Mike and Linda Christmas 2018

2018 brought major changes for us. Where to start? Oh, right. Theo.

Theo at about two weeks of age.  (You can click on all images to enlarge them)

Theodore David Muse arrived March 19, juussst a bit outside his due date. Though premature he has thriven. He smiles and flirts with one and all. Mama Laura and Papa Sam have continued their well-lived lives, teaching and advising clients, volunteering and faithfully participating in their church. Grandma Linda loves her Thursdays, when she gets to watch Theo. Tell you what, this grandparenting gig is worth the wait.

Thanksgiving, Theo at eight months

 Son Dan became Doctor Dan in May, then started his residency in pediatrics at his dream placement, Riley Children's Hospital in Indianapolis. In his slivers of free time he does really nice things like escort his Grandmother Dotti to England for cousin Molly's wedding, takes hikes with us and our dogs and explores his new community. 

Dr. Riggins and his incredibly proud parents following graduation at the Lincoln Center, NYC

 After twenty-one years in Traverse City we moved to Terre Haute. The gravitational pull of having all other generations in both our families living in Central Indiana became too great to resist. Mike still pinches himself a little, wondering how God could have given him a pastorate at the healthy, active, welcoming Central Presbyterian Church. Life has become considerably busier, more formal, more urban—and those who know us well understand these might not have been what we thought we preferred. Yet we are happy!

Central Presbyterian with plaque for Three-Fingered Mordecai Brown, baseball Hall of Famer and Terre Haute native

Linda spends that one day a week caring for Theo and his house. She also directs a children's mentoring program for our church in a part-time capacity and volunteers at a food pantry. She enjoys volunteering at the same elementary school where she mentors a child, filling backpacks with good food needy children take home over the weekends. 

Dan and Dotti at the second most important wedding to take place on British soil in 2018

When not hanging out with our church and families, our time gets absorbed by the huge project of getting our new (old) house knocked into shape. Truly, life is good. God is good. We have landed on our feet in a different place. We are filled with thanksgiving and praise. 

210 Circle Dr.  If we ever get it renovated you'll have to stop in for a visit

 Here's hoping you feel blessed this year—and this time of year. Merry Christmas! 
 

A happy momma and a happier Mr. T

With love, Mike and Linda Riggins 

Picante Sans Frontieres

Every so often I receive an email from Medecines Sans Frontieres, the French branch of Doctors Without Borders. I suppose I should be flattered they think I can read French, but I cannot even figure out which link at the end would unsubscribe me.

This makes me consider how often I fake it. I hate having to admit when I do not know something.

Years ago a wonderful aroma lured me into a church kitchen. We had taken a youth group to Mexico, and our hosts were preparing lunch. The women cooking the meal asked me something in Spanish. I can usually get the sense of simple things written in Spanish, but the spoken language defeats me, mostly with its rapid pace. Still, their smiles and gestures seemed to communicate they were offering me a taste. I nodded. One of them handed me a big spoon. I headed for the nearest pot. “No! No! No!” they all said, looks of horror crossing their faces. They followed this word, fortunately the same in both our languages, with a torrent of explanation. One of them kept saying “Picante! Muy muy picante!” I had no idea what that meant, but assuming my customary air of confident knowing, I gulped down a spoonful.

And nearly died. The sheer spicy heat of that stew. It literally burned the roof of my mouth and made my nose run. My heart rate accelerated to Sprinting Up Stairs level. I sped-walked to a sink and started to drink cold water straight from the tap. “No no no no!” they all said again. One of them handed me a soft tortilla and indicated I needed to eat it immediately. This would have been the smartest thing I could have done. But, again with the arrogance of needing-to-appear-to-know, I turned her down and tried drowning my taste buds. It took days for me to recover any sense of taste or smell and, frankly, the desire to eat anything anyway.

This morning I sat with a man burdened almost beyond bearing by a thing I have never experienced. As I listened to him haltingly share his feelings I caught myself wanting to appear to understand him perfectly well, to appear to have the wisdom already to know all about him and his situation.

Then I got smarter...marginally. I asked a couple of questions, one of which was so naive it made him give me a funny look. But I didn't care. Because his explanation of a follow-up to that question suddenly opened his truth to me in a way I not only had not understood, but had not suspected was possible.

Thanks God, for beating me upside the head enough to make me finally admit my ignorance.

Communion

Three weeks in our new community, and I have some observations.

I have noticed the sun rises in the east here, as well. Also, people drive too fast down my street, just as they did in Interlochen. And strangely enough, some folks here really don't care for Donald Trump. We ran into that Up North too.

Go figure.

Oddly (and I mean this sincerely), the most emotional moment I've had thus far came during a worship service. The oddness stems not from it's having happened in a worship service, but from it's having happened in the particular one it did. Last Sunday we worshiped with our neighboring congregations on Terre Haute's Church Row. We joined the Methodists and the Episcopalians...for a week at least. Most ecumenical services I have attended have felt constricted and contrived. In an attempt not to make anybody uncomfortable the planners pull their punches.

This service did not feel diluted. We celebrated communion in our host Episcopalians' manner. It did seem more mysterious and even holy to me. The Presbyterian preacher (not I) delivered a well-sourced and thoughtful sermon—true to our roots. The congregation over-filled the sanctuary. They sang enthusiastically. When the hymns ended you could hear a reverberation up in the arched ceiling.

The thing that moved me most happened right after I delivered the children's sermon. Jim, a member of the church I have just started serving, accompanied the children on guitar as they sang the chorus to Shout to the Lord. The second they started I was transported back twenty-one years. In the early days of our church plant in Traverse City we sang it frequently. Watching these children singing, my mind's eye saw our children in that generation, at their then ages, singing the same words. I saw our own Laura—now with a child of her own—and Dan, now treating children. I saw Kaitlyn, now an engineer and wife and mother. Ian, who served his country and has twin daughters. Taylor, conquering the world in Brooklyn. Ryan, pastoring college students. Sam and Dan, the Tatar Tots. Kirsta and Dana, Lynzee, Mackenzie. Even Chris and Justin, sitting in back and choosing not to sing.

We all belong to one family. Methodists, Episcopalians, Presbyterians. Children who grew up in another home but shared the Lord's house with us.

A few weeks ago Justin came home all the way from Berlin for his grandfather's funeral. While in town he made a point of meeting me. He thanked me for my influence on him. For a long spell I thought I had no influence on him. I guess I was wrong. Thank God. Thank God for all of it.

Pub Therapy

For some years a group of men has joined me in “pub therapy”. A couple of nights ago we participated in “boat therapy”. I like them both. I liked boat therapy more.

Pub therapy involves meeting at one of the excellent brewpubs in our area and talking. Yes, guys talking. Talking a little about sports and local politics. Grousing a little. But honestly, talking. We have talked about our griefs, our children (and recently, praise God, our grandchildren), our patient wives, our retirement dreams and often, how we really feel.

The beer tastes good. But it was never the point. I honestly do not know whether I would have survived the past few years emotionally had I not had pub therapy to set me back on my feet. And so, an homage to my pub therapy cronies.

Steve, you know precisely when to start and stop the boat. You served us an appetizer of slow cruising past the Traverse City waterfront, then along the money mansions on Old Mission Peninsula. For the main course you offered a sprint due west across the open water to the Leelanau side. Then you came to a dead stop. And we talked. It was the most therapeutic therapy I have had in...maybe ever. Each one of us had something deep to get out, there on the deep. For dessert you sped us back to the dock, homing in on the beacon atop the Park Place in the gathering darkness. As we came in I was overwhelmed with sadness that we have chosen to leave this gorgeous place. As we walked back to our cars, splitting off one by one, I felt gratitude for our ministry to each other. Thank you for a perfect evening, Cap'n Steve.

Gerard, I salute you. Literally. You enjoy our ironic salute to each other every time we meet, though you served and I did not. You and your equally impressive wife Jean let Linda and I be your friends. It has been a privilege to share all those road and trail miles on our bikes, to cook meals to lay up for the sick, to help raise each others children. You were a trusted adviser to our son as he considered becoming a doctor. You are a trusted adviser to me. I can only hope God has given me the ability to advise you well in return. I think you and I have an awful lot in common. If that's true, it makes me happy. God speed, Mayor Gerard.

Bill, after Linda you have been the second-longest active friend in my life. We know things about each other a select few—in some cases nobody else—knows. We can finish each others stories. In fact we have helped write each others stories. You and Rene and Kaitlyn and the boys gave us a soft landing when we came here twenty-one years ago. We have experienced death and life together. We have become like an old, comfortably worn pair of shoes (in your case running shoes, purchased one can at a time). Your girl really is my Alternate Daughter, and I her Alternate Dad. We did not see each other coming but God did. I believe that. People always say they'll keep in touch. I will, and I know you will. See you again, Brother Bill.

A bike ride with a few friends...

We rode to remember Jean.

Nineteen of us started the ride. Nine married couples and Gerard, our friend, whose best friend and wife, Jean, died this past February. I could not get his single status out of my head. I am a minster of the Gospel. Some folks seem to think I should have all the answers. But I have no idea why God chooses to bring some people home before their time. I understand the theological maze that purportedly leads to the “right” answer. I navigated it myself when my dad died way too early. And while it matters that I can kinda-sorta explain it, it does not take away the pain.

Pain, it turns out, forms the foundation of more of our lives than we like to admit. Yet we can survive the pain.

We nineteen could easily have been thirty, or fifty or a hundred. Gerard and Jean have touched that many lives. They were the common denominator for our riding group. Most of us knew most of us, but the only one who knew us all was Gerard. No doubt about it, every one of us loves him and wanted to be there for him. I have tried walking through certain brew pubs and hospital corridors with him. You don't get far. Person after person greets him, speaks with him, shares their stories with him. I call him the Mayor of the town where you find one of our favorite watering holes. In truth, he's much more popular than the actual mayor.

So we rode. We rode along a trail whose every inch I know. I have ridden it with my father. I have run it with my beloved. I have spent agonizing minutes willing the next mile marker to appear. I have felt pain on that trail. But my pains pale in comparison to the physical pain Jean felt. They pale compared to the spiritual pain Gerard has felt.

We wanted to ride with both of them. And we did. On the way back to town we stopped at the spot Gerard will sponsor a bench in Jean's memory. There may not be a better view anywhere on the trail. And it lies in sight of a winery she really liked. I know this because we once rode there on that same trail and came back to our vehicles with bottles of product in our bikes' water bottle baskets. One friend left a couple of rocks painted with nice, inspiring messages. We talked of Jean.

And then we split. We left. We also split apart. Some had already had to leave the group. Others rode ahead and still others rode behind. And that, too, is how life goes.

I have only this one thought to leave with you: celebrate while you still ride together.

Babysitting

I'm baby-sitting. Literally. I am sitting with a baby laying on my chest. He nearly finished his bottle (way to go champ!). He's closing his eyes in intervals interrupted by jerking legs and arms. I have a cloth diaper draped over my shoulder. He's wrapped in his papoose blanket. Every so often he lifts and rolls his head so our cheeks touch. He is my grandson Theo. I am in love.

Mama Laura had to go back to teaching when Theo turned five weeks old. She used up most of her maternity leave when he decided he wanted to join the world too early. Now she must schedule caregivers day by day. Husband Sam hit lead-off, watching Theo for the first two days. I got the next three.

Care giving is not like riding a bicycle. One (at least this one) does not simply pick up where one left off 30 years ago. It took two instances of not having the next bottle ready when baby needed it before I planned ahead. Let me tell you, putting the formula in today's bottles—with their super-cool but annoying gas bubble governors—with one hand holding baby is not easy. I did it. Twice. Nevermore, as the Raven said.

But the memories have come flooding back. The wonderful smell of the skin encasing that beautiful little head. The anger at the indignity of having a diaper changed. The feeling of accomplishment when you get him to fall asleep. The joy of being a parent. Oh, the joy.

Mama Laura and I stood beside his crib this morning, just looking at Theo. We did not say a word, but I feel confident I know what she was thinking. I believe it was what I was thinking. I was thinking that every once in a while God hands you a blessing. A blessing like standing with your daughter at your grandson's crib, remembering her as a peanut, sleeping contentedly in her crib. She has never stopped making me happy. Truly. But I have seldom been happier than I am right now.

I think I'll stop typing and just enjoy this moment before Theo starts squalling again. I have a bottle ready.