Driving Through A Traffic Circle Is Easy. Or Not.

You probably didn't know this, but Gloucester is home to one of the great mysteries of the universe. No, it doesn't involve the 17th century grave site of America's original revolutionary, Nathaniel Bacon, which has mysteriously eluded discovery for more than 300 years. Neither does it involve the origins of the native residents of Guinea down in Gloucester's swampy southeastern peninsula, a legend of multiple explanations that includes vague references to descendants of Revolutionary War-era mercenaries hired by the British who stuck around by hiding out in Gloucester after the 1781 surrender at Yorktown. Rather, the great cosmic mystery in Gloucester is something that confounds hundreds, possibly thousands of people each and every day.

It's negotiating the traffic circle, or roundabout ,at the "Wal-Mart intersection."

Say you want to live on the edge and literally gulp down adrenalin by the bucketful. Why, you would be wise to try and traverse the roundabout several times. You would cheat death. You would have to have your car insurance agent on speed dial. You would wonder how something seemingly so simple flummoxes motorists who apparently either can't read a "Yield" sign or just plain don't care.

Let's review the rules and regulations of traffic roundabout etiquette. Surely it must be a manual on the order of "War and Peace." Right? I mean these things are complicated, right?

Um, no. The operative word is "yield." Apparently people don't know what the word means because everybody I know has a "Wal-Mart roundabout" horror story. Or two. Or a million.

One time I was meandering through the roundabout when a young kid in a jacked up pickup barreled in, nearly making my old Volvo four-door sedan a hatchback. I laid on the horn, rather liberally I might add. We were both heading the same way coming out of the roundabout and he stopped in the middle of the road's right-hand lane in front of Chick-fil-A and gestured to me. I pulled up next to him and with the passenger's window down and politely informed him that he was supposed to yield to the vehicle in the roundabout. Which would be me in my Volvo.

He informed me in rather colorful terms that I was supposed to yield to him. I hesitated before replying that the "Yield" sign was directed at the vehicles entering the roundabout, which he clearly was. For example, if you approach an intersection and there is a stop sign that you can clearly read on the side of the road to your right, I'm pretty sure that means you are supposed to stop. It would not be a stop sign for the cross traffic, in other words. In this case, the "Yield" sign is facing traffic approaching the roundabout -- not the traffic in the roundabout -- and is on the right hand side in clear, even plain view. Which motorists should take to mean that they better yield.

Except for the young buck in the pickup who, in even more colorful terms, disagreed with my sign-reading suggestion and thought it would be a good idea for us to pull in the Chick-fil-A parking lot to settle things. Needless to say I proceeded on to Wal-Mart while he simmered in his road rage over a chicken sandwich.

So here's the deal Gloucester drivers and motorists who wander in and have nearly hit me from locales far and wide, such as Maryland or North Carolina: If someone is in the roundabout, they have the right-of-way. It's that simple! As you approach the roundabout, from any direction, slow down, observe the traffic that may be in the roundabout and then proceed into it when you have an opening of appropriate length. Traversing the roundabout shouldn't be the equivalent of a shark circling its prey, because that's how it feels sometimes when you are in the roundabout.

For a glimpse of a street-view of our famed roundabout, here's a link: Roundabout o' death

Parenting Hazards 101: Tiptoeing Through The Toys

The parental equivalent of walking on hot coals.

I think I may need surgery. For the millionth time I have stepped on a toy, causing what I perceive to be irreparable damage to my foot. You would think after 25 years of stepping on 14 kids' millions or billions of toys I would have learned my lesson and taken proper protective measures. Yes, that's right. I should be walking through my house with steel-toed boots. It's every parent's nightmare: You are walking along engaged in something else -- say an iPhone where you are stalking someone on Facebook checking the weather or catching up on the stock markets in Asia -- and you make that fateful step.

A Lego.

A Thomas the Tank train engine.

A Barbie dolly's high heel.

A Lightning McQueen race car.

A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.

A toy gun, a Paw Patrol ATV, a Planes "Dusty" airplane, a dress up high heel, a toy earring, any of a thousand different action figures, a toy fork, a Mr. Potato Head nose, a trophy from the youth soccer team, a battery, a light saber, a building block ... I think you get the idea.

I believe if I were to go under the knife a surgeon might find tiny fragments of toys embedded in my feet. Who knows, a surgeon might find enough Legos to make a house.

I bet if upon my demise I were to be mummified, a couple of thousand years from now archaeologists who would stumble upon my remains would puzzle over the collection of tiny plastic building block type things that appeared to have been deposited in the soles of my feet. I envision someone obtaining a Ph.D. writing a paper ascertaining the meaning behind it.

It's one of the great hazards of parenting. Every day we run the gauntlet of toys on the floor, hoping -- praying -- we won't take that fateful step. Of great concern is the nighttime "walk of death." Anyone with hardwood floors knows what I'm talking about. You are on your way to the bathroom in the dark of night, tiptoeing past the kids' bedroom to not wake up the baby and then it happens: You have stepped on Lightning McQueen and it's like they've dropped the green flag at a NASCAR race. The car slips out from underneath you and you are literally flying through the air, half-awake and trying to contain your bladder, and knowing that above all you cannot utter a single sound for fear of waking the baby and you land not just with a bone-crunching thud, but right on top of Luigi, Guido, Mater, Sally, Sarge and Fillmore, who are now embedded, possibly permanently, in your backside. Some people get tattoos. Parents get toys affixed to their bodies, though not by choice. Above all, remember you cannot utter a sound. You must suffer in silence.

When I see a parent limping, my mind automatically thinks, "Oof. That looks serious. Bet they stepped on a Lego." Short of getting rid of all the toys in the house -- I've thought of that more than once -- I don't know how to properly take preventive measures. Other than checking online with the iPhone for deals on steel-toed boots. During which I nearly broke my foot stepping on Thomas the Tank while on my way to fetch my credit card.

When Ebola Strikes The Community: 15 Funerals A Day

Three orphans from a Sierra Leone family, led by a boy who is 17.

I confess, it was a hard day for me. It's one of those days I've been through before with Julie. A trip to the hospital for a surgical procedure after a tiny beating heart inside her was silenced for reasons that remain a mystery. Just two weeks ago that tiny heart beat strong. Then some bleeding, a trip to the doctor and a weaker beating heart. Then later, more bleeding and a devastating silence. We've been blessed abundantly, 14 times to be exact. We've held and caressed all the tiny little babies, each time with inexpressible joy. I've gazed mostly through tear-stained eyes at the new little miracle in my hands, always thankful for this perfect life I'm holding and equally relieved that Julie's ordeal has passed. I wonder as I hold the infant about the new life that's being forged ahead of us, how it's a birth of new dreams and hopes and above all else, love. A deep, abiding love.

Julie and I have been through mornings like this one five times. Each different, some much more difficult than others. None of them easy. I guess I endure a silent mourning, some sort of brave face. Things get bottled up inside and I imagine it's not healthy. I don't know. It's a flawed coping method, I recognize that. Anyway, I walked around the hospital grounds in Williamsburg this morning while Julie was in surgery and I found this fiery red maple leaf on the ground. It was strikingly beautiful and the thought crossed my mind that its beauty was perfected in its death. A thousand leaves had tumbled to the ground around it yet that one stunning leaf nestled among the mulch caught my eye. I snapped a photo and I would imagine it's burnished into my memory forever. I don't pretend to understand the hows and whys of mornings like this one, except that I know that it is God's will for us. That's where I rest and that's where I find peace.

And then amidst my personal struggles I get emails like these. From a man I've never met in person -- we connected from thousands of miles away through my missions work -- whose faith is tested every minute, every second. Rev. Samuel Kargbo is awash in a sea of death in Sierra Leone, a thousand lives around him at the mercy of a vicious disease. Ebola has cut a harvest of death through his neighborhood, his city, his country. "We see the number of deaths increasing by the day and fear is generated in us, except that we have the inner man to strengthen us," Kargbo writes.

The fear is so palpable that people are afraid to go to the hospital when they are sickened, for fear that they will be diagnosed with Ebola, he writes. "This tells you the other reason for the death of many people during this period. That is part of our responsibility to educate and sensitize people to go to the hospital."

If you look closely at the photo at the top of this post, behind the three orphans who sought food to carry them through the day, you will see a lady on the ground behind them. She has lost 13 members of her family. "It is only three of them that are surviving," Kargbo writes. "The lady lying down has not escaped the danger."

For Kargbo, death surrounds him. The nearest cemetery to his community is burying 15 people a day. "We do feel the terror of death hovering, but we are covered by the wings of our Lord," Kargbo writes. "Despite the numerous deaths, we are presently engaged in reaching out with love to the community, especially addressing the needs of the orphans."

A grandchild of his has a cough and running nose. His youngest daughter complains of general body pains and his family is taking precautions to not touch her. "With the first aid treatment, if she does not show improvement after three days, we will be left with no option but to get her to report to the hospital," Kargbo writes.

His emails are a window into a suffering I'm not familiar with and Lord willing never will be. I don't say that his words give me perspective on any grief I may be experiencing because what he has to say doesn't necessarily diminish what pain I feel. What I do know is that I have an overwhelming sense of empathy for Rev. Samuel Kargbo, his family and the people of Sierra Leone and surrounding countries. I can't fathom the fear, helplessness, weariness and host of other emotions he must experience every moment. Yet it's abundantly clear that this man has a deep, abiding faith in God that's unshakable. The fires of Ebola have forged an immovable faith. I am awestruck by it. I pray that God moves to contain this disease. I ask you to pray as well. So often as the world implodes around us, that's all we can do. 

"Once more," Kargbo writes, "I say many thanks for your prayers. We surely need those prayers."

"Once more," Kargbo writes, "I say many thanks for your prayers. We surely need those prayers."

When Everything Is Right In The World

Striking a pose

It was Tuesday night and it was five of my boys and me. Again. The ladies of the Sabo house were off to women's Bible study, two kids were at soccer practice, one was at work and so it was the lads' night out. We made a quick stop at the True Value hardware store to pick up some supplies for my new found DIY woodworking projects and then headed for the beach at Gloucester Point. These lovely fall evenings (note the lads are in shorts & t-shirts and it's late October) are too alluring, too perfect not to enjoy with one of the last romps at the beach.

When we arrived down at the pier that juts out into the York River (you don't need a license to fish from the pier, which means fishing is better in Gloucester) the boys started hamming it up and I snapped some photos. Then we noticed lots of people with cameras around. A kindly gentleman ambling out the pier informed us that an Antares rocket was supposed to take off from the Eastern Shore and we should be able to watch it blast into orbit from the pier. It was 6:15 p.m. Lift off into the October sky was scheduled for 6:22 p.m.

Heading out for a better view of the rocket launch

News that we would watch a real-life rocket launch caused quite a stir among the Sabo boys. This was more than we bargained for. Are you kidding? This was really good news. Like, really good. You go to the beach trying to kill some time and you're going to watch a rocket streak into the night? For reals? Dude. From Gloucester Point to the launch site on the Eastern Shore of Virginia at Wallops Island, as the rocket crow flies, is about 70 miles -- it's double that by car -- so supposedly we would have a real good view from a safe distance.

I was armed with two cameras -- my iPhone5C and my Canon T5i -- and was really stoked to try the time-lapse feature on my iPhone. I figured that would be killer for a rocket launch. As we waited at the end of the pier, we encountered one variable that threatened to derail my photography efforts. Seth seemed intent on seeing if the water was still warm and kept leaning through the rails, even as Gabe wore him like a straitjacket. In the interest of safety I reluctantly herded my gaggle of Sabos back onto the beach. We still had an unobstructed view out over Chesapeake Bay where the rocket was allegedly going to streak into the nearly cloudless indigo twilight, but better yet, if Seth was intent on taking a dip at least we could fish him out before he got in way over his head.

It was 6:21. Seth was getting wet and was covered in sand, the four other boys were having races up and down the beach and some people behind us were getting the play-by-play of the rocket launch over some sort of hand-held device. It wasn't a Walkman, I know that. I was focused on the eastern horizon with my two cameras -- in between preventing Seth from becoming a mini-Jacques Cousteau. The people behind us, a mom and dad and two kids, started the countdown. The four Sabo boys slowed down then stopped to watch, their labored breaths mixing with the sound of the river washing ashore in tiny waves. Seth eyed the water.

Houston, we are ready for the rocket launch

The voices behind us got louder as the countdown got closer to one: "...three, Two, ONE! LIFTOFF!" We scanned the horizon, squinting intensely. My cameras were focused. I was prepared to blow up social media with our rocket photopallooza. We watched. We watched harder. Seth headed for the water before Gabe rassled him ashore despite his sharp protestations. And then we watched some more ... and then the cry from the dad behind us: "It exploded!" The boys looked at me. I shrugged. The boys went back to racing. Seth headed for the water.

I'm not going to lie. I was pretty bummed. I've never seen a rocket launch live, even from 70 miles away. The evening had taken an unexpected turn. It veered hard from your run-of-the-mill, ho-hum evening at the beach with five boys -- three, count them three, couples we encountered looked on in amazement at the collection of Sabos and remarked how full my hands were ... if only they knew -- into tantalizing excitement territory. I guess I shouldn't really be disappointed because just minutes earlier I had no idea I could have seen a rocket launch. But when the unexpected becomes even a glimmer of reality, only to literally crash to earth, there's still a sense of loss.

I've thought about this all day, actually. When the unexpected roars into your life, only to vanish seemingly as quickly. I won't go into details, but I feel a sense of personal loss on a completely different level. There was something unexpected that happened in our lives, only to be taken away. There's hurt, there's pain. It's not fun. I'm sad. I guess that's the best way to put it. Just sad. It's nights like these that I like to wander in to where our youngest is sleeping, in this case Seth. So peaceful. So beautiful. So perfect. Such a gift from God. I like to hear him breathe. I'll stand there and watch, listening to him breathe and for a little while everything is right in the world.

Three Things I've Learned When I Feed My Creative Juices

The ruins of Rosewell

Over the past year I have been shooting a lot of photos from around Gloucester. It began when I started using my iPhone as a camera. I also have a Canon T5i that gets lugged around the county to snap shots of sunsets, landscapes and landmarks. And kids. Plenty of kids. Here's three things that I've discovered about what happened when I started shooting photos and the surprising things that resulted when I launched a new creative passion.

1) What you will find when you take the time to get out in nature will surprise you.  

I started shooting photos after getting on Instagram and fighting a sense of inadequacy. I have friends out in Oregon who were posting these amazing landscape shots -- majestic snow-capped mountains and rushing rivers and desert sunrises -- and I felt like I had to compete somehow. But how? We have no mountains here -- the highest point here  is like 60 or 80 feet above sea level, unless you count the 90 feet height of the Coleman Bridge as you enter Gloucester -- our rivers are amazingly wide but languid and the closest desert is thousands of miles away. So I started exploring. Living on a peninsula has its advantages. The sunsrises and sunsets on the rivers are spectacular. The trees and foliage tell stories. The frequent storms usher in extraordinary cloud formations that refract light in stunning ways and are enhanced when they are reflected off the water. There are hidden treasures and gems off the beaten path; historic homes and crumbling plantations and weathered houses. I've learned a ton about watching sunsets and the timing of the most glorious light. You'll be surprised. You'll be amazed. Your life will be enriched when you get out there.

Boats in a Gloucester marina

2) Exploring creativity opens paths of more creativity.

When I started shooting photos and thinking about settings, sunlight, natural light, reflections, angles and other aspects of photography, I've found it started opening doors to other creative avenues in my life. By no means am I an accomplished photographer. I want to make that clear. I have friends who are professional photographers and it's a huge leap from what I do to what they do amazingly well. But in my own little way I'm exploring something new and trying to stumble through learning a craft. Perhaps it's the time I'm taking to appreciate the scenery God has given us in this little corner of the world that is spurring other creative juices. Whether it's dabbling in making videos, writing, woodworking and making a coffee table out of 60-year-old reclaimed hardwood flooring, I've found that creativity feeds creativity. There's just something that happens when you start stimulating your brain in new ways. Challenge yourself. Take the time to find something new to take on. You'll be surprised.

3) You will feel, and be, blessed.

Being out in nature has renewed my love of God's creation. He's made so many beautiful places and we all should spend more time enjoying them. It's also been a time for me to meditate on God's word, to pray, and to think about how richly God has blessed me. The other night when I had five of my boys down on the pier at the beach in this lovely, peaceful setting was one of those times. We made a memory and those last forever. There are times I've looked up in the sky near sunset and saw the clouds and the way the light is arcing through the sky and told Julie or some of my kids to get in the van because we're heading down to the river to enjoy the sunset. As I've worked on my coffee table I've been able to listen to sermons from pastors and I've thought deeply about what He's doing in my life and where He's taking me and how I need to yield more to His will in my life. Creative time can be periods of slowing down, assessing and reflecting. I experience a recalibration, a deeper understanding of what's valuable. First and foremost of value to me is my relationship with God and the eternal gift He has given us of His son Jesus. My family is a gift from God. What I experience, all of it, is a gift. I am thankful. I am blessed. 


Finally, here's a link to a collection of photos I've taken from around Gloucester that I assembled in a video. The music is kind of cheesy ... oh well. Enjoy.  Gloucester vignette

When Times Are Tough, Head To The Water

Gabe & Seth on the pier.

Yesterday evening was one of those days. I had a ton of things I wanted to get done and nothing was getting done. You ever had that feeling? Things were going way south attitude wise for me and so I loaded into the van the five boys who were left with me after everyone had dispersed to soccer practice, Bible study (for the ladies) and work. At first I had no clue where to go. The sun had just set but it was a beautiful evening, still 70 degrees.

We headed down to Gloucester Point beach. It's a five-minute drive and we walked on the pier until the wind kicked up enough to prompt shivers. It was lovely. Peaceful. Beautiful. Seth was enchanted by the water. As he trundled back across the beach the waves kicked up and crashed onto shore from a passing boat that sped by. He paused, watching and listening to the commotion and I could see him trying to figure it all out.

I grew up in the Oregon High Desert. Where the sagebrush and open range meet the piney slopes of the eastern Cascades Range. Snow melt water flows icy cold off of the mountains and is a precious commodity where I'm from in Oregon. The rivers are narrow enough to easily throw a rock across them.

Out here on the Middle Peninsula, we're surrounded by water. Big saltwater rivers that yield bountiful catches of crabs and oysters and fish. The sun rises and falls spectacularly across the rivers here. The white sandy beaches are play spots and we're close enough to the neighborhood beach on the York River that the kids can load up the wagon with buckets and nets and head down to the river to fish out minnows and crabs from the inlet that meanders inland.

I love the desert. I love the solitude, how the sky is so blue, how it's filled with a million bright stars at night and how you can see forever. I miss it. But I've been out here for a decade and remain enchanted by the water that surrounds us. If I ever were to leave, I know one thing. I would miss it.

Lost In The Corn Maze (Dad, Hand Over The Map)

This sums up what happens when you give me the map in a corn maze.

Corn mazes are lots of fun. I mean, a ton of fun. Unless you're the guy entrusted with the map and what's supposed to be a rather short jaunt through the corn field turns into a survival of the fittest, we're this close to calling 911, we could eat this corn for dinner if we have to, all-day endurance test down at the farm.

Typically a corn maze involves a nice walk -- a pleasant stroll even -- through the corn field that entails reading a map and following the hints posted at signs along the way. It's a good time and a chance to die a slow, painful death bond with the family in a farm-type of environment.

My folks were in town so we decided in between Saturday soccer matches to take in some of the local entertainment. Naturally we hit the corn maze and armed ourselves with maps and a collection of long PVC pipes with flags attached that you could hold up in an act of surrender (but which we were positive we would never, ever need to use) to prompt your friendly corn maze attendant to guide you out.

We embarked with nine Sabo children and, um, just a minute ... let's see we took nine kids ... we brought nine kids back, right? I mean, we didn't like lose one in there, right? There's not a shivering Sabo kid in the corn maze at this moment gnawing on corn cobs trying to find his way out of the 8-acre (or is it 800-acre?) maze, right? Juuuulllliiiieeeeeee!!! How many kids are in the house? Yes, right now! Does that include Ezra? Ok, thanks babe. What's that Julie? Why do I want to know how many kids are in the house? Oh, no big deal. Nothing. Just making sure no one was playing outside or anything. Yes, I know it's almost midnight ...

Anyway, we took nine kids to the corn maze and most importantly, we had a good time we survived and brought everyone back. Yes, they may have been exhausted when we finally stumbled out skipped out of the 8 million acres of corn and made a beeline for the bottled water. And yes, I finally had to admit that we needed to ask the friendly corn maze attendant how to "exit" the corn maze. (We only passed him three times. Each time I was positive I knew the way out.) And yes, my kids refuse to eat corn right now.

But what a memory, eh? And hey, I can't wait to do it again next year!

To see the Sabos in action in the corn maze, check out this 1-minute video that recaps all the excitement:  Lost in the corn maze