FROM THE SHOE

And the Oscar Goes To…

The best 2023 Stories and Performances From the Shoe

Live from sunny Antioch, California is the 2023 From The Shoe Oscars. Twenty Twenty-Three was an exceptional year at the Shoe. Dramatic as well as comedic stories and performances abound. The industry here at the Shoe has undergone many changes and those changes are reflected in last year’s stories.

The Best Actress category is filled with spectacular and moving performances. The nominees for Best Actress are:

Donna Fentanes “Let Me Know”
Eleanor Fentanes “Bruh!”
Esperanza Fentanes “You Don’t Need to Know”
Eloisa Fentanes “A Friend From Work”
Evangelina Fentanes “Nevermind”

And the FTS Oscar goes to…Donna Fentanes for her patient, understated and restrained performance in “Let Me Know”. Congratulations, Donna!

Though the Best Actor category is a little sparse, it, nonetheless, comprises strong and impactful performances including a memorable performance by wunderkind, Peyton Carter. The nominees for Best Actor are:

Elias Fentanes “Mom, I’m a Full Grown Man”
Evaristo Fentanes “The Eighty Hour Work Week”
Peyton Carter “I Don’t Wanna…”

And the FTS Oscar goes to…Elias Fentanes for his consistent, strong and determined performance in “Mom, I’m a Full Grown Man”. Congratulations, Elias!

The nominees for Best Picture are:

“Almost Untethered” by Donna Fentanes. Critically acclaimed, “Almost Untethered” is about a former middle-aged woman’s emotional ups and downs as her children fly the emotional nest while still living with her physically.

“Working Girl” by Eleanor Fentanes. Underscoring the plight of Gen Z, “Working Girl” is about a young 20-ish woman who embarks on a 40 hour work week and experiences the emotional and physical ups and downs of working full time as well as enjoying the financial benefits of earning one’s own money.

“Cat Lady” by Esperanza Fentanes. Sympathetic with cat lovers, “Cat Lady” explores the emotional ups and downs of a 20-something young woman as she juggles work, school and her two cats who wreck havoc on her life.

“Travels with Mario & Luigi” by Elias Fentanes. Adrenaline junkies adored “Travels with Mario & Luigi” which is about a full grown man’s travels around the country going on various and sundry adventures with his friends.

“Driver’s License” by Eloisa Fentanes. Highlighting a teen’s rite of passage, “Driver’s License” is about a late teenager’s emotional ups and downs as she learns how to drive and experiences the freedom and financial impact of passing her driving test.

And the FTS Oscar goes to…Eleanor Fentanes for “Working Girl”. A young adult braves the treacherous trenches of the 40 hour work force. Her emotional ups and downs are brilliantly portrayed by Ms. Fentanes herself. Congratulations, Eleanor!

What a phenomenal year of stories! Twenty twenty-four is looking just as good as well with early entries such as: the election story “What is a Primary?”, adult dental decisions “Should I go Under?” and retirement worries such as “I Can’t Live Off of That”.

What Was I Thinking?

My youngest turns 20 today. So, that’s a wrap, right? Pretty much. All the days of finding shoes, making breakfast and driving to various and sundry places (SF Bayshore District at midnight, for one) comes quietly to an end, like the slow fade out at the end of a movie.

What was I thinking having ten kids…ten kids in seventeen years? Really! Not only do I blame my ex-husband (who wanted the decuplet), but also Frances Hodgson Burnett for writing about Dickon’s family in such a way that enticed me to dream of a small home overflowing with children, love, laughter, baking and animals. Alas, “the best laid plans of mice and men”…literature should have warning labels.

After the divorce, it was my primary motivation, responsibility and obsession to finish rearing this motley crew of characters – the main characters in my story – and provide as best I could a decent education, healthcare and some spiritual direction. To help them overcome the inevitable emotional hurdles they would face in the wake of a broken home, in the wake of a father who left and in the wake of a mother who stayed, but was herself very flawed.

One by one they graduated or flew the coop. One by one they found their footing and began to tread their path. One by one they no longer needed me. But I still needed them. I still needed to be needed. What was I to do now?

It wasn’t the fifteen years of inadequate sleep, nor the refereeing between squabbling siblings, nor even the hand ringing, tums popping nights as I waited up for them to come home, but it was when they declared their independence from me, that was the hard, painful pill to swallow. My characters were leaving the show. My show. Me.

Now, I know I was only a temporary guardian of these souls. I know that they were not going to remain with me forever. But I didn’t know it would go by so fast, nor did I know that the end would seem so abrupt and nor did I anticipate the emotional impact that would leave me feeling very ALONE. “And only I am left on stage to end the play.”

They’ve started their stories, their own shows as they should. They’ve taken center stage. I am just a supporting character. I remember being their age and what I wanted to do. That was all I thought about. I didn’t think about my parents and what emotional experience they may be having when their children grew up and moved out.

What WAS I thinking? Even though My Secret Garden dream didn’t come about as I’d hoped, I’m thankful for my ten kids. We had lots of laughter, a small home crammed with kids, puppies, chickens, friends, cats and hole-digging, fort-building and bread making. Yes, of course, there were dark times, obviously; but despite them, my children gave me so much joy. Now, they give me grandchildren….compound joy! I am very blessed. And I hope and pray that their childhood will serve them well. Kids, break a leg!

So, what am I thinking now? Ride (or write) away into the senescent sunset? No, I don’t think so. Lord willing, I think there may still be a second act left in me. Break a leg, Donna!

Screenwriting News

Hello Blog Readers,

Just an update on my screenwriting endeavors. My friend, Nikki Hevesy, made a short film this past year. Earlier this spring, I began helping her with entries to various film festivals. I noticed some of these festivals had corresponding screenwriting contests.

The 168 Film Festival has a writing competition called the Write of Passage. It is a speed writing contest. Each year the competition has a theme upon which a Bible verse is based. The Bible verse is the prompt to a 7 day screenwriting contest. You have 7 days to complete a screenplay of 12 pages or less. What’s great about this competition is that you are assigned a mentor who guides, teaches and helps you perfect your script. Over the past ten years or so, I have entered, and subsequently, amassed a collection of about ten short screenplays.

So, as I was helping Nikki, I began to enter some of my short scripts in various contests. I got a very good response from quarterfinalist to finalist to … finally … today, a win.

The best I had done in the Write of Passage Contest was Finalist…so this is new territory. I hope this win and maybe future wins will open doors to a Shoelady Sequel….since my stint as a mom of ten kids is over, at least the child rearing.

Thanks always for your support.

Donna

Two Thousand Years Ago

In 2026, we will celebrate the 250th anniversary of the birth of our country. Let’s hope we make it. In 2017, Protestants celebrated the 500th anniversary of the Reformation. Around 2030, we will celebrate the 2000th anniversary of the ministry, death and resurrection of the Greatest Life that walked this “terrestrial ball”. The anniversary of His physical life and death is worth noting, and celebrating, because of Who He was and Who He is.

I am amazed when I think that Jesus Christ, Who Christians believe to be the Incarnate Creator God, physically walked this planet exactly two thousand years ago. The Son of God was walking around Incognito in Nazareth two thousand years ago today. Since the year of His birth is said to be by scholars about 6-4 BCE, then He’d be, in the flesh, twenty something.

There is no written record of what He was doing as a young adult. Before He began His public ministry, He most likely worked as a carpenter like His step-father, Joseph. An interesting, creative, simple, sweat-of-the-brow occupation, one that my family knows very well. Sweat-of-the-brow.. how ironic, that’s not something He should have been doing. That curse was reserved for Adam and his descendants. Yet, within ten years, He would bear more of Adam’s curse, He would bear his sins as well as the sins of all of his descendants. Today we remember that sacrifice, that gift, His Passion.

Today we remember the darkest day of human history, the day when Jesus Christ was murdered for political expedience, so it seemed. He was inconvenient, He was uncontrollable and He was very popular, definitely on Palm Sunday. Unfortunately, the voices, the sentiments, on Palm Sunday – “Blessed in He Who comes in the name of the Lord” – were replaced by the voices and sentiments on Good Friday – “Crucify Him!” Perhaps even by the same voices, how fickle is man!

Two thousand long years have passed since This Man walked the dirt roads of Galilee and Judea. Two thousand long years, His followers have tried to live out His last command, often imperfectly. Two thousand long years have passed while the Church awaits His return.

We are blessed by the sacrifice He made that Good Friday almost two thousand years ago. Our sins have been paid for, we have been redeemed, we have been forgiven of the very object that kept us separated from God, the Father.

God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. – 2 Corinthians 5:21

Therefore if any man is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things passed away; behold, new things have come. – 2 Corinthians 5:17

We are blessed by the new life He gave us through this sacrifice.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade. – 1 Peter 1:3-4

And we are finally blessed with a living hope, the confident hope of His return. A verse that is engraved in gold on the mausoleum that my grandfather built and where he and my grandmother rest – the Holy Cross Mausoleum in Colma, California – shouts, if you will, over all the gravestones at Holy Cross, some which include my parents and many other friends and relatives:

Looking for that blessed hope, and the glorious appearing of the great God and our Savior Jesus Christ…- Titus 2:13

Our Savior is a living Savior, a living Friend and as Thomas solemnly declared after putting his fingers upon the wounds on His hands and His side, “My Lord and My God.” Today as we remember His great gift to us, and on Sunday we will remember His resurrection. We will remember our Lord and our God is not dead. He is a living Savior poised to return to the earth He trod two thousand years ago. He will tread the earth again.

And in that day His feet will stand on the Mount of Olives, which faces Jerusalem on the east. And the Mount of Olives shall be split in two, From east to west, making a very large valley; half of the mountain shall move toward the north and half of it toward the south. – Zechariah 14:4

One day we shall behold Him, one day we shall see Him face to face. If you don’t know this Jesus, crack open a Bible and read the book of Luke or John and get to know this incredible Person, this Person who died for you nearly two thousand years ago and this Person Who will be your greatest Friend, your Savior and your Lord and your God.

“Blessed is He Who comes in the name of the Lord!”

“Oh, Mystery of Life…”

“Look among the nations and see; wonder and be astounded. For I am doing a work in your days that you would not believe if told.” – Habakkuk 1:5

I was recovering from COVID last month. COVID was kinda scary. I was sick last fall – non-COVID – and wasn’t worried about recovering. But with COVID, I didn’t know what was gonna happen. I was pretty sick for a few days, and slowly, got my strength and health back. But I did get somewhat depressed. I was holed up in my room for days, couldn’t really go anywhere and got bored of watching TV. I began to feel despairing. I felt that there wasn’t anything left to do. Hopeless, if you will.

Then there has been some domestic turbulence since we landed into our new house, and that grieved me. And maybe some subsequent grief from my parents’ passing still tugged at my heart. You know when you’re sick, your mother is the only one who can take care of you, who wants to take care of you. And, possibly, the fact that my youngest turned 18 last year, and she and the others no longer needed me. Probably all of these combined with being sick had me feeling down in the dumps. I mean “depths of despair” dumps.

On top of all that, I’m the kind of person that looks forward to things. I had been looking forward to buying a house for a long time. I spent a lot of time browsing through Redfin. And then the big moment came when I took the plunge and bought a nice house. And now that I’ve committed to staying in one place for awhile, all that energy I expended looking and dreaming for the next thing (which, of course, was greener grass syndrome) needs to be redirected because the next thing is here. And now I have to deal with the reality of these choices. And that’s not a bad thing, but it is an uncomfortable thing. It is a different thing, a thing I’m not used to. I always liked feeling that I had an exit plan. Even though I’m not going anywhere soon, Lord willing, I am still feeling Unmoored.

So here I am in this funk when I hear David Crosby died two weeks ago. I wasn’t a big fan of his, I don’t think I even liked him. I heard he was a difficult kind of character. But I did like CSN and CSN&Y, had most of their albums, and listened often when I was young. I was too young to be a real hippie, but, in the ’70’s, I did appreciate the folk music of the ’60’s. “Teach Your Children” was my graduating class song. I, eventually, became a real Neil Young fan. All my kids know “Four Strong Winds”.

From this great music that I listened to in my youth, a branch broke out which became the Contemporary Christian Music movement. A natural by-product of the Jesus Revolution of the ’60’s and ’70’s. So significant was this movement that even the great Bob Dylan dabbled in it for a time. Many of the artists at that time became Christians.

So while I was down the CSN and David Crosby rabbit hole, I remembered the music I listened to when I was a new Christian. I remembered Barry McGuire. He had been entrenched in the whole ’60’s scene and was famous for his songs “Green, Green” (which I learned in my favorite Sixth Grade class) and “Eve of Destruction”. Although I was faintly familiar with his folk music, it was his music after he became a Christian that impacted my life…even to this day. His “Cosmic Cowboy” album was one of my first Christian music records along with Don Francisco’s “He’s Alive” and John Michael Talbot’s “Come to the Quiet”. This music was so much a part of a happy time of my life. I loved most of the songs on “Cosmic Cowboy”. I remembered particularly “Mystery of Life”. Folky, beautiful and filled with Christian truths that compels one to worship.

So, I switched over to his music and relistened to some of these old favorites of mine. And guess what? While I remembered those fun times as a young Christian adult, I remembered the joy and excitement of having found Christ. Even though I was raised in a Christian household, no one exhibited the joy I found as a young woman. This relationship with Christ has been the living constant of my life for the past 43 years.

Oh, Mystery of Life
I’ve seen Your rivers flowin’
Rollin’ through the windows
Out along the edge of time
Looms of living light
Your solar winds come blowin’
Weavin’ through the patterns
Scattered here within my mind

Behind the brush, the Master Painter
Picks the colors that He uses
Red and gold, green and blue
Colors just for me an’ you
Why, every pattern has a meanin’
That the Pattern Maker chooses
Every line is so revealing
Givin’ us a special clue.

Oh, Mystеry of Life
I’ve seen Your rivers flowin’
Rollin’ through thе windows
Out along the edge of time
Looms of living light
Your solar winds come blowin’
Weavin’ through the patterns
Scattered here within my mind

Everywhere His hand has written
Everywhere I see His name
Through the skies across the mountains
Thunderin’ lightnin’ fallin’ rain
From His hand all life is molded
In His breath a livin’ flame
He lit the stars and gave His Son
Through Him all life has come
Writers: Barry McGuire, Mike Deasy

I listened and listened to these old songs, and I remembered the woman I was in those years, before I was married, before I had kids, before the waves of difficulties swept over me. And I began to hope again, I began to feel that joy again as I remembered Him Who is the same yesterday, today and forever. Like being reintroduced to my First Love.

The point is, is that through difficult times, through unknown times and times of uncertainty when our anchor feels wobbly or untethered, there are devices, there are tools to help us get through.

There are the Scriptures, of course, which always re-anchor us to our foundation. And then there’s our music, the soundtrack of our individual lives, before and after Christ. And those songs that somehow, in that wonderful power of art that taught us about ourselves and revealed ourselves to ourselves, they can renew us during dark times, hopeless times and unsettled times.

The Song of the Lark & The Power of Art

*“The Song of the Lark” by Jules Breton 1884*

The power of art is no small thing. I’ve been moved all my life by music, film, paintings and literature as well as the Biblical Stories by the greatest Artist. Strands from all of these disciplines make up the person I am . When I encounter a familiar piece of art in an unexpected place, I feel like it is a divine smile…wink, if you will. I believe God uses art to communicate to us personally as well as through the Bible.

I wrote in “La Dolce Vita” of the time I went to Rome with my mom, and the one thing I had to see there was Michelangelo’s “Moses”. For some unknown reason, our hotel accommodations were lost, and the travel agent rebooked us in a hotel on the Via Cavour….across the street from my Moses. My mother got to see the Pope, and I got to visit Moses many times.

The same thing happened when I viewed “Of Gods & Men”, the beautiful French film by Xavier Beauvois. I learned that the seven monks were kidnapped on my birthday…the one I spent in Rome.

There are numerous songs that I enjoy. But there are a few that minister deep down, releasing unknown emotions. “Broken Vow” by Lara Fabian is one of them. If anyone has been left, or betrayed, this song will release those cisterns of pain and make them seep out of your eyes. This song assuaged a great deal of pain.

Karl Paulnack, in an address to a freshmen class at Boston Conservatory, spoke about the power of art, music in particular: “I have come to understand that music is not part of “arts and entertainment” as the newspaper section would have us believe. It’s not a luxury, a lavish thing that we fund from leftovers of our budgets, not a plaything or an amusement or a pass time. Music is a basic need of human survival. Music is one of the ways we make sense of our lives, one of the ways in which we express feelings when we have no words, a way for us to understand things with our hearts when we can’t with our minds.“

That is the power of art. The other day, I was just laying on my bed. I bought the above painting, I think, from some garage sale. I didn’t know who painted it, but I liked because it reminded me of Millet’s works. So as I was laying on the bed, I looked up at the painting, I wondered if the sun was setting or coming up. I couldn’t tell if the young lady was going to work or going home.

Now….not a half hour later, when I was looking at reels on Instagram – my latest shortcoming – there was one of Bill Murray talking about an experience he had with a piece of art. I listened. I like those stories. He tells how in a desperate moment he ended up in front of the Art Institute of Chicago. He decided to go in. And there was a piece of art that affected him so dramatically, he says it saved his life. That piece was “The Song of the Lark”, the same piece I was just looking at and thinking about. Wow!! I love when those things happen.

“The Song of the Lark” was painted by Jules Breton in 1884. Willa Cather wrote a novel by the same name. The consensus is the young girl pauses on her way to work at daybreak to listen to the song of the lark. Maybe she is the lark…but regardless, this is the painting Bill Murray said that gave him hope, a second chance.

For me, as one who is looking to a new kind of future – a new day – with my kids all grown, I sense hope and a second chance to maybe do some of the things I wanted to do before I had kids or confidence or competence. I encourage everyone to not only let a little Bible in your life, but let some art in too. You’ll be in for some nice surprises.

A man should hear a little music, read a little poetry, and see a fine picture every day of his life, in order that worldly cares may not obliterate the sense of the beautiful which God has implanted in the human soul. – Goethe

Ditching the Helicopter

It’s time to hang up my helmet…

Helicopter graphic by the incomparable Breena Nuñez

I’ve been a mom for almost 35 years. I passed Helicopter Parenting 101 with flying colors. My friend admirably remarked once that, “You always know where your kids are!” I was proud of that….but it’s time to retire the whirlybird. My youngest just graduated from high school last week, and promptly moved to LA. What!!!???

I thought I was doing well…trying not to care where they were or when they’re gonna be coming home. Trying to mind my own business (which for three and a half decades was them). But tonight, a friend of my daughter’s was over and they were going out….I “kneejerked” suggested they get something for their brother….their brother who is 28 years old….”a grown man” he always reminds me. Shoot, I can’t undo my meddling or their embarrassment.

So….I am going to retire the helicopter, and entrust these birdies to God. Y’all pray for me because worrying and fretting is in my nature, I inherited it from the best – my dad. We are so thankful he never had a cell phone. But he did just fine with a landline. We all have stories of him tracking someone down who he was worried about. I think Katie has the best stories, he called hospitals, police departments and the CHP looking for her once.

Uhm…I haven’t gone that far…except, maybe, when Eva and Nonnie missed their train stop in San Bruno. They were young, about 14. They both had phones, and both their phones, of course, had died. And it was 10:00 at night. A perfect worrying storm. How I lived through those years, I don’t know. A good and gracious God, no doubt, helped his anxious daughter.

Anyway, I am waiting at the train for these two girls. The 10:00 train, heading towards the City (the only real City – San Francisco) comes…and goes. No girls get off. Huh? Oh no…

I don’t have my phone because I left it with Espi at the house in case they called. OK, maybe they’re getting off at South City. So, I race over there. Nobody is to be found in that scary, desolate station.

So as I was beginning to hyperventilate, I run over to the nearby 7-11 and call Espi to find out if she had heard from Eva. She responds, “Yeah…all she said was that the next station is ‘Bayshore'”.

Oh crap….

Anyone familiar with San Francisco knows that the Bayshore area off 101 isn’t the best neighborhood, especially for two young teenagers, and most especially at night. It’s almost 11:00 now. I race over to the Bayshore station which is not far from a few, uhm, well, uhm, unsavory areas of the City. There is NO ONE there. It’s a large, dark station and I don’t even know where they would’ve even gotten off at. It’s almost 11:30. My blood pressure is climbing. I don’t know what to do.

I run back to San Bruno to my trusty pay phone at 7-11, and call Espi again for any update. None. So what could I do, but go full blown Dad Mode. I call the police, I call the San Francisco Police, the South San Francisco Police and the San Bruno Police. Did I miss anyone? Each of those agencies went and looked for two teenage girls at their respective stations and found no one.

So I go back to the San Bruno station and wait in the parking lot trying to figure out what to do next, fighting off the worst that possibly could go wrong. Not long after midnight, the last train pulls into the station, the train from the City, and off pops our girls.

And in an indignant, but relieved, imitation of my father, I take a deep breath and ask pointedly, “Where the hell have you guys been?”

They weren’t too keen on all the story details when I told them on our way home. Well, too *&^##! bad.

I should’ve ditched the helicopter then…yet, I still had another decade of mothering to go. But, it’s time now to retire the worry, the anxiety and the overseeing. They are on their own. Mission accomplished.

It’s time to let them go, let them go out “the gate” and live their own lives. Their lives which were so much a part of mine. I knew from the beginning I was only a temporary guardian, and that role is complete now. Though they were the stars of my show, I must be happy to be only a supporting character in theirs. It’s okay.

I’m looking forward to a new future…with new experiences and new freedoms. But I will always miss my littles, and I will continue to watch – and pray – from afar, just not overhead.

https://wordpress.com/post/fromtheshoe.com/67 – Hope for the Helicopter Mom

Sunrise, Sunset

Is this the little girl I carried?

Is this the little boy at play?

I don’t remember growing older

When did they?

When did she get to be a beauty?

When did he grow to be so tall?

Wasn’t it yesterday

When they were small?

Sunrise, sunset

Swiftly flow the days

Seedlings turn overnight to sunflowers

Blossoming even as we gaze

Sunrise, sunset

Swiftly fly the years

One season following another

Laden with happiness and tears.

I was listening to Pandora, I think, just yesterday, and “Sunrise, Sunset” sung by Roger Whittaker came on. Of course, the poignant memories of little children begin to seep out of my eyes just like when I hear Joni Mitchell’s “The Circle Game”. I know this is a wedding song…but I cannot but feel it is an appropriate song for today, February 15, 2022, the 18th birthday of my youngest child.

It’s been over 35 years since I started this journey of child rearing. Despite the longevity of this career, I feel like I am still such a novice, that the only thing I succeeded at with my kids was to worry about them. I oughta get an award for that, and they’ll agree. “You’re just like Papa!”, they say. That accusation doesn’t bother me anymore, there are other areas I wish I were “just like Papa”.

It’s been a long and winding road…laden with happiness and many tears. I bungled my way through. I feel so much like Gideon, so ill-equipped innately for the calling I chose. Yes, I chose them all. But…yes, but…I know Gideon’s God. And He has helped so very much.

My happiness wasn’t theirs. My happiness consisted of when they said profound things like when I offered Ricky some money, and he said, “No you keep it, you need it more than me.” Or when Chico gave five dollars to a homeless person at Richmond Bart, “he looked like he needed it more than me.” Or when Emilio texted, “I was just thinking of all you do, and your a really strong woman.” Or when Ellie stole Kevin Durant’s MVP speech, and wrote lovingly in a Mother’s Day card, “You’re the real MVP.” Or when little 8 year old Eloisa, always joyful, always thankful, declared, “I am thankful for having a great life.” Even when she shared a room with her mom and a number of sisters, even when times were tough.

Or when they did amazingly quiet, but extraordinarily kind things like when Eva scheduled a massage for me minutes after the ER doctor suggested it. Or when 14 year old Elizabeth stayed two nights at the hospital with her youngest brother so he wouldn’t be scared. Or when Espi, who during a hard time in her life, kept my anxious father company. He was comforted knowing she was in the house with him. Or when Evaristo apologized sweetly to his sister after an ugly fight. Or when Eugene wrote song lyrics about his grandmother watering her plants on the porch of the river cabin. “The Closest Place I Call Home.” She is there in his dream.

My cup runneth over with love (Ed Ames is singing right now)…these are but examples of the many, many happinesses I’ve reaped. Yes, there were many tears…but I hope those tears are what caused these seedlings to turn overnight to sunflowers…blossoming even as I gazed. They are a good bunch.

So, happy birthday, Eloisa! As you look forward from the sunrise of your life, I begin to gaze at twilighted sky unsure of what lies ahead. But, that’s OK, because I go with Gideon’s God.

“The Christmas Express”

Hop into the holiday season with this quaint, family-friendly live performance at the Bay Church, Concord.

What’s not to love about a local holiday theater production? “The Christmas Express” written by Pat Cook and performed by the Performing Arts Ministry of the Bay Church in Concord whistles with nostalgia, humor, profundity and a mixed-up bag of memorable characters.

The old train station in Holly had seen better days. Station Master Hilda still pines for the old days while grumbling in the present. Her assistant, Satch, is no help to cheer her up. Homespun characters make their way to the station and try to brighten up the season. It’s not until a mysterious stranger appears from a mysterious train and proceeds to transform the station and the town.

Friday night’s performance was just what the doctor ordered for local, entertaining holiday fare. The comic cues were on point, the characters were well developed, and the staging and costumes contributed to the nostalgic feel of the story. A young audience member exclaimed, “I liked it. It was funny!” Rick Kerns noted, “Great expressions, the cast was extraordinary!”

Come and see for yourself! Start out your holiday season on “The Christmas Express”.

Two more performances next week, Thursday and Friday, November 11 and 12, 7:30 PM curtain time, 4725 Evora Road, Concord.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas!”

The Ministry of Nature

Healing Memories of the Russian River

At church today, the sermon was about Genesis chapter one. The pastor did a great job breaking down the first six days of creation. His premise had to do with the “formless and void” description of pre-created life. Along these lines, he traced how God took that which was formless and void, and then he broke down the work of creation into two categories: form and filling, and showed how the creation days related to one another. It was great.

He showed how Day 1’s creation was form building not unlike concrete form making, however, on a mega-macro level, and Day 4 was its “filling” mate, like pouring in the concrete. Same with Day 2 and Day 5, and Day 3 and Day 6. I have never seen that before. It was so exciting. However, his comments about creation are what prompted this blog post, and how it relates to the River for me.

At the end of the sermon, he wrapped up his message with these points, that creation was like a temple where heaven and earth come together, that creation is a gift, a gift to see and receive from God, and finally that creation longs for Emmanuel. Now, I guess for a long time I discounted physical creation as something of this world, temporal, if you will, and that it might be a little anti-spiritual. I did appreciate creation, and knew it was God’s handiwork, but I didn’t realize there was something more to it than physical beauty. I didn’t look close enough nor long enough at the mountains and hills, I didn’t listen long enough to the soothing cadence of the ocean’s tide. I enjoyed the river growing up, but it wasn’t until life got pretty hard did I benefit from the divine ministry of creation, particularly, the Russian River. These are a few of my memories of healing by God’s creation.

Back in 2006, I was at the river attending a summer party memorial for my life long river friend’s dad, a sweet and kind man. It was during one of the lowest times of my life. I was emotionally and physically spent. After the party, my little ones and I went for a swim, it was really hot that day. As I lay in the river, looking up at the redwoods, redwoods that have probably seen much worse than what I was going through, I allowed the river just to hold me, and soothe me. I felt like I was melting into its cool caress. I didn’t understand it then, but this was the healing ministry of nature.

Another time, about ten years later, I came to the river. At this visit I declared to my niece, I am here for the ministry of nature. I knew I needed a rest and I knew how powerful time spent at the river was. I know it was before my dad passed away because my niece and I were exhausted and saddened with his deteriorating condition. The last year of his life was difficult, had he been able to come up to the river, perhaps his anxiety may have lessened. Perhaps. My dad loved the river. He first started coming up here when he was a little boy. I have yet to find out how my grandfather discovered the river. And how he met my life long river friend’s grandfather. The same redwoods I looked to for comfort and peace watched my dad with my friend’s mom and uncle scooting up and down the river in his boat. Those trees sure have seen some things.

Finally, the summer after my father died, I came up. Again, my niece and I sat at the pier watching the kids swim…like what her parents did, like what my parents did, and like what my grandparents did. But one of the river’s faithful friends was no longer with us. It was a somber visit, yet still beautiful because of what the river is.

As we sat there, my niece suddenly jumped out of her chair, “Oh my gosh…!” I jumped up as well thinking maybe there was a drowning down towards Roland’s. “What…what?” I asked.

“It’s a bald eagle!” she said stunned, pointing down river.

I have been going to the river for most of my 59 years, I have NEVER seen a bald eagle this far up river. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bald eagle. After we scurried around with cameras and phones, and took as many pictures as we could, we looked at each other and knew. This eagle was a divine visit, a divine gift that perhaps my father, her beloved papa, wasn’t so far away. And that perhaps he was keeping an eagle eye on his family and the river he loved. Another little gift, a blessed gift that comforted those who were mourning.

I don’t know what seismic convulsions or riparian residue caused the Russian River to wend and wind its way down from Willits to Jenner in the manner it presently does. I don’t know how my grandfather stumbled upon this place nearly ninety years ago. I don’t know how he met my life long river friend’s grandfather. But I do know I belong here, albeit a newer arrival compared to this slender body of water and her tall, beautiful, evergreen guards. This is my inheritance, this is my children’s and grandchildren’s inheritance not just as a Moore, but as Christians. My father may have given us this place and these memories, but I must thank my Heavenly Father, the Creator, the One Who actually designed all this beauty, the One Who formed and filled this void that we enjoy visually and physically. He also empowered His creation, this creation, with healing, joy and peace. Thank you, Lord.

“But blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord,
whose confidence is in him. For he shall be like a tree planted by the waters,
Which spreads out its roots by the river,
And will not fear when heat comes;
But its leaf will be green,
And will not be anxious in the year of drought,
Nor will cease from yielding fruit.”

Jeremiah 17:7,8