the effect that the business received start-up money from the country of Mexico. We have been to several internet café’s so far but this is the best. The owner is smart, business-like, and the place is clean. While Stephen was sending his email’s I wandered outside the door to watch about 15 kids on the street playing hide n go seek. Uno, dos, tres, quatro. The kids were from about 4 to 12 and all were having a great time together. There were adults sitting on the stoops and in chairs along the side walk chatting while the kids were running full speed around them looking for the best hiding places.
Every time we go out without the camera, we are sorry. Last night we saw a man with a horse in the middle of an intersection. He was training the horse to raise his front legs like horses in the circus do. Camera-nope. There was another horse that was standing on the corner in his stall. Not enclosed, mind you, just a fence post affair next to the road. We stopped for a bit to watch the training. Stephen finally did get a picture of the back end of a horse which, he said, he took as an expression of how he sometimes felt in a brand new culture rather than an expression of his "interest in horses".

We left home early this morning to buy fresh fish and have a day at the beach. We went to the other end of the cove to enjoy calm water and the fisherman still at work. There were no tourists because school has started in Mexico.


The fishermen used two techniques to catch fish. These are the guys fishing off the shore line. The guys in boats are not even in sight. The fishermen go in the water just beyond the wave breaking area. Both styles fish in the same area. One fishing style, is to put bait on a hook that also has a heavy metal sinker on the line. The line is rolled up on a variety of things from a stick to a tube. They do not have fishing poles. Then the fishermen begin to twirl the line over their heads, cowboy lasso style, and throw the line in the ocean just after a wave breaks. There are fish behind those big wave breaks. The proverbial hook, line and sinker style of fishing was very successful today. The other fishing style is with a large net that is about three feet wide and maybe 12 to 15 feet long with sinkers all along the bottom edge. Along the top edge is a rope to pull tight. The fish are caught in the net and several are pulled in at one time. The fisherman gathers his net up carefully and is an expert at throwing the net out—also very much like a cowboy lasso’s. There is no bait involved with the net style of fishing. The pelicans and the fisherman work in tandem to catch fish. Steve and I could see the fish jumping after a wave crests and so could the pelicans. The birds would start diving and the fishermen would know exactly where to throw their nets.

At some point I began to think of the scripture about Peter and the boys out fishing and how they were told to cast their nets on the other side. I could really appreciate that after seeing the net fisherman. I would have loved to see the nets so full that they had difficulty harvesting the fish.
It was truly exhausting sitting on the beach and watching all this work going on. We were at one little beach shack place that serves food and drink under umbrellas on the sand. Our waiter was a round, jolly English-speaking fellow named Gustavo. He remembered us and our names from several evenings ago. We ordered two fresh pineapple juices and spent the next two hours watching people work with occasional dips for ourselves. Then we ordered one lunch plate special to split between the two of us and one margarita and a water. More swimming, chatting, and bird watching. Then we had a fruit leather type thing for dessert and Steve had coffee. We headed home at about four for a siesta after a long day of work.
We have several families that we have a hello relationship with but everyone speaks on the street. People are very polite. There are two families with children that are particularly sweet. If no one is out as we pass we hear HOLA being yelled by a small person after we have gone by.


Well, we just had visitors! The Dutch painter and his wife came by. They will be taking us to another little town nearby tomorrow in their car (a real car). Marie will also be taking us to the local weekly market. Stephen didn’t want to come but kindly gave in when I told him he could take pictures. Hopefully, some of those photos will be posted here.

We spent much of the day considering the health of one of our family members and the needs they may have coming up. Sometimes, the desires of God for us are right in front of our noses. Love to all, meema


Granddaddy here.

To paraphrase an old song, “What a friend I have in Mitzi!” She’s just more fun! While I’m dreaming up great schemes for the future (Of course I take myself seriously! It wouldn’t be any fun, otherwise!), she’s plunging us into life here and life there and a life now and not a life then. Now we have this infamous golf cart that I protested and tomorrow I’m to go shopping with the women (lead by Mitzi’s new Dutch-artist’s-wife friend) which I also protested, but unsuccessfully. They seem to want me to go with them along with the Dutch-artist himself, so what could I do? I wanted to spend coffee time with an elusive-to-the-public husband with new knees and a broken back who lives in his swimming pool. After learning that Felipe’s drinking is notorious I begin to think that I am drawn to broken old men. Anyway, my coffee time will be limited since I have to go shopping and the Dutch artist will go too, and they will even watch while Mitzi and I get hair-cuts—the Dutch artist’s wife, Marie, thinking I should get a crew-cut! Does this all sound scary? You bet it does! Marie’s a live-wire like Mitzi—and ten years older and more seasoned than Mitzi—and so tomorrow could be dangerous. I’ve been praying a lot. Then we’re all going down to the next village for lunch, and that seems safe. It’s all a jumble in my mind, but Mitzi’s got it sorted out, and I don’t think I will be getting my haircut in the food market. I love these fearsome daily adventures and Dutch septegenarian Marie ups the ante for adventure along the villages of Mexican-Pacific shores. Her husband, Cornelius, whose hair is cut close to crew, keeps telling me about this strange version of eschatology as though I could do something about it. Have you ever noticed that everybody else has a strange version of eschatology? Big words, I know, but all that means, Malachi, Isabella, and Elijah, is the end times.
So, as to the more immediate and our future, only God really knows, but at this point it looks like we’ll be living for a few months in a hotel run by a drunk’s wife, teaching children Bible parables in a language we still don’t understand, going to a church in which the deep struggle is whether good Friday is really a Friday at all, and setting up another church in a village where there are no Christians except those skewered by a dictatorial priest! That sounds like the right combination of impossibilities that is just my cup of tea, uhm…coffee, in my case. Add to all that that the worm may have turned, and Mitzi may now want to stay up north and take care of ailing loved ones, a burgeoning church, and praying that her husband won’t fall on the ice and die, while I may want to come down to Mexico and go crazy!

This morning I took off early before Mitzi’s day began and walked down to Felipe’s to get our golf cart (he plugs it in for an overnight charge) and talk with him about John, chapter 6. So in the same day I learn of what quantities of alcohol this Saint used to drink and maybe still does, I also spend a profound hour-and-a-half sorting out confusions that he has more than I do—it’s always amazing when that happens. What a time we had going over issues of ecclesiology (they were “having church” out there when the loaves and fishes appeared!), predestination (“draw” in verse 44 means “drag” not “woo” as a suitor, and, yes, you do have to be careful of the King James version, Felipe, but don’t throw the baby out just because you think KJ was a jerk!), and about Peter thinking Jesus was the Son of God (it’s right there in verse 69, Felipe!)
I know Felipe was sober because it was 8 a.m. and he was at his coffee and cigarette when I arrived. By early on in John, chapter 6, he was in tears, however, and something about the dear Bible was touching deeply this man who has wanted to stay away from that book for many years, especially the KJV which is the version I confronted him with. His tears continued off and on and especially when we prayed together at the end of our hour-and-a-half Bible talk together.
I wish every morning started like this. It’s a lot safer than taking my hair to a female, Mexican barber and having instructions given by a Dutch woman who speaks Spanish but thinks I ought to get a crew cut. I could come out bald, and my head wouldn’t be good for that because of the huge scar I got at four years old when I enjoyed tipping my high chair away from the dining-room table and finally fell backwards onto one of those old, dig-your-skull-apart, iron radiators. It may be the first “I told you so!” I can remember, but I have the strangest feeling that lesson may be coming around all over again. Wise old Cornelius is excited by the “Lord’s will” prospects of my impossible vision but warns me at the same time. Marie looks at the grandchildren-swimming-pool-pictures from our backyard back home and tells us, much as she might like having us come down here, to stay put. So, it’s been another day of building sand castles at the seashore. Now I’m tired and I wanna got to bed. Goodnight.