Tag Archives: Pittsburgh
Are you from Pittsburgh?
Filed under Food, Friends, Presbytery of New York City
Maui – the bandannas
“Aloha!”
She gave the traditional greeting as I stepped into her display at the local artists store near the Maui Ocean Center.
“Aloha,” I replied.
“There’s lots more shirts over here,” she said.
“Thanks, I’m just looking.”
I had decided I wanted to get a bandanna or two in an Hawai’ian pattern. “I will know it when I see it,” I told Tricia, Bruce, and Nancy.
“What are you looking for?” she persisted.
“Do you have any bandannas?” I asked.
“No,” she replied. “A number of people have asked, but I don’t.”
“Oh, well. Thank you.”
“What size would it be?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Take it off,” she pointed to the bandanna I wore.
“Is it square?” she asked as I removed it.
“I think so.”
We measured. And it was not square. Close. But not square.
“I could make you one,” she said.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yes.”
We went to a table where she had fabrics. She moved through them. A red. A green. And then.
Black and gold. A traditional pattern. In Pittsburgh colors.
“This one,” I said.
“I don’t know,” she sounded concerned. “I could do red … ”
Her voiced trailed off. I did not understand. She turned and rummaged in a bag.
“Yes!” she said with a broad smile as she placed a skein of yellow string on the fabric.
“How many do you want?”
“How much would they cost?” I responded.
After we agreed on a price, she asked, “How long are you staying here?”
“Well, I could come back in a couple of days,” I replied.
“No. How long are you staying here today?” she asked. “Are you going to the restaurant?”
“We already ate,” I said. “But if you can make them today, I would wait.”
“I will make them,” she replied.
I went and found Tricia and told her what was happening. We wandered around the Pacific Whale Foundation and then each of us went our own way. I told her where to find my new friend and said I would meet her there.
After fifteen minutes or so, I went back. My friend was working away on a sewing machine. “Almost done,” she said.
I found Tricia. We bought a couple long sleeve shirts for our trip to Haleakala National Park. And then we went back.
“I made them a little larger than the one you had,” said the artist.
“That’s great!”
She started to bag them up. I asked her to stop and picked one up.
“You want to try it on?” she asked.
“I want to wear it out of here.”
She laughed and watched me put the bandanna on my head. “So that’s how you do it.”
“It’s my sunscreen.” She laughed again.
“I am Mark,” I said.
“I am Emi.”
“This is Tricia. And one more thing, if you are willing. I would like Tricia to take a photo of you and me.”
We ended up taking photos of Tricia and me. And Emi and me. We used Tricia’s phone. We used Emi’s phone. We laughed and smiled.
I got her card. We exchanged “Mahalo” multiple times. And Tricia and I left.
I knew what I wanted. I had seen it. And with Emi’s help, I have it.
See you along the Trail.
Homes
Thoughts of home have filled my last few days.
Or perhaps I should say thoughts about the many homes I know.
A video showing clips of movies filmed in Pittsburgh and a photo posted by my friend Mihee Kim-Kort about her family’s recent road trip, reminded me of the home where I grew: Neville Island.
I realized that no matter how much I like New York, where I now live; no matter how much I like Louisville where I spent ten years and where I make many trips for work; no matter how much I like Cleveland Heights where Tricia lives now and we raised our family; no matter how much, and most days how much means a great deal, I will always, always, always bleed black and gold.
But this week also saw our ministry host a group from First Presbyterian Church of Albuquerque, New Mexico. And in our conversations I found myself longing for Ghost Ranch and Northern New Mexico, the home of my soul, the place where, every time I visit, I know I belong in a way like I belong in no other place on the planet.
Home of my childhood.
Home of my family.
Home of transition.
Home of the present.
Home of my soul.
All precious places. All blur together.
I give thanks for my homes and I pray and work for the day when all people have a safe place to call home.
See you along the Trail.
Filed under Cleveland Heights, Family, Louisville, New York
Home
This originally appeared on Facebook as a response to a friend who asked:
What is home? How do you create a sense of home inside you?
After some reflection, I respond:
Home is the place where I belong, truly belong. I may find myself belonging in several places: Pittsburgh, where I grew up; Cleveland Heights where my wife lives and my children grew up; New York, where I live now. But home is the place (and it is not on that list) where my sense of belonging is strongest and most clear. It is the place I yearn for in times of stress and sorrow; it is the place that feeds my spirit and my soul even when I am not there. For me, I knew it was home the first time I arrived there.
Home are the people, past and present, who nurture and mentor me; challenge and infuriate me; love me.
Home is the place that awaits me.
Home is the journey. It is the Trail, in the language of this blog.
Home is a gift.
How would you answer?
See you along the Trail.
Choosing words
While waiting for a cab, I made the following observation:
I’m a New Yorker,
do y’all take plastic
to pay for cabs here?
An interesting choice of words, for one who bleeds black and gold.
See you along the Trail.
Filed under Travel
First came baseball
I am not sure I would have asked the question. Too many people have experienced abuse, abandonment, failure to love, and more from their fathers. Too many fathers have died too young. Too many wounds remain unhealed.
“What is your favorite memory of your father or your father figure?” Bob Brashear, pastor of West-Park Presbyterian Church, asked near the end of his sermon today.
My first thoughts went to those who had negative experiences of their fathers. I felt my heartstrings tightened as I considered the profound pain the simple question could touch.
Images of my father, gone too long, filled my head and heart. He was not perfect. None of us are. But he was a good, good man who loved me and my brother and sister well.
Memories came at me as thick as gnats on a hot, sultry night. When it came my turn to speak, I went with my first memories:
“Baseball. Playing catch in the back yard. Going to games. Baseball. In Pittsburgh.” I remembered, although I did not share, that as I child, when I would have to go to bed before a Pirates game finished, I would wake up in the morning to find a piece of paper with the score written in my father’s handwriting.
Memories. Blessed memories. As I rejoice in mine, my heart goes out to those who know pain.
Happy Father’s Day to fathers, stepfathers, grandfathers, and all, male and female alike, who have filled the role of fathers.
See you along the Trail.
P.S.:
Dodgers 3
Pirates 6
Making the most of our time: Roberto Clemente
I had not planned to make this post. It is an excerpt from a sermon I preached today. However, thanks to a friend, I learned that yesterday would have been Roberto Clemente’s 78th birthday and posting seemed important. The text is Ephesians 5:15-20.
The General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) met in Pittsburgh this summer. For some of those who attending, this marked the first time they had journeyed to the city built around three rivers. For me, it marked something of a homecoming. As I child, my family lived for about eight years on Neville Island about five or six miles from where the Ohio River begins in Pittsburgh.
Much has changed over the years since my family lived there. But when I walked into the Westin Hotel, I knew that I had returned home. There on the wall hung a picture of Roberto Clemente—the hero of my childhood who has remained my hero through the years.
Clemente hailed from Puerto Rico and played right field for the Pittsburgh Pirates for 18 years. One of the first Hispanic players, he played in the face of prejudice—he faced jeers and slurs. People who had only one language mocked him for speaking English—his second language—poorly. Because of the prejudice against Hispanic players and because he played in the small market town of Pittsburgh, Clemente never received the acclaim as a player that he deserved until late in his career.
And he deserved acclaim because he could play. He won twelve Golden Gloves for his defense. He had one of the strongest throwing arms that have ever been seen. He ended his career with 3,000 hits.
The people of Puerto Rico and Pittsburgh admired Clemente for his athletic ability but even more we admired him and we admire him for the way he lived his life off the field. In the words of Ephesians, he “made the most of his time.”
Clemente engaged in humanitarian work in Puerto Rico and in Pittsburgh alike. He demanded respect for himself and the people of Puerto Rico and other Latin American countries. He worked for people who lived in poverty and responded to the needs of his sisters and brothers. He reached out to children and provided them with opportunities to develop their own athletic talents. In 1973, Clemente was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal and the first Presidential Citizens Medal. In 2002, he was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom. Baseball has named its annual award for community involvement after Clemente.
A massive earthquake hit Managua, Nicaragua on December 21, 1972. The quake devastated the city, with thousands either dead or left homeless. Clemente organized relief efforts in Puerto Rico. When he learned that some of the aid had ended up in the pockets of the leaders and had not reached the people of Nicaragua, Clemente decided to deliver the next shipment personally. On New Year’s Eve, he stepped into a DC-7 plane along with the supplies and headed for Nicaragua. Not long after takeoff the plane suddenly lost altitude and crashed somewhere into the waters off Puerto Rico. Clemente’s body was never found.
I tell his story this morning, because the United Nations has designated today, August 19, as World Humanitarian Day. The day marks the anniversary of the 2003 bombing of the United Nations headquarters in Baghdad. That bombing killed 22 people present to provide humanitarian aid to the people of Iraq. The UN chose the day to pay tribute to Sergio Vieira de Mello and the other individuals who died in Iraq and others who gave their lives while seeking to serve sisters and brothers in need.
It is also a day to give thanks for those individuals and groups who continue to help people around the world, regardless of who they are and where they are. It is a day when we remember that we all can make a difference when we show that we care and do something for someone else. In the language of the church, this is a day to invite, to challenge us all to make the most of our time by loving others as God in Jesus Christ loves us. Of course that is not just a task for a day—it is a calling for a lifetime.
On this World Humanitarian Day, I give thanks for the life and witness of Roberto Clemente. I advocated for an end to violence against women and for the strong regulations on minerals that fuel conflict in the Democratic Republic of Congo and other places. And I made a financial gift to efforts to address leukemia. Tomorrow I will need to find other actions.
See you along the Trail.
Filed under Baseball, Human Rights, Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.)