The Glad Game

Statue of Pollyanna in Littleton, NH. (Photo found on internet)

(This is my homily to be delivered at a service this weekend. The texts are Jeremiah 29:1, 4-7; 2 Tim. 2:8-15; Psalm 66:1-4 and 16-20; and Luke 17:11-19.)

As a young girl growing up on a tropical Malaysian island with hot muggy weather, I loved to lie on the couch with the fan set on “high,” and read. Constantly foraging for good books, I discovered on our shelves the old, hardback books that had been my mother’s favorite reading when she was a young girl, way back in the 1930s. They were gifts in my literary life.

Gene Stratton-Porter’s book, Freckles, tells the story of an orphan boy living in the Limberlost swamp of eastern Indiana around 1900.  Heidi by Johanna Spyri tells the story of an orphan girl living in the Swiss alps with her grandfather. And I was enchanted with Eleanor Porter’s book, Pollyanna, about an orphan girl sent to live with her stern and starchy aunt.  Why I was drawn to stories about orphans is a question to ponder on another day. The theme that strikes me, though, is that these stories all portrayed young people who viewed the world through lenses of hope, despite hardship.

Let me focus for a few moments on the story of Pollyanna.  In order to navigate the loss and difficulties of life, Pollyanna played a game called the “Glad Game.” It was simple: in every difficult circumstance, look for something you can be glad about. The Glad Game had been invented by Pollyanna’s father one Christmas when she hoped to find a doll in the missionary barrel they had received, and instead she found only a pair of crutches. Well, said Pollyanna’s father in her moment of disappointment, Pollyanna could be glad because “We don’t need to use them!”

Even as a child I could see that the Glad Game could really work. When my schoolmate Beverly lost her temper during a game of tag at recess, and she grabbed me by the arm and bit me, I could go home and show the bruise to my mom, but then say, “I’m glad she didn’t bite so hard that it bled.” It actually made me feel better to think of it in that way. Or when I desperately wanted a horse, but keeping a horse in our backyard on a tropical island was impossible, I could say, “I’m glad that at least we have our dogs.” A dog didn’t take the place of a horse, but when you play the Glad Game, the point is to find something to be glad about, even if it doesn’t make up for what disappointed you.

Sometime during my growing up years, I became aware that people make fun of Pollyanna. That sorely disappointed me. Being referred to as a “Pollyanna” can mean that you are naïve, shallow and unrealistic, willfully refusing to admit to the hurts and complexities of life, annoyingly optimistic.

But I never perceived the literary Pollyanna in that way. Pollyanna knew life was hard. She’d had to wear hand-me-downs from the missionary barrel, and that was embarrassing. She’d lost her parents, and felt her loss keenly. And she was living with a relative upon whom she’d been foisted, who didn’t want her. The lack of nurture in her little life was painful. Yet there was something resilient, a conviction that there was meaning in life, and that the meaning could be glimpsed in these little moments for which she was grateful. More than anything, the Glad Game was Pollyanna’s way of expressing hope. And I think it was the hope in her Glad Game that drew me so strongly to her story.

Vaclav Havel, the poet and former president of the Czech Republic, said: "Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out."

As we consider our scripture readings today, there runs through them all a common thread. That is the thread of gladness, of Hope.

When Jeremiah wrote to the exiles in Babylon and told them to “build houses and live in them, plant gardens and eat their produce,” he was calling them to move beyond their loss, beyond their decimated lives, to deliberately choose actions that expressed hope. The Hebrew exiles had suffered greatly in all kinds of ways, but they could still find reasons to be glad. Building houses and planting gardens were ways of making sense in the midst of loss, ways of sowing seeds of hope for the future.

When the psalmist sang, “All the earth will worship You,
And will sing praises to You;
They will sing praises to Your name,” he could not have been expressing reality. The world was not all singing praises to God. Being alive was a constant struggle to survive, and the gods of the tribes around them were not kind. Nevertheless, the psalmist was expressing gladness, describing a time when things would make sense, regardless of what it looked like in the era in which he sang his lyrics.

Consider the ten “lepers,” as we have thought of them. When all ten of these men with skin disease took Jesus at His word and trotted off to see the priest for a verdict of healing, they weren’t just expressing naïve optimism. They headed for that priest with gladness, scampering down the road full of the HOPE that Jesus would heal them. Notice that when they left Jesus, they hadn’t even been healed yet!

And when Paul wrote of the hardships of imprisonment, he was practically playing Pollyanna’s Glad Game himself! Somehow things would make sense, Paul was confident, regardless of how his own life would turn out. Listen to his words:

“For this reason I endure all things for the sake of those who are chosen, so that they also may obtain the salvation which is in Christ Jesus and with it eternal glory.

It is a trustworthy statement:

For if we died with Him, we will also live with Him;
If we endure, we will also reign with Him;
If we deny Him, He also will deny us;
If we are faithless, He remains faithful, for He cannot deny Himself.”

Paul lists the challenges of his life, and they are depressing: I die. I endure. I fail. I am faithless. 

Then he proceeds to express gratitude for the blessing he connects to each one of those losses, which might be expressed thus: But I am glad that I will live. But I am glad that I will reign. But I am glad that He remains faithful.

Much has been reported of psychological research on happiness in the past decade. Some of the notable findings we’ve read have shed light on expressions of gratitude—essentially, the Glad Game. These studies have indicated what the apostle Paul--and the fictional Pollyanna--knew: expressing gratitude significantly increases a person’s happiness. Research subjects who wrote letters of gratitude to someone who had been especially kind to them were happier. Subjects who kept a gratitude journal were happier. Subjects who did a focused gratitude exercise daily were more likely to report reaching out to help another person. 

In the book, Pollyanna drew her entire town into playing the Glad Game with her. The Glad Game begets gratitude in others, just as it did in the fictional story. Gratitude multiplies happiness, both in the individuals expressing gladness, and in those around them. When we find something to be glad about in our lives, we find kindness, and healing, and resilience, and the ability to forgive.

This is the day which the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it. (Ps. 118:24)  When we enter into the Glad Game, we find meaning amidst otherwise puzzling circumstances. We acknowledge that we are grateful for blessings beyond our power, thankful to Someone Who is beyond our understanding. We are more likely to find meaning in our lives. When we express gratitude… we find Hope.

Silence and Music, Silence and Voice

[I originally blogged this piece on a now-closed blog back in 2005. I'm reposting it here for a friend.]

I signed up for music school in England the summer before my senior year in college. I’d heard about the opportunity during the year I worked in Finland, so I hopped on the double-decker bus, so to speak, for a glorious month-long experience in Berkshire, complete with culminating concert tour through England and Scotland.

The best part of the whole experience was taking organ lessons from Veselinka Becejac, pronounced “Veselinka Be-CHAY-ess.” In studying with a mediocre—to be quite honest—organ teacher back at my home college, I’d never had instruction this picky, this good, this challenging. I progressed more in those four weeks than I had during the three years of college up to then.

Mrs. Becejac made me really analyze (or “analyse,” as she would spell it) the music. Every note. Every phrase. Every measure.

“Where is the music going? What is it trying to say? Where do the sentences begin and end?” Her questions came one after another and I struggled to find the right answers. I had no clue.

Veselinka Becejac taught me how to think about Bach’s organ music at a “micro level,” and in doing so she unwittingly taught me a truth about God and about life.

“The silences are as important as the notes,” she said. “Listen to this. On an organ you press down a note, and it sounds. It is either on, or off. You cannot express the music more deeply by the strength of your touch. You must express it with sound or with silence.

“Therefore, the silences are as important as the sounds. Notice that each group of notes comes in fours, and there are usually four groups in a measure. Theoretically, you must sound the first of the four notes the longest, because it is the most important.

“But the silence is also important. The shorter the silence between two notes, the less the second note is emphasized. The longer the silence between two notes, the more the second note will be emphasized.” She demonstrated. Sure enough, when she played a four note grouping she touched the last one only briefly, leaving more silence between it and the first note of the next grouping.

And the next note after the silence sang out into the void.

The idea was that on the 2nd and 4th groupings of each measure, the last note would sound shorter than the others, leaving space after it so as to emphasize the first note of the 1st and 3rd groupings of each measure. The last note of each measure was the very shortest of all.

(Does that make sense? Maybe I've lost you, especially if you've never had to persevere through years of music lessons.)

I have wondered all my life about God’s silences. God's silences are sometimes short, sometimes long, sometimes ended by voices of instruments that we don’t expect.

The silences have hurt. Deeply.

And yet when the Voice finally rings out, it’s stronger, with more emphasis and glorious sound because of the silence preceding it. Just like in my organ music.

Peace Be With You

A wordle created from my homily this weekend at our university's liturgical service. Below is the homily

When you watch a person die, it changes you. To see the body cease to breathe, to watch it become completely silent, to comprehend that this person is gone and irretrievable … it leaves you speechless. One can only imagine, then, the horror of watching a death come violently, accompanied by torn and bloody flesh, pleading eyes, anguished cries of pain, an aura of evil blanketing the scene.

Flesh was not made to be bruised and torn, human heart not meant to be broken, eyes not intended to grow dull along with the a final gurgling breath. Seeing a human being suffer anguish begets anguish. Trauma gives birth to trauma in the souls of those who witness violence. Fear, --choking, suffocating, scalding fear— fear becomes the unrelenting taskmaster of those who witness a violent death, and confusion serves as Fear’s sidekick.

And so it is for the eleven remaining disciples of our Lord. They are – as we look in on them now – completely traumatized, confused, lost. In the space of a few hours last Thursday, their peaceful evening among the olive trees became a nightmare heralded by an angry mob. Their Lord was tried and condemned, beaten and lacerated, mocked and humiliated in full view of many eyes. He was made to drag His own cross up the hill to His execution spot. He was nailed up amid the jeers, jeers of people that He and His disciples knew. Jeers of people whose condemnation of their beloved Lord had crushed the disciples’ deepest, most heartfelt hopes, ripped their shining expectations to shreds.

At the end of it all there was that and one last ragged breath, that horrible final cry, and then … the silence, … the utter finality of death. He was gone.

Now it is a couple of days later. Who can blame these heartbroken disciples for holing up in a room behind a locked door? Who can blame them for believing that they might be living on borrowed time, that the Gethsemane mob would show up for its next victims? Who can blame them for sitting silently, hour after hour, tears sometimes unstoppable, perhaps sobbing as memories washed over them? Who can blame them for picking through the threads of their shared history, talking and questioning, trying to discern some pattern, some meaning, some shred of an answer. “Why?” And “What?” And “How?” And, because a couple of them had reported that his body had gone missing, that someone had said He had risen, there was the question of, “Where?”

There is disappointment. There is anguish. There is fear. There is confusion. There is turmoil in the pit of the stomach. And there is loss. Such deep, deep, wrenching loss.

And then… “Peace… be with you.”

They look up in disbelief. The door never opened. But there He is, marked by the unmistakable signs of His recent torture. And then… Pandemonium erupts. First astonishment and disbelief. Then joy-filled, yelling, laughing, jumping, shouting … a pandemonium of exultation. John later describes it as if Jesus responds rather demurely. John reports simply that Jesus says it again, but He just HAS to have had the biggest, happiest grin on His face when He says it:

“Peace … be with you.”

Peace.

This is no flat, two-dimensional word. Peace. Peace is shalom: as rounded as the word sounds. Hearty. Whole. Peace be with you.  The root verb in Hebrew from which Shalom comes, means completeness. Perfection. Fullness. 

Peace … be with you.

It signifies tranquility, safety, harmony, prosperity, health. There is no room in Shalom for agitation or anxiety or discord. There is no loneliness in Shalom. It is Peace right down in the core of your being.

When I picture that kind of Peace, it’s like standing in a place overlooking water, feeling the evening breeze on my face and watching the setting sun paint sweet light on the mountains.  When I picture that kind of Shalom, it’s like sharing a wholesome meal with people I love, laughter drifting through the conversation, eyes twinkling, the storytelling drawing us toward one another, weaving our bonds of belonging stronger.  When I picture that kind of Peace, it’s like finishing a long, long walk and finally sitting down as the tide of endorphins rises, taking a well-earned rest and relishing the knowledge that I have finished what I set out to do. Well-being. Shalom. Peace.

Peace … be with you.

After He says it the first time, Jesus shows them the marks of violence on His body. And they rejoice. It is Jesus! He is alive! Even though they don’t even begin to understand the why and how, there is an overwhelming flood of relief. If He is there with them, everything will somehow be okay.

And so, John writes later in his gospel, Jesus says it a second time, after the rejoicing: “Peace be with you.”  This is something I do not want you to forget, my children. You can surrender your fear. Give up to me your turmoil and confusion. In the middle of the confusion, in the middle of events which have no answers, in the middle of all you have yet to do and to suffer for My sake, when you have no idea what is next or how to survive or how you can get through this in one piece, do not forget… Peace … be with you. As I send you out in the same way my Father sent me, Peace… be with you. As I breathe on you and the Holy Spirit falls on you, Peace… be with you. As you forgive others, Peace… be with you. As you call people to account for their sins, I do not want you to forget: Peace… be with you.

Eight days later they are together again, and Thomas is with them. He’s the critical thinker, the one who operates on evidence and data, the one who needs tangible comfort. He, too, is traumatized, horrified, besieged by his vivid memories of the crucifixion. Thomas is struggling. He is suffering.  

And then Jesus once again shows up unannounced, greeting them with those words, “Peace be with you.” Peace be with you when you wrestle with a lack of evidence for things I call you to believe in. Peace be with you when you can’t rid yourself of those images of senseless violence. Peace be with you when people around you seem to accept faith so easily, and you cannot. I long for you to have Peace, Shalom, completion, perfection, fullness. Peace be with you.

As we continue to follow the writers of the new testament, we see that they often bestow peace upon the recipients of their letters. Paul writes it. Peter writes it. John writes it. Jude writes it. “Peace to you.” “Grace and peace to you.” “Grace, mercy and peace to you.” “Mercy and peace and love to you.”

Always … peace.

Take a few moments each day for this: Stop, take a deep breath … and soak in the good news that Jesus is with you. Know His peace. He is with you despite closed doors. He is with you despite traumatic memories, perplexing problems, threatening circumstances, deep loneliness or great losses. Know that He has blessed you with Shalom: completion, perfection, fullness. Let it settle down into you. Know that there is relief, and that although it may not make sense right now, with His blessing, His sending and His Spirit breathed on you, you can be at peace.

Peace … be with you.

St. Paddy's Green

I'm in Chicago for an education conference. This morning I looked out my hotel window, and noticed that people were gathering along the banks of the river.  What for? I wondered.  And then it came to mind: I remember that people in Chicago really do up their celebrations of St. Patrick's Day!

I watched, and sure enough, the crowds grew bigger, the boats came out on the river, and at 10 a.m. the boats with the plumbers (this is always done by the plumbers' union) left the bank and started their work, dumping into the river the orange chemical that turns green. Five or six passes did the deed. It's two hours later and the river is still green. (Later: It stayed green all day.)

Sorry about the quality of the photo. It was taken with my phone through the dirty windows of the hotel.  Still, you get the idea. Here's how it looked as the sun went down.

The Moderates Dive for Cover, Part 3

The meeting had gone on for a while when we reached the end of our review of the proposed changes. We were looking forward to hitting the freeways for home, even though the allotted time for the meeting was enough that we could have gone on for another hour.  Then something unusual happened. One of the meeting leaders said, "We want to make sure that everyone has had their say here. Some of you have talked to me in the hallways about this, and I've not heard your voices in this meeting. We want to make sure everyone's point of view is heard."

Some people, I later found out, groaned inwardly. Hadn't this gone on long enough? Wasn't he just inviting more critical comments or useless suggestions?  But it was at that moment that the meeting pivoted.  At that point the moderates finally entered the conversation. The tone of the comments--which came from new voices--was measured, thoughtful, cautious, and supportive. People were encouraged to speak to their representatives. People spoke up with love and commitment to the institution. People expressed respect for what the university was accomplishing.  People urged each other as representatives of their churches to disseminate correct information "out there" to counteract the critical speculation landing in their e-mail inboxes.

The meeting ended on a positive note with the sense that we may not all think alike, but we're devoted to the same mission. The voices indicated a general understanding that the changes underway were sensible and reasoned, rather than some quick sleight-of-hand to pull the university away from the purpose for which it was founded.

And I learned something new, seeing the case study unfolding right before me. This was not just about a church-related institution, but about our larger society.

As the world becomes more polarized, I realized, the moderates are indeed diving for cover. The conversation (as we hear it in the media) is full of screechers, gloaters, finger-pointers, speculators and squinty-eyed conspiracy theorists. And they have a great deal of influence, particularly as the moderate folk fall silent, not wanting to be part of a conversation that is shrill and lacking in gentility.

But we need the moderates in the conversation.  We need the moderates to stay moderate, to speak up with reason and to keep calling people to think, to respect the humanity in one another, to listen to the concerns, the rationale, the fears and the hopes in what the other person has to say. It is as the moderates stay in the conversation that we have a chance of keeping our two feet firmly planted on the ground, our eyes on the goal, and our circle large enough to minimize the us-versus-them mentality that becomes so limiting, and in some cases, so destructive. It is as the moderates stay in the conversation that we minimize the recent phenomena that are so unhealthy in our society: fear, and disdain.

It was a good reminder, seeing this meeting transformed by the entrance of the moderates:  We all need to commit to remaining in the conversation.

The Moderates Dive for Cover, Part 2

So, we had a meeting the other day. It was for the duly-appointed church members (otherwise known as the "constituency" of the university) who gather on occasion to hear reports and vote policy matters concerning the institution. [I know this sounds boring, but stay with me.] The meeting was informational, preparing this same group of people to vote changes to the bylaws in May. The university had posted the proposed changes to the bylaws on the web. And the activity on the blogs and discussion boards had accordingly ratcheted up as the date of the meeting drew near.

The critics of the university had been analyzing every word and phrase of the proposed changes, conjecturing that there was once again nefarious activity afoot on our campus, and that the changes were meant to sneak the institution out from under control of the church. (Having read through the changes and heard the internal discussions, I can tell you that the wording changes tie us closer to the church. None of us who work here wants the institution to become one of those "formerly church-related colleges.") The chatter had risen to a screech and the "sky-is-falling" viral e-mails were flying. An open letter to the world church leadership had been posted at the website that's devoted to exposing the perceived evils of the university.

On the other hand, the folk who style themselves as the "progressives" in the church (the other side would call them the Liberals) were gloating that the proposed changes would supposedly put the conservatives in their place and wrest power over the institution from the church leadership, making the institution more independent. Let me say this: Gloating and smugness are just as offensive as screeching and finger-pointing.

So there we sat in the meeting. The chair of the bylaws committee was explaining the proposed edits to the bylaws, every line of which was numbered, legal-style. The air picked up tension as an older pastor from Hawaii and a younger pastor from California voiced expressions of distrust and dismay, repeating the accusations that were flying around the internet. A church official from the regional office proposed significant changes to the wording, the effect of which would put us at odds with our accrediting organization.

The chair of the bylaws committee remained calm, and then at one point made this observation: "You can't believe everything you see in print online. I've seen both sides saying things loudly in the blogs that are not true. And in the meantime, the moderates dive for cover."

That last comment hit me like a brick: "The moderates dive for cover." It kept playing itself in my head over and over as the meeting progressed.  "The moderates dive for cover."

It was a comment that extends much further than to the case study we had in front of us.

[To be continued]

The Moderates Dive for Cover, Part I

Is it typical for people to beat up on their own church-related colleges and universities? I don't know about other communities of faith. But I can tell you that in my eighteen years of working in Christian higher education in my tradition, I have seen and felt the bruises. People can inflict such wounds upon their educational institutions when they believe that those institutions are not doing things the way they would like them to.

The more conservative one's stance, I have seen, the more vicious the attack. It's as if they believe that we really are an ivory tower on an impregnable castle, and their flaming arrows are unlikely to damage the enterprise. So they shoot them more frequently and with much more force.

I have heard some people inside the organization, when they are feeling frustrated and hurt by the critics, harrumph and write these people off as whackos and crazies. But they are not (for the most part). They are dear, sincere people who for the most part agonize over the things they see going wrong with "their schools." They feel that the issues they cite are signs of their own "family" falling away from God, and of their young people not being ready for the second coming. I hear the fear in their voices and understand that they care. They care a great deal, or they would not be so ready to rip and tear, fight to the death, and pass on their concerns in viral emails and blog posts.

My current employing university has been under fire for several years because the biology teachers have been accused of being "evolutionists." * Websites against the school have sprung up, the authors of the posts railing against the insidious evil apparently taking place in the biology classrooms, citing rumors and second-hand stories as truth, expressing opinions that the university is fake and insincere in every action it takes to respond to or address the issues, painting the university president as devious and intent on separating the university from the church, and calling on the church leadership to take disciplinary action. Without getting into the whole long story, I will say that there has been much heat and little light, and it's not over yet.

[to be continued]

*In this case, that term would mean teaching evolutionary theory as historical reality, while dismissing a literal creation as simply a myth. I tend to be a conservative in this area, but these posts are not to discuss our differences on origins. They are to discuss the voices we hear speaking up on these matters.

A Culture of Movement

The video above: Jadie on her Jumper

I didn't grow up in a home where movement was of great value.  It has been a new world for me to marry into a family that is very physically oriented. They juggle. They get involved in sports. They run marathons and half-marathons. And they jump, as you can see in the video of my granddaughter on her trampoline.

The first time I saw Jadie on this device, I thought, "Oh, cute idea. But she will lose interest eventually, and then it will sit there, a piece of plastic and canvas, languishing in the corner." I remembering exactly that phenomenon happening with a stepping device I bought after I saw it advertised on TV. A well-meant purchase, but not long-lasting in terms of usage.

Well, Jadie's jumping device has gathered no dust. When we're over there (and let me gloat yet again that being "over there" is a much more frequent occurrence now that we live 15 miles away from them), it's not unusual for Jadie to hop on her contraption, turn on the music and jump for a while. Her parents have done gymnastics, juggling, rock climbing, camping, hiking....  She is growing up in a culture of movement.

If I were a dancer, I'd have 2 left feet, as they say. I have to make myself put down the book or laptop, get off the couch and move around. I have to urge my body out the door in the mornings for our walk, although once I'm out there I enjoy it. I have no desire (to the grief and exasperation of my dear Husband) to learn to juggle. Training to walk half marathons is something I do because I cognitively know that it's a good discipline, not because I just can't wait to walk miles and miles until my feet hurt.  Until the last dozen years, I've never been part of a family that was aware of or delighted in their bodies and enjoyed moving them.

It would have been better for me if I'd grown up with that difference in the way my family did things. I think life would have been richer and my struggles with weight, lesser. I am blessed that in the last half of my life, I'm surrounded by a family culture of movement. Maybe someday it will become second nature to me, too. I hope so.

A Campus Gone Quiet

Yep, that's me right there in the center, at quite a distance.

On Saturday, on our way back from our trip to Northridge, we stopped by the former campus of Ambassador College in Pasadena. The college, originally the school for the Worldwide Church of God founded by Herbert W. Armstrong, closed down its Pasadena campus in 1990, four years after the death of its founder.  The church and the college have both had a tumultuous history, one that is fascinating to read about at Wikipedia.

I used to come visit this beautiful campus with a friend of mine who lived in Pasadena. The gardens and fountains were beautiful, and sitting by the stream and waterfalls on the hillside facing the auditorium (the big pillared building you see in these photos) was so peaceful.

Everywhere you look on the campus, you see that those who planned this place had an eye for beauty. Right now the campus is languishing, as it's been through a number of uncertain years in terms of ownership and development.

The plantings on the grounds are lovely. I would have taken many more pictures if there hadn't been signs posted along the lawn stating that photos may not be taken without a permit, and listing a number to call.  There was fluffy pampas grass,...

banyan trees...

And gorgeous tulip trees all blossomed out in their prettiest pink for spring.

It was a treat to be there, and to show it to Husband. I do hope that someone can buy up this campus someday and love it the way it used to be loved and tended.

Arlington Garden

Arlington Garden is tucked away into a corner of Pasadena. We were passing through, yesterday, and I didn't think we had the $23 apiece to spring for the Huntington Gardens, which are famous and gorgeous. So I looked around on the internet for another garden to see, and found this one, a city garden that's open to the public.

The garden is set up as a set of Mediterranean-type gardens, which works well with the climate and low water environment on the edge of Los Angeles.

We arrived in the early afternoon when the sunshine was flooding the place, so I didn't have the great early morning or evening light that can be so good for photographs. Nevertheless, I got some good ones.

As we walked the trails through this garden, which is probably only 2-3 acres big (I'm not good with what an acre actually means), there were new features around every turn in the path.

The garden has a number of down-home features that you wouldn't find in a Huntington Gardens--bird houses, a gazing ball, statuary, a strange water-nozzle sculpture feature, a labyrinth, a stone dedicated to Earl...

It all works with the character of the place, which tends toward the weedy and kitschy, but in retrospect is rather delightful.

One of the things they offer there is a little grove of orange trees, with signs noting that you can buy their orange marmalade online, if you don't happen to come by for the couple of hours on Saturday morning when someone is actually there, selling it. I wouldn't mind getting some. It's kind of a neat project.

So with that, I think I'll just leave you to enjoy the rest of my photos from the garden, with no further commentary.