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Demolition has begun on old Tiger (formerly Briggs) Stadium in my hometown, Detroit. I remember attending many games there when I was growing up, including Detroit Lions football games in the fall. I saw Mantle and Maris play, Whitey Ford pitch along with the stars of one of the Tiger's best seasons, 1961. That would be Stormin' Norman Cash, Al Kaline and the rest. If there is baseball tradition in Detroit, it lives in Tiger Stadium. It was a beautiful old park and its a shame to see it go.

Another suprising thing to me is that, looking at the web sites of the major Detroit papers, there seems to be relatively little interest in the loss of the old place; the demolition is not receiving major coverage. One aspect that is receiving coverage is the apparently failing attempt by a private group to save part of the stadium from destruction. The papers seem to almost be gloating over the failure to raise sufficient funds to prevent total demolition.

Part of me wonders, why should anyone do this? The ballpark is hardly in a good part of town, but even if that were not the case, what use could now be made of it? But, I also wonder if the papers' lack of enthusiasm for saving Tiger Stadium is an indication of the current day disdain for anything that smacks of tradition: out with the old, in with the new, whether or not the new is an improvment. This current disdain is most graphically displayed in the unfathomable rush by a major political party in this country to nominate a man for President who has no discernable qualifications for the job, other than an expressed desire for "change."

For me, I'll take tradition anytime.

Several months ago, I came to a startling realization and I have been trying to work it out ever since. It came about as a result of working on a writing exercise, “Describe your idea writing spot.� I began thinking about that and realized I would first have to start by describing a region, the southwestern United States, specifically, northern New Mexico. I think most great writers are defined by the region of the country they called their own. Think of Dickens and you think of 19th century London, Faulkner and you picture the south, Flannery O’Conner, the same. John Steinbeck is inseparable from Salinas and Monterrey, California, even though he lived his last years in New York. Nathaniel Hawthorne brings up vivid pictures of Salem, Massachusetts. You get the idea. Location, setting, plays a prominent role in most great literature going right back to Scripture. Think about many important events in the Bible – often we are given detailed descriptions of the place where the scene occurs while the people involved go unnamed. Think of the story of the road to Emmaus; we know the name of one of the travelers, but not both. Yet, we know exactly where the road to Emmaus is.

My region would be northern New Mexico; the land haunts me, it is beautiful and stark at the same time. There is no reason that man should survive there, yet there have been American Indian tribes there for ages unknown. The architecture of the place is unlike that anywhere else, the adobe buildings seem to grow up from the ground, as if planted from seeds. It is also full of spirits that seem almost tangible, from those of the Native Americans to those of the first friars to explore the land from Spain; their presence seems to permeate the land, especially their old mission churches near Santa Fe and Taos. When I go into the mission at Taos, I can still see those friars who braved all kinds of danger to bring Christ to the New World, doing so out of great love, both for Christ and the native people they encountered, despite the bum wrap they get today. Their love shows in the Churches they built and the art that fills them.

Location is inescapable for any writer; a story without a setting is no story at all.

While I thought about all this, I came to recall my own conversion to the Church. The recollection was sparked when I stumbled across a book in my library that I had long forgotten about. It is by Fr. Michael Casey titled Sacred Reading¸ about the ancient monastic art of lectio divina, prayer while reading and meditating on Scripture. Lectio, a key element of monastic spirituality, played a critical role in my own conversion because it provided a bridge between the supposed sola scriptura foundation of my Presbyterian youth and the Church. Through the Scriptural foundation of lectio, I saw that faith in the Church, no less than in Protestantism, truly is founded on Scripture. It made straight my path to Rome. Then I remembered that one of the monastic vows made by monks is stability, the promise to remain tied to a certain monastery, a certain location, for life. Then I realized this is the exact opposite of the Franciscan spirituality of the mendicant, the roamer, the friar tied to no specific location.

This all hit me like a lightening bolt. For some time, I have felt that there was something amiss in my trying to follow the spirituality of the Franciscan Third Order, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Suddenly, here was the answer. Location has always played an important part in my own life; I chose to live in west Texas because I loved the land and wanted to be a part of it. I can’t say I feel quite as strongly about Colorado, but I do love the mountains, the exact opposite of the desert. The mountains are an inescapable feature of life here in the Springs.

I realized I had to explore this further, to see if it was real. I have made contact with the Camaldolese in Big Sur about their Oblate program and hope to spend regular time each day this Lent returning to the practice of lectio and reading and meditating on the Camaldolese Oblate Rule. I feel I must come to fully understand monastic spirituality and what it could mean for me.

I don’t know where all of this leads, but I feel it is highly important to follow the trail wherever it goes, even if it leads (figuratively) to a hermit’s cell in the desert. I just wish the desert could be in northern New Mexico.

I ask for your prayers; on Monday I tripped and fell and dislocated and fractured my right shoulder. I had surgery, which was successful, on Tuesday evening but face some time with my arm in a sling. There is a chance that in a couple of years I will need a shoulder replacement.

I haven’t posted in quite a while, mostly owing to spending nearly five out of the last ten weeks in Germany. I made two trips on business, one in the latter part of September for about 10 days, one in October for nearly three weeks. It is taking me some time to get back in my normal groove.

I had never been to Germany before; the truth is, I hadn’t really had much desire to go there, but I’m glad I had the chance and I found my time there interesting. The German people were almost universally friendly and helpful, I seldom ran into the stereotypical, gruff, unfeeling, Prussian type. Language was a bit of a barrier, but even then, most Germans, especially in the restaurants, spoke at least a little English, and with my fledgling attempts at German, we managed to survive. Of course, the beer was excellent. I became a real devotee of Heffe Weisen, a wheat beer that, I’m told, is the only beer served cold in Germany. Oh yes, then there is the Autobahn. You haven’t quite lived until you’ve driven at nearly 200 kph and been passed by a big Audi or Mercedes as if you doing 55 on the Interstate here in Colorado.

The cultural state of Germany is one of contrasts. There is little visible sign of faith anywhere, except . . . The exception is that Church bells in nearly every town ring on the quarter hour, day and night. Churches, in fact, are, in most towns, among the most prominent landmarks.

I attended Mass, the first Sunday I was there, in a German parish in Vierheim, there being no English masses available. The church itself was, I guess, at least 200 years old. Inside, the ceiling seemed so high as to be invisible with great stone columns reaching to heaven. There was an altar piece, the first one I have ever seen, that I thought looked like something from the 17th century, and the pews were nothing more than wooden boards stretched over straight wooden frames. This was a church built in a time when worship was serious business. The parish did have a modern sound system, Bose, I believe, as one concession to the twentieth century, if not the twenty-first.

The congregation seemed, as you might expect, nearly as old as the church. I don’t believe there were more than a few present under the age of 45 and perhaps only one family with children. The priest was close to, if not actually upon, the age of retirement. It was very noticeable, however, that everyone dressed more formally than we are used to here at home. Nearly all the men wore jacket and ties, if not suits, and the ladies skirts and dresses. I wish we could re-establish that custom in my parish. I will also say that the Church was nearly full. I thought that a good sign.

The Mass, an anticipated Mass on Saturday afternoon, did not seem to follow the order that I am familiar with. There were hymns. They were not, mind you, the tasteless treacle that we get so often in the States, but stately, tradition ones, inserted at odd places, for example after the opening prayer. There were only two readings, one from “Isaias� and one from the Gospel. During the Creed, one section of those in attendance, about a quarter of the people, very pointedly remained seated. I don’t know what that was about but I wasn’t comfortable with it. Also, perhaps because of the age of those in attendance and the austere design of the pews, there was little kneeling, only during the consecration and just after.

In spite of the atmosphere of antiquity of both man and building, there was one hopeful sign. Assisting at Mass was a young deacon, perhaps just newly ordained. He was the one show of youth in the entire celebration of the Mass and, I thought, just where it needed to be. I could not help thinking of Jesus words to Peter, “And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.� (Mt 16:18 ESV) It seems as long as there is the barest presence of the Church anywhere, she will not be overcome. Even when things seem bleakest, in a parish that would seem be facing extinction in the very near future, there is found a sign of renewal and new life to carry on the Truth. We will not be abandoned; the Church will not be overcome.

I should provide a brief personal update for the interval from my last post.

When I wrote that post, I didn’t intend to quit posting here altogether: I intended to put on record only that I’d try to cover items of real interest and import. I was simply trying to affirm that writing here was important to me for some reason I still do not understand. Then, life set in.

About three weeks ago, a new job opportunity appeared that was highly attractive and quite unexpected, I think for my new employer as well as for me. Anyway, a job was offered and accepted. Then there was the typical three week transition from old employer to new with the training of prospective replacement, “in-processing� to the new company and a highly accelerated introduction to the new job. It has been a hectic, almost dizzying three weeks.

Now comes a period of travel, two days this week in Norfolk, Virginia, then two weeks in, are you ready, Germany. I know, it’s a tough job, but someone has to do it. I’ve never been to Germany so I am curious to visit and see what the country is like. I hope I am able to meet the physical challenge of the trip, but the fact of a somewhat extended stay should mitigate the rigors of traveling, which are quite real for me now that I am a little advanced in years. I think the Norfolk trip will actually be harder, it coming just before the flight to Germany is a bit daunting, I have to admit. In any case, I am looking forward to seeing a new country.

I hope to be able to get a couple of posts in over the next three weeks, especially a picture or two from Germany, but just not sure what the schedule will bring in terms of internet connections.

The week has certainly been one of ups and downs. The weather seemed to set the mood.

We’ve had an unusually warm spell in Colorado over the last month or so with hot, dry winds and temperatures in the high eighties and low nineties. Then, yesterday, a cold front came through with much cooler air and very much needed rain. I read that at the airport we had more rain within an hour or so yesterday than we had in the entire month of May. Now, a warming trend seems to be returning. We may have snow next week, who knows.

I attended a funeral on Thursday that seemed to come under especially tragic circumstances for the family. Yet, those who spoke could talk only of faith and hope and trust in God’s promises, and a realization that we are all subjects of God’s eternal love and faithfulness. Yes, there was a lot of pain and grief at the loss of a very much loved father and grand father, but I came away thankful for the reminder that death will never win the final battle.

Then, yesterday morning, in advance of the cold and rainy day, just after dawn, the first new fawns of the year appeared in my backyard. I try to mark this event each year because of the awe I feel at the new life. It seems a new crop of fawns is a special gift to show God’s loving, creative hand is always at work, sometimes with a sense of humor. The two fawns had probably been born just an hour or two before I first spotted them. Mom was still cleaning them up and they were a bit wobbly on the stilts God gave them for legs. They were hungry, but couldn’t seem to decide between getting something to eat and getting out to explore their new world. They were perfect, as the work of His hands should be.

Then, too, I’ve been able to get some work done on the mystery. I’ve come to accept this will not progress as fast as I would like. I need to learn to write, to notice details, to get things down on paper. I need to practice, to learn the writer’s craft. If this takes weeks, or years to do, then so be it. I’ll keep plugging away and console myself at any sign of progress.

Posting may not be very regular over the next few months, but, on the other hand, the blog seems a proper place for at least some forms of writing practice. I ask your patience and your prayers.

Just one shot of the Thunderbirds from the Air Force Academy graduation yesterday. Our office sits just on the northern boundary of Academy property and, in this shot, the formation is passing just over our campus area. Someone else here got this picture and it is pretty good, better than mine.