Waking up on my 48th birthday and realizing one big thing

I spent part of my birthday teaching this crew how to skip rocks.

I was scrolling back through my memories of birthdays past, thinking about some of the particular January 29ths that really stand out. I thought I’d share some. 

1976 — On my 7th birthday in the wintry cold of Bend, Oregon, I broke the two middle fingers on my right hand shortly before my friends arrived for my birthday party. I snapped the tips of those fingers in an unfortunate incident involving a wheelbarrow full of firewood, a rickety ramp consisting of a single flimsy board and a big drop down some steps on our back patio. Oh, and my older brother was in the mix. I soon adapted by learning to write left-handed. So I guess you could say that on my 7th birthday I learned about overcoming adversity. And not to use your writing hand to try and hold up a ramp beneath the weight of a wheelbarrow full of firewood being driven by your brother, even when he tells you to hold the ramp up with your hand.

1985 — I would turn 16 this year and mark it later that summer by competing on an “All-Star” track and field team from Oregon and Washington that traveled to Hong Kong, South Korea and China. I discovered firsthand the meaning of “abject poverty” on our train ride through the rice paddies and villages of rural China and recall how hordes of Chinese people would crowd around in awe and touch the hair of a girl on our team who had blond hair that was nearly white. I competed in a 5,000-meter race in a rustic, dirt-track stadium in Guangzhou, China, finishing third in sweltering heat. I remember distinctly three things about that race: 1) I was sure I was going to either burn up or melt to death, perhaps both; 2) You couldn’t drink the water in China so after the race I “quenched” my agonizing thirst with the only liquid available, a warm, fizzy orange soda pop; 3) I was overjoyed that our second meet got canceled because I was sure I wouldn’t survive another race. After the race we traded trinkets and jerseys with our fellow Chinese competitors and I remember one tiny, rail thin guy wanted my beloved Nike Spiridon racing shoes. I turned him down. To this day I think about that poor kid who had literally nothing and rue my selfishness: Why didn’t I just give him the shoes?

1993 — I turned 24 in the frozen tundra of Ontario, Oregon, which at the time was gripped in a brutally long, cold, snowy winter. I was married to Julie and we had two boys with a third on the way — Imagine that! Julie was pregnant! — and I was working for $1,200 a month as a sportswriter at the daily Argus Observer covering high school sports. Often I would leave my 1986 diesel Volkswagen Jetta with Julie and run the mile or so to work through the campus of Treasure Valley Community College. I remember distinctly on one frigid night running home for dinner through the crusty snow and underestimating how bitterly cold it was, thinking someone might come across me frozen solid in mid-stride sometime the next day. It took me a month to thaw out from that jaunt and to this day I hate to be cold, perhaps partly because of that moment of idiocy. But I get the warm fuzzies thinking about Ontario as well. The farming outpost on the Snake River next to Idaho is where we discovered the Calvary Chapel movement at a church on the outskirts of town and where we learned about expository Bible teaching. It changed our church lives forever. We also made lifelong friends who taught us so much about raising children, homeschooling and a family where Jesus Christ is at the center. 

2001 — I turned 32 in a couple of finished rooms of an old dairy barn on a 3-acre patch of land at the edge of Corvallis, Oregon, where we were holed up while we built a big dream house. We had seven kids, an eighth on the way — yes, Julie was pregnant! — and it was a hard time. Very hard time. All I can say is that God carried us through it. I learned plenty in that season of life, like DIY and how to use power tools such as a compound mitre saw, how to kill skunks nesting under your barn (it’s ugly and smelly and I don’t wish it on anyone) and what true friends look like (thank you Jim Bass and many others). I remember the strength of Julie in those hard times. A gritty perseverance and a deep, abiding faith and belief that God in His power will get us through anything. I’ve never met another woman like her. Don’t think I ever will. I’m so thankful for her.

2009 — After living in Virginia for four years, we returned to Corvallis in fall of 2008 so I could attend Cornerstone School of Ministry. On my 40th birthday at school I remember how one of my classmates ornately and rather gaudily decorated my car in embarrassing fashion, writing passages drawn from Song of Solomon referencing my “abs of carved ivory” on it … except it wasn’t my car. It was someone else’s. Now THAT was funny and made for a memorable birthday. But from 2009 I learned many things, above all that God is in control. And that He is a very good and loving God.

2017 — I awoke on my 48th birthday next to my wife of 26 years, who’s not pregnant I might add, in a little house a few blocks from the York River where around Christmas time all 14 kids were home. It’s 15 kids when you add in Taylor’s wife, Bethany, then 16 kids when you count the wee little lad she’s carrying in her womb. (We’re so stoked to be grandparents this year!) Then you add another to make it 17 for when Ethan’s fiancee Mandi, was here, plus throw in another “kid” to make it 18 when Brenton’s — and ours too! — good friend from Oregon, Parker Smith, stopped in for several days to visit. Julie glowed because all her babies were home and the house was just so full of life. And a ton of food. Literally a ton of food. I remember thinking that, yes our house is small and there’s kids everywhere, but there’s so much laughing and joy and love and I’m so thankful for all the Lord has done in our lives. And then a few days ago I got this text from Evie, who’s out in Oregon studying at Cornerstone School of Ministry for the year: “Okay. We were in prayer yesterday and I remembered in It’s a Wonderful Life at the end when Harry toasts George and says, `To George Bailey, the richest man in town.’ I know this is really mushy but I always thought of you when we watched that movie.” So yes, Evie is right. On my 48th birthday I woke up as the richest man in town.

I called in the `Redneck Cavalry' to negotiate the `Prius graveyard' and rescue my daughter

This is Portland in a snowstorm. Not pretty.

This was an eventful week in the Sabo house. A lot happened, including Gabe suffering a spiral fracture of his left leg when he tried snowboarding down a snow ramp off our back deck following the dumping of a foot of snow here in Gloucester.

Evie had an exhausting trip out to Oregon by air that began at 10:30 a.m. on Tuesday when she left for Richmond. She flew out of Richmond, made it to Newark, N.J., had a brutally long layover and then departed for Portland. Only to have her flight rerouted to Seattle due to heavy snow that socked in PDX. She eventually made it to Portland in the middle of the night but was stranded at the airport.

It's a helpless feeling knowing my daughter is stranded 3,000 miles away after a long night. The roads were nasty, we checked the MAX light rail and it looked like it was running to Clackamas Town Center and we were hoping maybe she could catch a bus to Canby, where Julie's folks live. But the buses weren't running -- everything in Portland was basically shut down amid a snowstorm dropping a foot of white stuff -- and the Tri-Met webpage recommended that after Evie got to Clackamas Town Center she walk the 7.8 remaining miles to Canby. In a blizzard. With her luggage.

Um, no.

I was desperate. I called my good friend in Corvallis, Matt Fields. Back in 2008, in similar conditions in December, Matt had taken me from Corvallis to the airport in Portland with no problem so I could fly back to Gloucester. I wanted to get the lowdown from Matt on how bad it really was in Oregon for this go around. It wasn't good.

Matt described Interstate 5 around Portland quite ominously as a "Prius graveyard." Gulp.

Then he offered to go fetch Evie.

"I've got the Excursion, it's got studs on the tires, I'll throw some chains in the back and head up there," he said. Like it's that easy. Well, it was. For him. Truth be told, it was time to send in the `Redneck Cavalry.'

That would be Matt. He's an Oregonian through and through. Hickory shirts, chainsaws, operates heavy equipment, woodsman, marksman (just ask the deer in western Oregon), farmer, mechanic, you name it. He put the rugged in rugged individual.

He's a solid Christian brother, as solid as they come, a family man and a follower of Christ. He's willing to help out a friend in need and go rescue his daughter in an Oregon blizzard that shut down 2/3 of the state.

Within hours I had a text from Evie saying she was passing through Woodburn on her way to Corvallis. They were southbound on I-5, well clear of the Prius graveyard by then.

I am so thankful for friends like Matt Fields. A true redneck brother. They don't make them any better.

The little boy, now young man, who almost didn't make it past being a toddler

A kid in Air Jordan shorts can't be anything but confident.

Today we celebrate the 24th birthday of Taylor. It's a remarkable feat because he has come so far. Those who know Taylor might be surprised to learn that at the age of 2, as Sabo kids go he ranked right up there with the most difficult. There were days we weren't sure any of us would survive the Taylor toddler years. Yes, it's true. Just ask him. He will tell you.

Everything was a battle with Taylor when he was but a wee lad. He was just so particular. About everything. Rarely did he like the way his clothes fit and he would get this sour look on his face and grab at his pants, or stomp his feet, or whine and fuss. He was particular about what he would eat and prone to little fits about things in general. When his brothers would aggravate him, and boy would his brothers aggravate him, he would get so mad! He would grit his teeth and wrinkle up his nose and you could see the steam coming off his head -- which, by the way, it took him a while to grow a full head of hair -- and he would do this funny little thing.

When he got really mad and he needed to really lash out he would grit his teeth and kind of ball up his fists ... then if it was Ethan -- or whoever he was mad at but Ethan seemed for some reason to be a frequent target -- he would reach out and with his thumb and forefinger rub Ethan's ears rather gently. That showed him! And Ethan would look at him like, "What on earth are you doing with my ears Taylor?"

I don't think he still does that anymore. I'll have to ask his lovely wife Bethany.

Along the way, Taylor became an amazing young man. Let's say that God moved mightily in his life. He's an extraordinary son and brother and friend and husband. He is kind and loving and generous, a hard worker, genuinely caring, a young man of great faith and a talented musician and singer who uses his gifts for the glory of the Lord.

It's always so much fun when Taylor comes home with Bethany. There's soccer games and laughs and crazy bedtime stories that Taylor tells his little brother and sisters -- so hilarious that they actually look forward to going to bed. That's all kind of amazing! He likes to help out around the house and when the two of them are here that means two more people singing beautifully and playing instruments in the house. A house full of musicians is a happy place I tell you.

So happy birthday Taylor! We love you! Taylor and Bethany graduate from Berea College in a little more than a week and we can't wait for them to come visit us! One last thing, Taylor: We knew you would make it to 24 ... really we did!

For every American, an epic road trip is a citizenship requirement

The amazing Vermilion Cliffs of Arizona. At 70 mph from the highway. Shot with an iPhone.

The quintessential American experience is the epic road trip. It's as simple as the fact that we are Americans. So we go places and do things, often on an epic scale. I would suggest that you are un-American if you don't. The epic road trip is in our blood. Our collective American DNA is that we are a nation of explorers. The New World. Jamestown. John Smith. The Mayflower. Lewis & Clark. The Oregon Trail. Apollo 11. (Going to the moon constitutes a most epic road trip. It would be hard to top that one.)

The epic road trip is a distinctly American rite of passage. It is a continuation of the historical narrative that establishes us as a people of varying backgrounds but who singularly refuse to be hemmed in by lines on a map, or distance, or barriers -- be they mountains, valleys, oceans, rivers, deserts or thin air, including the really, really thin air and rather expansive and even foreboding distances of outer space.

We all are descended from people who arrived here from somewhere else. Our ancestors were explorers and fortune hunters. They were the restless, the visionaries, the determined and the undaunted. If they determined a better life was to be found elsewhere, whether it was across an ocean, or a continent, or simply somewhere else, why they packed up and went.

I like to pack up and went. I always have, from the time I was a little shaver and summers and Christmas vacation were typically reserved for road trips. In the grand scheme of things, my roots are traced back to people of European stock who at some point packed up and went on a road trip -- ocean trip? -- to America. I have no desire as they did to leave the homeland. Rather, I long to see the homeland. As much of it as I can.

What triggered all this musing about the great American experience of the epic road trip is a song. I happened upon it the other day and a memory flooded back in my mind of one of the many epic road trips I have had the privilege of taking. The song is by U2, titled "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For." It was released in 1987, the year I graduated from Bend High School.

The summer following my graduation, my good friend, Chris Hamilton, asked if I'd take a little road trip with him. Chris was a talented bicyclist and my memory is that he was going to compete in a bike race in Mammoth Lakes, Calif. I think it was late June, maybe early July, when we road tripped in epic fashion. Chris, our mutual friend Dean Dilday, another bicyclist who was a couple or few years younger than us, and I set out from Bend, Ore., to  drive 570 miles or so to Mammoth Lakes. I believe we were driving Chris' Toyota pickup that had a canopy on it. Now mind you, this is approaching 30 years ago so I may be fuzzy on a few things. But not everything.

We listened to a lot of U2 on that trip. The Joshua Tree, which I still consider the quintessential U2 album, was released that year and by the time the summer rolled around I had the songs memorized. Those songs are indelibly impressed in my mind. As is the road trip.

One thing I'll never forget is stepping out the door for my first run in Mammoth Lakes. At the time I was a couple of months away from heading to the University of Portland on a track scholarship. In Bend, I trained at an altitude approaching 4,000 feet, where the thin air deprived my lungs of oxygen but helped give me a competitive advantage when I raced at lower altitudes. I was fast and fit. Or so I thought.

I was wholly unprepared for what I was to encounter in Mammoth Lakes. Sitting near 8,000 feet of elevation where the air is so thin that simply getting out of bed gets you winded, when I was on that inaugural run I sincerely believed my lungs had somehow caught fire. Surely I was self-combusting, which meant death by oxygen-deprivation was imminent. Yet I somehow cheated death that day, probably because I slowed way down. But the epicness of any American road trip is directly proportional to how close you came to some sort of permanent and premature demise. The fact that I nearly died of oxygen deprivation on a mountain in California that sits not all that far from Death Valley counts for max points in the epic road trip scoring chart.

Yet there are two things from that road trip that I am forever grateful to have experienced. A premature death due to oxygen deprivation not being one of them. They both occurred on the trip home. We left Mammoth Lakes after the racing and bolted for Bend. Somewhere along the way, whether it was still in northeastern California or southeastern Oregon I can't recall, we stopped at a turnout or rest area amid the sagebrush and occasional juniper tree of the American West's Great Basin. It's a place that I like to say is a chlorophyll-free zone, emptied of most anything of a green, leafy nature and populated by the muted tones of plants and trees that have mastered the art of surviving in forbidding climates where water is often merely a mirage.

Exhausted, we bedded down for the night in the cool, open air. Above us, unfolding across the unfettered horizon, was the Milky Way in all of its astounding glory. The stars at home in their extraterrestrial glory spilled across the inky sky, lighting it up. I have never forgotten the glory of it all.

The second thing I have not forgotten occurred the next day. As we made a beeline for home across the emptied out landscape, we made a spur of the moment decision. The "spur of the moment decision" is an absolute requirement of any epic road trip. An epic road trip that lacks the suspended judgment and inadvisability of a "spur of the moment decision" is simply a road trip. It's just going from Point A to Point B. There's nothing too epic about that.

We stopped at Fort Rock, an extraordinary natural feature that juts 200 feet above the barren, foreboding Oregon High Desert. It's like a mirage, an ancient fort with rocky palisades stretching high above landscape. It was well out of our way, but well worth the stop. We killed an afternoon there, three teenage boys who, for at least this one time, were wise beyond their years. We climbed over the rocky walls -- Dean pretty much won the climbing competition as he shinnied up the walls -- and gawked at the views. It is a place very few have seen and experienced, which makes it all the better. On the epic road trip point scale, we scored a big, fat cha-ching. Link: Fort Rock

As the memories of my epic summer of 1987 road trip flooded back to me, spurred by the chords and lyrics of that iconic U2 anthem, I thought how fitting it all remains. I haven't found everything. I haven't seen everything. I'm not done making epic road trips. I'm an American after all.

The amazing thing I found down at my York River beach

The beach at Harbor Hills

At least a few times a week, perhaps more, I walk a few blocks down to the neighborhood beach on the York River at the end of Harbor Hills Road. I walk by a piney lot that a neighbor told me is the final repose of the bones of slaves resting in unmarked graves. I wonder if that's true. I have no reason to doubt, but I find it startling. And mysterious. I walk down a hill where on the corner is a house with distinctive Cape Cod-style siding that always reminds of something I might see on the Oregon Coast. It takes me back to the Yaquina Bay Bridge in Newport. 

There's a couple of spots on the road where I've encountered snakes. A copperhead once with its distinctive brown diamonds and then a long, skinny black snake another time. It's quite a journey down to that beach.

One time I glanced out my kitchen window and saw a summer storm had cropped up. I was hustling down to photograph the sinister clouds as they rose in ambush over the York River. I was nearly there to capture it all when the clouds unleashed their thunderous fury. I turned for home and ran, chugging uphill in a downpour as the pine trees bent around me, arriving home soaked, my ears ringing. I remember feeling quite happy I made it.

I'm drawn to the beach and it's dun-colored sand for the view, the peace, the water, the sky and the sun. It's a place to pray, a place to think, a place to ponder and wonder. I've been visiting the beach for a little more than two years. There's an inlet from the river that flows high and low with the tide and opens up into a long, narrow pond that's like a shallow natural harbor filling the low spot between two stubby hills. I suspect that's where the area got its name, as a harbor among the hilly bluffs jutting up above the York River, but I'm not quite sure. It's all silted in now and I wonder if it was once a place of shelter for boats, maybe back to colonial times. Who knows. Google doesn't seem to know.

The most remarkable thing of all has been how much the beach has changed in such a short span of my visits. The inlet's path changes almost daily sometimes. The wind, waves and tides alternately heap up sand and drag it away and the inlet's path and mouth has been altered steadily, moving farther and farther downstream of the river.

The changing path of the Harbor Hills inlet

I like to take my kids down there. When the weather is warm for a good part of the year they love to frolic in the little stream and catch minnows and small blue crabs. They don't notice the influence of the greater forces on that little stream. I imagine they're not like me, watching the stream carve out a path through the ever-changing sandy obstructions. Or noting how the new path of the stream yields little treasures, like a bed of colorful pebbles and stones that surprised me the other day. The pebbles, shells and even pieces of smoothed glass seemed so out of place, like they had been dropped there. I posted a photo of them on Instagram and said they were stars that had fallen out of the sky onto my beach.

Unexpected treasures, or fallen stars

As I've watched that little stream change course I've come to appreciate it. It always finds a path, no matter the barrier. I like to listen to it on its meandering track back to the river as it whittles away at the sand in its course, never relenting, always moving one way or the other depending on the tide. When it's warm out you'll find me wading in the Harbor Hills stream, sometimes alone, often with my kids and fishing for crabs and minnows.

Mostly when I get down there I see footprints. Several people like to take their dogs down there. There's people who walk around and I can see where they stop at the water. I wonder if they're like me. If they notice how the beach is changing. How it's captive to the fury of the storms that gather force across the mile-wide river. I wonder if they notice the unrelenting stream, the life of that little stretch of beach.

A tornado, thunderstorms and stormy Virginia days. In February.

Things don't look too bad out on the rivah today, despite the tornado warnings

One thing I don't remember about growing up in Bend, Ore., is experiencing a lot of tornado warnings. Or any tornado warnings for that matter. Like the tornado warnings we're under today here in Kansas. I mean, Gloucester, Va.

February is a month where you should be whining about the bitter cold and the four-foot snow drifts and the sub-zero temperatures and the Arctic blasts and polar vortexes. But it's 70 degrees here and alternately raining sideways and sunny and the tornado warnings are popping up nonstop. Should we really have to be sheltering in place trying to cram 12 people into an interior bathroom that fits only three people somewhat comfortably? I think not.

My first inkling of trouble that was brewing in the weather came late last night when a friend of mine from Oregon, Matt Fields, texted me. He alerted me at 9:38 p.m. that pretty bad storms were headed our way. I think it's pretty cool I have a weather spotter 3,000 miles away.

I was blissfully ignorant of today's potential storms until that text. I then checked into things and saw we were under a "hazardous weather outlook." Then I saw a friend of mine in the Deep South post a family photo on Facebook -- from inside his tornado shelter. Nice.

I told Matt I thought we would be good because we rarely get tornadoes here in Gloucester. We had one in 2011 that killed two people, injured several others and destroyed one of our middle schools. Here's a link to a story I wrote about when the tornado barreled through the nearby community of Deitaville on the upper Middle Peninsula and obliterated a church. Tornado story

The power of wind when it gets to ripping is amazing. During the 2011 EF3 tornado that hit Gloucester with winds up to 165 miles per hour, one man was killed while working in his garage. The tornado lifted his entire house off its foundation and dropped it on his garage where he was working that sat 30 or 40 feet away or so. Incredible.

I want back and read the story I wrote about Deitaville and something said by Pastor John Snow of the church that was destroyed is poignant. I wrote, "He knows he will never forget April 16, 2011. He also knows firsthand how fleeting life can be. `Just the power,' he said. `I look at that and I think, the incredible power. The things we hold onto can be taken away like that."

They certainly can.

Which is why I'm thankful for hope. The hope of eternity that's life in Jesus Christ. In times of storms we have hope that through whatever circumstances we may have to endure, we have hope of eternal life. No storm can take that away.

My 4-year-old had my iPhone for 5 minutes. This is what happened.

First shot pulling out of the county offices parking lot. Everything is in focus!

On Saturday I had a rendezvous in the Gloucester County Parks & Rec offices to pick up my team roster of the 9-11 year olds I will be coaching this season. I took Judah (age 4) and Seth (age 3) with me since it looks like they will be my assistant coaches this spring. I think I will have them do some scouting and put them in charge of snacks. (Goldfish for everyone!)

Somehow after I had strapped them into their car seats in our stylishly luxurious 15-passenger van, my iPhone got in the hands of Judah. His seat is on the driver's side, right behind me. Right behind Judah in the next bench is Seth. They can't see each other but they can definitely hear each other and I will hear them comparing notes of what they see in the great big world flying by.

Judah (as we're passing houses): "Hey Seth, do you see that house?"
Seth: "I see it Judah!"
Judah: "Hey Seth, I see the moon! It's following us!"
Seth: "Where Judah? I don't see it."
Judah (pointing out the window): "It's up there!"
Seth: "I see it Judah!"

An inspection of my phone after retrieving it from him in the Walmart parking lot revealed that Judah is a very accomplished photographer. In terms of volume at least. In the course of five minutes he fired off 84 photos.

I think this is a shot on panorama mode that he kind of got artsy with. Shows Judah's creativity!

Basically our whole trip was documented by Judah. From leaving the parking lot to our arrival at Walmart we had a photographic journey. It was really cool to relive the whole journey. I'm guessing it was around three miles and now I know exactly how things look from the car seat right behind me. And now you do too!

Judah really captured the atmosphere of me driving. My razor sharp focus, my concentration, my attention to every driving detail...

After reviewing the photos, it made me wonder what goes through a 4-year-old's mind when the iPhone comes into his possession. What made Judah decide he wanted to go crazy with photos? Was he just bored? Was he exercising some creative juices? Does he aspire to be an Ansel Adams with an iPhone? Whatever it may be I definitely think the kid's got talent, though I may be biased. Of course, if you take 84 digital photographs in five minutes I sure hope at least a few of them are decent.

Capturing the essence of Seth. While pointing the camera behind him and shooting `blind.' Impressive, if you ask me.

Judah caught all the little details of our trip. His own feet. His little brother sitting behind him. His dad driving expertly with great skill and ability in front of him. The passing landscape. Even the most dangerous part of the journey -- the dreaded "Walmart roundabout" where dozens, perhaps tens of thousands, of motorists daily remain utterly baffled, confused and otherwise totally bumfuzzled by its elaborately mysterious and arcane rules. (Yield to the traffic in the roundabout, in case you are wondering about all those `elaborately mysterious and arcane rules' ... )

The obligatory shot of feet that you see people post on Instagram when they are traveling. Judah may just be going to Walmart, but quite obviously this is Instagram worthy material.

As I reviewed the photos, I was able to relive every single moment our journey. It was, um, captivating. It made me think that all the little things in life we miss. Or could miss. Unless we arm our 4-year-olds with smartphones and let them fire away in photo mode. I mean, I totally never get to see his feet pressed up against my seat. Sure I feel them, but I never actually get to witness it. Until now. I saw the four photos of his feet pressed up against my seat and exclaimed, "That's what it looks like!"

Buckle up! We're heading into the "Walmart roundabout" ... we're living dangerously!

As I surveyed the sheer volume of photos and how aggressively Judah fired away with that digital camera at his disposal, I thought two things:
1) I'm going to have to get a bag of ice at Walmart for his finger so he can ice it down.
and
2) I'm really, really glad he didn't have my iPhone in his crafty little hands on our trip to Oregon because at the pace he shot on our trip to Walmart that would have been 250,000 photos. Not good.

The final shot in the Walmart parking lot: #84

The One Thing I Did As A Kid No One Does Anymore

My old stomping grounds: Pilot Butte Cemetery

Today was a good day for the simple reason I went back to my roots: I walked places. I dropped the van off at the shop to get a state inspection and for an oil change then walked 20 minutes home. Later on I walked the 20 minutes back to pick it up. Then I walked to work. Later on I walked home. It was cold, the wind was blowing and it took an hour out of my day to get everywhere, but it was great.

It was just like when I was a kid back in the day in Bend, Ore. Maybe it says more about my age than anything else, but I must be one of the few people in this country who walked to every school he attended -- starting in kindergarten. I was telling one our daughter's teenage friends the other day how I walked to Trinity Lutheran kindergarten -- a whopping two blocks -- and crossed a highway to get there. Of course, Highway 20, or Greenwood Avenue as its also known, carried a little less traffic in 1974 than it might now. But our daughters' friend was horrified that a 5-year-old kid would walk across a highway. Her horror is misplaced. I grew up in a different time, a different place. I consider myself lucky.

When I hit first grade I walked to Bear Creek Elementary, meandering through Pilot Butte Cemetery to get there. I was saying how much I enjoyed the walk to school. Maybe not every single day -- before global warming it used to snow in Bend as I recall -- but I just loved having that quiet time before and after school. I got the blood pumping -- it might pump more today if I was walking seeing as how a cougar was spotted in a nearby neighborhood last fall -- and got some exercise and got an education along the way. By the time I hit middle school I could have given you a walking historical tour of Pilot Butte Cemetery, including where to find the grave of a Civil War veteran and the grave site of a man born in 1845, the earliest birth date of any tombstone I had cataloged in the graveyard. To this day I have a soft spot for graveyards.

Miss Nesting, Mrs. Flanary, Mrs. Shepard, Mr. Powelson, Mr. Moore. My teachers at Bear Creek from 1st-5th grade.

From Bear Creek Elementary I matriculated to Pilot Butte Junior High. It was a longish walk to what's today known as a middle school. A couple of blocks down 11th Street, across Highway 20/Greenwood Avenue -- oh, the horror! -- then snake around the northwest flank of Pilot Butte. A lot of the time a few of my buddies, RB "Rand" Smith, Brian "BT Express" Thomas and Brian "Schwartz" Fleck, would assemble at my house and then ride our bikes to school. Either way, it was a great way to start and finish the day, from my perspective. I had a little adventure dodging cars on Highway 20 -- I never stopped when I crossed the highway and figured, rightly, the cars and trucks would yield -- a little communing with nature navigating the trails snaking through the juniper trees and sagebrush and then, of course, the exercise.

After three years in junior high it was off to the big leagues and a half-mile or so walk to Bend High School. I recall getting to school on some days with frozen hair. Seriously. I wouldn't wear a hat -- things have changed since then, obviously -- and would often leave for school with wet hair. Again, back before global warming it got cold in Bend in the winter and there were days I would use first period to thaw out my hair. Sometimes I would run home for lunch and then run back to school. Of course, there were plenty of times my homies and I would hit Sweetheart Donuts down on Third Street. Those were the days. I remember spending 35 hard earned cents on an eclair donut from Sweetheart Donuts. Can that be right? What does 35 cents get you anymore? Certainly not a donut.

The days of walking to school are long gone. Times have changed. In addition to the occasional cougar that might be prowling around, there's all the other stuff you have to worry about. For starters, I bet there's a little more traffic on Highway 20/Greenwood Avenue these days, especially considering there's about five times as many people in Bend now than when I grew up there. Then there's the general concern that a little kid walking alone through a cemetery might get abducted. That's definitely in play. Or that walking to school in snow might somehow constitute child abuse these days. Would Ma and Pa Sabo get busted for child abuse for letting their kid walk to school in the snow?

As I was walking back and forth through metropolitan Gloucester Point this morning, it brought me back to crisscrossing northeast Bend from the mid-70s into the late '80s. I go back to what I wrote earlier. I was a lucky kid.

To get an idea of what my walks around my neighborhood are like lately, check this out: Gloucester Point walkabout

*Author's note: A special thank you to Katherine Cockrum for snapping some photos of my old stomping grounds today and sending them to me. As a side note, her brother is none other than my longtime Bend homie the BT Express himself. And her husband is my friend and former Bend High School cross country teammate, Joe Cockrum. God bless you all.

Celebrating Our Family's 12th Anniversary In Virginia

Sao family, circa late summer 2004. 

On this date 12 years ago, Feb. 8, 2004, we arrived on the eastern outskirts of Nashville, Tenn., a family of 11 journeying across the U.S. via Interstate 40. Several days before we had bid our goodbyes to the West Coast and pointed our packed 12-passenger van east, leaving behind my beloved Oregon -- where I gladly spent my first 35 years -- to stake our claim in Gloucester, Va. We had first traveled south to Disneyland and after a long, glorious day in the happiest place on earth we were hitting the road.

I have a few distinct memories of our trip across the country. Beginning with Los Angeles traffic. We made it as far as Barstow, Calif., that first night. Not quite Williams, Ariz., my planned destination thanks to a -- surprise! -- clogged freeway heading out of LA. The next day, Feb. 6, 2004, dawned clear and cold. Evie would celebrate her 7th birthday in three states that day. On Feb. 7, 2004, MerriGrace would throw up in three states.

From Barstow we made it to Albuquerque, N.M. I remember swimming in an indoor/outdoor pool at our motel and Brenton becoming a human scab after an unfortunate incident on a fitness room treadmill. Next stop, Henryetta, Okla., where we stayed in a motel that I do believe had the worst "breakfast" I've ever had in my life. I also remember nearly freezing to death unpacking the van that night as an Arctic wind howled down off the Great Plains.

As we headed to Nashville 12 years ago today, we stopped for gas in a little outpost off the freeway in Arkansas. Somehow I avoided becoming a human ice cube filling up the van and ducked inside the convenience store for supplies and food stuffs. While waiting in line, a man struck up a conversation with me. I had no idea what he was saying and apologized before asking him what he said. We went back and forth about two or three times before I figured out that in backwoods country Arkansas, the word "wind" has three syllables. Maybe four. He was talking about the cold wind.

We would make it eventually, well technically the next day, to Gloucester, Va., where we hunkered down in two rooms at the Comfort Inn, right next door to the Winn-Dixie. RIP Gloucester Winn-Dixie, a death caused by the opening of the nearby Wal-Mart Supercenter. There were still people living in the Comfort Inn who were waiting for their houses to get patched up from getting bushwhacked by Hurricane Isabel, five months after she had barreled through the county. And every morning at the continental breakfast we were greeted by grandmotherly Miss Bernice.

The kids remember playing in the snow in the woods out back of the motel. I remember hearing tree frogs hollering from the woods one day and thinking we were under attack. We got turned down three or four times for rentals, always with the same story: Either the well or septic system, or both, would in no way, shape, or form handle the volumes a family of 11 would surely consume and produce. Never mind that even with a bunch more kids since then we would never have a water or septic system problem in all the years of living here.

We spent a fortnight plus one in the Comfort Inn before we found temporary housing until our house in Oregon sold. We were able to close on a place of our own in the woods a stone's throw from Burkes Mill Pond. We've moved around plenty since we've been here. From Mill Pond Road to a new home on Ark Road, where out back of the house and a football field away, down by a mountainous gum tree, a stream trickled right out of the side of a hill.

Then it was on to a big house in a new subdivision off of Belroi Road ,where one night a micro-burst -- that's weatherman talk for a mini-twister -- dropped a neighbor's tree in our yard. It narrowly missed our house but it pitched a limb from the tree right through our bedroom window, prompting an unexpected tumult that was like a shotgun blast for an alarm clock. This was at midnight and I've never seen Julie move so fast. To this day I'm positive I heard the sound of a train right before that limb tore through our window. Mind you, there's no trains in Gloucester.

From there we moved down the county to a Marshall Lane rancher in a peaceful neighborhood at the Point. It's where my kids walk a few blocks to the beach and fish minnows and little blue crabs out of a salty York River inlet not far from where the big rivah eases gently into Cheseapeake Bay.

We've had a grand time here in Gloucester. It's the only place where I've been asked more than once if I'm a Yankee. That makes me laugh. I usually answer that Oregon didn't become a state until 1859 and thanks to its relative newness, a general lack of a supply of able-bodied men and its great distance from the action in Virginia and elsewhere on the bloody Southern battlefields, the War of Northern Aggression wasn't really our scrap. Truth be told, however, I guess I am a Yankee seeing as how I count Ethan Allen of Vermont's Green Mountain Boys fame as an ancestor. But let's just keep that between us.

I usually greet people with a lively, "Howdy," something I trace back to my roots east of Oregon's splendid Cascade Mountains range. I guess people aren't used to my Oregon howdy because sometimes I have people respond, "Ah'm fah-ahn thanks, how're y'all doin'?" I've been asked about my accent, even though I've never known an Oregonian, not even those out east in John Day, Burns, or heck, metropolitan Fossil, to have one. I've been introduced to okra and collard greens, the glories of Chesapeake Bay, country ham biscuits and the best rivah sunsets in all of Virginia. Or anywhere for that matter.

I admit it. There's things I miss about Oregon. That meadow between the groves of towering ponderosa pines just east of Sisters alongside Highway 20 where the snow capped Three Sisters mountains seem to take up the whole sky. I can't ever help but stare at the awesome sight. Or the amazingly vibrant colors of the Painted Hills outside of Mitchell, where God got crazy with the paintbrush. Or the nights staring up in awe at the High Desert skies without a tree or a city light for a hundred miles to hide a single star that, as the prophet Isaiah tells us, like the millions of other stars in the Milky Way was hung in place and named by God.

My home  -- our home -- is here in Gloucester now. You know the place. Where one day in February the kids are playing soccer in the yard in shorts and t-shirts and two days later they're making Olaf out of the snow. Where the Coleman Bridge spans the York River at its narrowest point, a full three-quarters of a mile wide and where dolphins frolic in the summer. It's the same place Pocahontas called home and where she intervened, as the story goes, to ensure John Smith wasn't the first Englishman to get his head lopped off in the New World.

It's also where, in 1642, an Englishman named Augustine Warner settled by a branch of the Severn River and whose most famous descendant, a great- great-grandson, was a man by the name of George Washington. Yes, that George Washington. And, of course, a Confederate general and Southern icon named Bobby Lee traced his lineage back to ol' Augie Warner.

It's an amazing place, populated by a great many people with whom we've made enduring memories. I expect many more memories to come, even if it doesn't involve another Sabo baby. I can't imagine living anywhere else. Twelve years on now and Gloucester is the place we Sabos call home.

Augie Warner's old place, now a B&B known as The Inn at Warner Hall

A Difference In `Justice' In America And The Middle East

Refugees arriving on a Greek island

A good friend of mine told me the story of a little boy with an arm that ended in a stub below his elbow. My friend was a volunteer soccer coach in a league of refugee boys in a large Midwestern city. The boys and their families were Muslim and had left their homes behind to come to America. They hailed from places like Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Eritrea and Syria, countries that swallow up their residents in sinkholes of bombings, shootings, starvation and other means of violent death.

One day at soccer practice my friend asked the Iraqi boy what happened to his arm. The boy explained that years earlier, when he was 4 and living in Iraq, he had stolen something in the market. He was caught and under Sharia law there was a stiff price to be administered for his crime. The penalty he paid was his hand that was hacked off.

Four years old.

I have a memory myself of stealing something in the store when I was a young child a little older than the Iraqi boy. I was standing in the checkout line at Wagner's Supermarket in Bend, Ore., and managed to filch a piece of candy and put it in my pocket. My memory is that it was a piece of hard candy. I glanced up to meet the stink eye of an older woman in line behind us. I don't recall anything happening to me; apparently the lady didn't rat me out. I certainly didn't lose my hand.

I tell this story because I've thought a lot about the refugees from the Middle East and Africa. We've all seen the pictures and read and watched the stories of the people who risk their lives to flee their countries in hopes that at least they may live. Or there's stories like that Iraqi boy, the one with the arm that ends in a stump.

I would encourage you to listen to this recent teaching by David Platt on the Biblical response to the refugee crisis. I have plenty of thoughts on the refugee crisis that I'll share in one or more upcoming posts. But listen to Platt's message as I found it enlightening: Message on refugees

The Faith Race That Goes To The Committed, The Courageous

Back in my college running days. That's me on the right there, the one you wouldn't recognize these days.

My last college cross country race was held on a warm, sunny November day in a big, hilly park in Fresno, Calif. It was 1990. I was 21, married with a little boy and in my senior year at the University of Portland. The race was an NCAA regional meet, my last chance to qualify for the national cross country championships and I was running with the big boys from the West region. All the Pac-10 (back when it was the Pac-10) schools were there along with big schools from other major conferences.

I was ready, if not a bit intimidated to race with the elites. To qualify for the NCAA championships your team has to be in the top three. Or for individuals, you have to be in the top three from non-scoring teams. I had a legitimate shot. A very good shot. The race was 10 kilometers, or 6.2 miles. I always felt like we were at a slight disadvantage racing in California at that time of year because in Portland it was 50s and raining sideways, so a warm day in the 70s was a bit taxing for us and not something for which we could prepare. But that's not an excuse. The conditions were the same for everyone.

As the race went on I knew our team was in the running for a shot at the NCAAs and I was as well. I remember distinctly with a half-mile left thinking that this was the last cross country race I would ever run. In high school I had been fortunate enough to be a part of an amazing turnaround. My freshman year of high school, when I started running at Bend High School in Oregon, we were horrible in cross country, finishing somewhere close to last in our district. By the time I was a junior we dominated our district and finished second in state. My senior year we destroyed the competition, winning the state title by 69 points. That state title was by far the highlight of my high school athletics experience.

College was similar. My freshman year we weren't that good, but by the time I was a senior we had a shot -- albeit something of a slim one -- to get to the NCAAs. So with a half-mile left in the race I did something that I never did. I sprinted. I never had much of a kick and usually conserved energy for the very end of the race, maybe the last 100 meters. Not this time.

I don't recall how many runners I passed but it was a lot. Maybe six, possibly eight. Could be more. I absolutely crushed that last half-mile. And paid the price for it. As I stumbled across the finish line in 11th place, two runners who kicked much later burst past me. But I had beaten them to the line and the officials pushed me in front of them in the finish line chute.

Gasping for air I literally stumbled through the line on legs of rubber and I remember the strangest thing happened to me. I couldn't keep my eyes open. I was so exhausted I literally was falling asleep as I walked through the chute. I found a picnic table and promptly crashed onto the bench to go to sleep, or possibly die. My teammates probably thought I was dead, maybe just nearly dead at best, and kept trying to help me up to walk me around and keep me alive. I would have none of it. I told them to leave me alone. I just wanted to sleep. Or maybe die.

My effort was seemingly noble, yet all for naught. Our team finished 4th and I was the 4th individual. My cross country season, really my cross country career, was over. Since then I've looked back on that race and comforted myself knowing how hard I fought that last mile. I've even used it in messages I've preached at Calvary Chapel Gloucester about finishing the race well. To push yourself to the limit.

Yet that's not the truth. I've thought about that race a lot over the past 25 years. (Wow. Has it been that long? Mercy sakes.) And while it's a nice narrative I've told over the years it's not quite right. I've been wrong to talk about that race in the manner I have. It's long past time to come clean. I'll explain.

Here's why I've been thinking about this. I see too many Christians practice their faith exactly the way I ran that race. We all gather at the starting line -- that moment when you come to faith in Jesus Christ and make Him your Lord and Savior -- and from that point there are some who really go for it and are all out for the Lord. They are passionate, unwavering and zealous and the love of Jesus shines in them and through them. They are lights in a dark world, continually pointing people to Jesus, being compassionate, loving and radiating His grace. I admire them greatly.

Others run comfortably, more or less lukewarm. This is your typical Christian and a group I would characterize as the vast majority. Some flat out dawdle and others, sadly, drop out. But for pretty much everyone who sticks in the race there's a sprint at the end as the realization hits them that the end of their life is near and they want to "do something for the Lord."

So what really happened in that race of mine 25 years ago? In every cross country race there comes a point fairly early when you have to decide your level of commitment. The great runners push themselves to the limit from the start. For me, the moment of truth in that 10k in Fresno came around two miles into the race. At that point I backed off a bit and didn't fully go for it, opting to conserve my energy until the end. I played it safe. I ran comfortably, easily within my limits. It proved to be a decision I would regret. And still regret. Why not just go for it? It was my last cross country race! Ever!

Here's why I made the decision I did. I simply lacked the courage. And commitment. The race doesn't always go to the fastest or strongest. It's often to the most committed. The most courageous. That wasn't me on that day.

Which brings me to my Christian life. And yours, if you're a believer. What's your level of commitment? What's the courage meter of your faith? Are you coasting? Have you settled?

I've settled in my faith far too often. I've coasted in my faith far too often. It's too easy to just back off -- daily Bible reading, prayer, sharing my faith, pressing into the Lord, missions and other elements of the Christian faith can all take a back seat to "life" and its distractions and enticements. It really comes down to who Jesus is in my life. And yours. Is Jesus worth living for? Worth dying for? Didn't Jesus lay down His life for you and me?

I say all of this because I'm wrestling hard with some major decisions. It has everything to do with my level of commitment and the essence of my faith. I'm guessing you have these decisions to wrestle with as well.

It's the two-mile mark and time to make a decision. What's my level of commitment? What's yours?

My Best Worst Diaper Story: The Portland `Diapercicle'

Judah gives `no more diapers' a thumbs up

A very triumphant moment: The donning of the underwear

I took the kids swimming twice today at our Hilton Head Island resort's indoor pool and was thinking how nice it was not to have to hassle with a swim diaper. One thought led to another and I was reminiscing back to that fateful day in Portland, Ore., in 1990 when we transitioned from cloth diapers to plastic diapers. For some reason, I had this desire to share my story. This story originally appeared on my 12 Kids and ... Counting? blog back in 2009. I've edited it and updated the blog post but if you like a good diaper story, er maybe it's more if you like a 'bad diaper story,' then you're in business. Enjoy!


Jan. 16, 2009 -- 12 Kids and ... Counting?

We've been changing diapers for 19 years.* That's 19 years straight. Surely that puts us up in some sort of record category. A lot of that time we've had two cute little rumps in diapers. I tried to do the math on it and by my calculations (Warning: I'm a journalist whose last dalliance with upper level math was as a high school sophomore, so any mathematical undertakings are subject to ready suspicion.) we've changed in excess of 60,000 diapers.**

I'm going to let that marinate for a minute. Ruminate on it even. Sixty-thousand. Diapers. Probably more.

I work at home so I've changed diapers in a pinch while writing articles on deadline, interviewing sources, even while telling my editor why I might have gotten something wrong in a story I just filed ("Dude, I was changing a diaper. Cut me some slack, eh?") I'm not sure what size of dumpster 60,000 diapers would fill, but I'm sure it would be an extraordinary sight. In a disgusting sort of way, I reckon. With a 9-month-old and an un-pottytrained 2-year-old in the house, we're still going strong diaper-wise. I've got plenty of bad diaper stories. What parent doesn't?

But here's my best `Worst Diaper Story.' We got married at the onset of my senior year of college, circa 1990, and lived in this drafty little 3-bedroom shack, er house, in North Portland. It was a tough neighborhood. A few houses down was what I called a “24-hour pharmacy.” The cops and others knew it as a “drug house.”

Being young and idealistic and in a perpetually tight spot financially, we found ourselves in a cloth diaper phase. It’s admirable to be young and concerned about the environment. But we got over it.*** 

In the aforementioned cloth diaper phase, we stored the soiled diapers on the back porch in a plastic 10-gallon pail with a lid on it. It worked out just fine until February, when an Arctic Blast hit Portland. We're talking sub-zero wind chills, ice everywhere and the city at a virtual standstill because Portland is wholly unprepared to deal with snow.

Inevitably, we ran out of cloth diapers during the height of the Arctic Blast. In a heroic deed, I bundled up, trundled out to the porch and grabbed the pail and headed down to the basement to the washer and dryer, risking frozen digits, limbs and certain frostbite.**** The washer was a top-loader and when I went to dump the diapers in the wash, out came a ... frozen solid brick of diapers. A full-blown diapercicle. "Clunk," it went on the washer.

When the initial shock and horror wore off, several thoughts went through my head. "Do I get a blow dryer and thaw it out?” That seemed rather unappealing, for some reason. Not to mention it was a completely misguided use of a blow dryer.

“Do I grab a hose?" was another, thinking maybe I could squirt some water on it and thaw it out. Of course, the hose was frozen solid so that was pretty pointless. 

I was at a loss. This wasn't in my “Parent Handbook.” I couldn't Google “frozen solid brick of diapers" and "how to thaw out" because Al Gore hadn't even invented the Internet yet way back in 1990. Let alone that the guys who invented Google probably weren’t even born yet.

I looked around the basement. Hmmmm. There's a hammer over there. I grabbed the hammer and went to work, taking apart that brick one whack at a time. The worst part about it? The frozen slivers of, well, you can imagine what sort of projectiles came flying at my face. After the first whack or two I was shielding my face with my left arm and swinging away with my right. 

I conquered that diapercicle and wrestled those frozen solid butt hugging pieces of cloth into the washer. I remember feeling triumphant. Against all odds I had overcome the ravages of the dreaded Arctic Blast. Perhaps — hopefully? — the only guy in Portland who had to attack a diapercicle with a hammer to survive the unforeseen effects of winter’s icy tendrils. 

Needless to say, it wasn't long after my battle with the cloth diapercicle o’ doom that we changed to plastic diapers.

*Since this article was published, we went six more years in diapers. Which makes it 25 years straight. 

** Since this article was published, we revised the estimated diaperage total upward with the additional 6 years of diapering to somewhere between 75,000 and 90,000. Give or take a few … thousand.

***Before and since this article was published, we remain/remained environmentally concerned.

We recycle. We don’t fertilize our yard with harmful chemicals. We prefer paper over plastic. 

****Since this article was published, I realize I am prone to exaggeration. It’s called “literary license.” Deal with it.

Happy Birthday To My Amazing Wife Julie

Julie & Seth

Julie and I met when we were 20 years old and we were married 16 months later. By 30 we had seven kids and had lived in four cities.

When we hit 40 we had 12 kids, had moved across the country -- and back while I attended a School of Ministry for 9 months in Oregon -- and had lived in somewhere around 20 different "residences" that included an apartment, a barn and houses that ranged in size from 860 square feet (with five kids) to over 4,000 square feet.

Oh, and there was that two-week stretch in a couple of rooms in a motel when we arrived in Gloucester and no one would rent a house to us because they said we had too many kids. (Like nine is really a lot of kids ... what would those folks say now?)

Sometimes we talk about the plans we had before we got married. We'd have two kids and they'd be best friends and I'd have a nice career in the newspaper business. I'm not sure what all we had planned or if we planned much beyond those few details but it definitely looked nothing like what we have now.

I write all this because I want to say how thankful I am that I'm married to a woman of great faith. Julie inspires me with her devotion and love of the Lord, a pure faith that reflects and radiates the love of Jesus in so many ways. It's a selfless, sacrificial love for me and her children. It's patience, kindness, endurance, strength. It's wisdom. And so many other things.

A couple of months ago we were walking together on a date in D.C. heading to the Mall on an extraordinarily pleasant November night. We had snuck away for a night, just the two of us with no agenda, no demands and no plans other than to enjoy the evening together. Maybe the past 25 years together hasn't looked anything like what we thought it would. It's had so many unexpected twists and turns. And I can't imagine it now any other way.

But walking in D.C. is the part of my life I definitely envisioned. The two of us laughing and talking about the things we've done, the plans we have and the places we'll go. I envisioned us always being together.

Together we've done some pretty incredible things. We have such a good life, far different than anything we could have imagined when we met in her living room in her parents' house in Canby, Ore. We're blessed beyond measure by a family full of kids that love each other and has so much fun together. There's joy in this house and that's something I don't take for granted.

For that I thank Julie and her faith and love and passion to live a life pleasing to her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. She's an amazing example to our kids and many others.

Today is her birthday. Happy birthday babe. I love you.

A Tasty Sabo Christmas Tradition: Amazing Seafood Chowder

The finished product: So bon appetit!

It happens every year. Christmas rolls around and we open presents and the kids start playing with the toys, or reading books they got, or doing a puzzle, or eating voluminous amounts of candy -- this year we took all the candy we got and loaded into a large mixing bowl for a "candy stew" to pick from -- and then the real tradition gets underway.

I start preparing our beloved "Portland Seafood Chowder" that I fished out of a story from The Oregonian recipe in the early 2000s. It takes a couple of hours but it is oh so worth it. If you like seafood, if you like chowder, if you like food, if you like to eat and if you have any taste buds at all you will devour this chowder.

Do you like bacon? It's in there. Here's photographic proof:

Bacon is in the chowder. That means it's good.

Do you like smoked salmon? How about Chesapeake Bay jumbo lump blue crab? Do you like seafood in general? You'll like this chowder. Here's proof:

Key ingredients: Things of the salty saltwater.

The recipe doesn't call for everything I throw into my version of Portland Seafood Chowder. I admit, I get really aggressive with my ingredients. My philosophy with this chowder is that more is better. That plays out in two ways. First off, I figure that if it had saltwater coursing through its veins at one point -- er, whatever saltwater courses through when it comes to shrimp, oysters, crab and the like -- then it's good enough for my chowder. More is also better when it comes to servings. I figure New Year's Day is right around the corner and I can start cutting back and "exercising" and "dieting" at that point. Until then it is "bottoms up baby" when it comes to my chowder.

There's also one really key point I want to make when you are fixing this chowder. It's something I've had to learn over the years. When you break out the smoked salmon to add to the chowder, try really hard not to scarf it all down before it gets into the heavy bottom stock pot. It takes an extraordinary amount of discipline, but you can resist eating every last flaky bit of smoked salmon before it goes into the pot. I believe in you!

My kids absolutely love this chowder and it's a tradition my family looks forward to every year. It's an investment for sure -- the ingredients aren't exactly as cheap as canned tuna, if you know what I mean -- but well worth it. Give it a whirl and let me know what you think.

Portland Seafood Chowder
12 oz. diced raw bacon
1 1/3 C finely diced onion
1 1/3 C finely diced carrot
1 1/3 C finely diced celery
1/2 C diced roasted red bell peppers
1 1/2 t dried dill weed
1 1/2 t dried basil
1 1/2 t dried marjoram
1 1/2 t cajun spice mix
3 T all-purpose flour
1/2 C lightly hopped ale
1 10-oz. can baby clams
2 8-oz. bottles clam juice
4 C diced raw potatoes
6 to 8 fresh mussels, scrubbed & debearded
1/4 lb. cubed firm white fish such as snapper or cod
1/4 lb. smoked salmon, flaked
1 C whipping cream
salt & pepper to taste

* Among the seafood items I add with liberality (one of the few times in my life I'm a liberal):
crab meat
oysters
baby shrimp

In a heavy-bottomed stock pot, cook the bacon over medium-low until it is brown. Add the onion, carrot and celery and cook over medium-low heat until the carrots are almost tender. Add red peppers.

Stir in the dill weed, basil, marjoram and cajun spice mix. Add the flour and cook, stirring constantly for about 5 minutes. Add the ale, the juice from the clams (reserve the drained clams for later), and the bottled clam juice. Stir until smooth and then add the potatoes. Bring to a boil, reduce the heat, cover and simmer until the potatoes are tender, about 10 minutes. Add the mussels, white fish, smoked salmon, reserved clams and any other additional seafood, cover and simmer for 3 to 5 minutes or until the mussels are opened and the white fish is done. Discard any mussels that do not open. Stir in the whipping cream and season to taste with salt and pepper. Serve hot.

Three Things to DO This Christmas Season

I tend to chart out my life by a series of events. I have this sort of oral history in my mind and recall certain things by events in my life. For example, it's easy to remember when we moved from Prineville, Ore., to Corvallis, Ore., because it was right after Abram was born in 1999. Or I remember  the year when Eli was born because it was 2004 -- when we moved to Gloucester, Va. Another example would be remembering precisely when gasoline prices spiked in 2008 -- it was in September at the exact moment we were driving to Oregon so I could attend the School of Ministry at Calvary Chapel Corvallis. I will never forget the shock -- maybe horror is a better word -- of seeing the price of gas on the freeway in Tennessee at $4.99 per gallon. Or the acute physical pain associated with watching the needle of our fuel gauge rapidly drop toward `E' when we were driving into ferocious oncoming winds on I-80 in Wyoming. It's still painful to remember it seven years later ...

A year ago I spent two weeks in Nigeria while working as Communications Manager for the Transformational Education Network. It was an extraordinary time as we worked with church officials in Nigeria to open Bible-teaching computer training schools. As part of our work we traveled to a few schools, including the ones pictured above. Take a good look at those photos. Would you, as an American, say they are less than ideal conditions for school?

But here's the thing I remember when I visited those schools: The smiles I got from those students. I think about that frequently. Those kids have it rough and I'm know there are countless discouraging things they face every day. But they are so excited about going to school because it is a privilege and a blessing in that country. I'm not sure what percentage of Nigerian children actually get to wear uniforms and receive an education in a safe environment, but it may well be surprisingly low. These kids are grateful, to say the least.

I say all this because we all know how easy it is to get caught up in the consumer mentality of the American Christmas. I am guilty of it as well. We focus on things that don't matter, instead of things that do matter. With that in mind, I'd like to encourage all of us in three things -- particularly me -- this Christmas season.

1) Be thankful. I've traveled around the world. I've been to Africa, Haiti, China, South Korea, Hong Kong and other countries. We have so much to be thankful for as Americans. Be thankful for simple things such as running water, electricity, easy transportation, an overabundance of food and access to education. We take them for granted. Be thankful for our freedoms and safety in this country. The vast majority of us are untouched by violence, despite mass shootings and murder rates in inner cities. We don't have armed guards standing at gates at churches to ensure the safety of congregants like I saw in Jos, Nigeria. We don't have AK-47-toting soldiers manning checkpoints on highways every 10 or 15 miles to make sure terrorists aren't toting bombs and weapons across the country, as I saw in Nigeria. Not yet at least ...

More importantly, though, be thankful for a Savior. Two thousand years ago in an inconsequential town in the Middle East a child was born who would grow to become a remarkably compassionate, loving man. He is the Son of God and would live a sinless life, performing miracles of healing and later enduring searing punishment and torture and be nailed to a cross to be crucified. He would sacrifice His own life and take on our sins so that we could be free from the shackles of our trespasses and live life abundantly. Be thankful for the grace, mercy and selfless, unconditional love of Jesus Christ.

2) Be giving. We have this consumer mentality in America and an obsession with material things. Even in the church we find it hard to live out what Jesus said: That it's better to give than to receive. One of the saddest things I've heard recently is listening to the stories of two of my kids who work in the food service industry describe how the worst day for tips is Sunday afternoon when the Christians in their nice clothes go out to eat after church. Or how those same people can be among the rudest and most demanding customers. One of my kids describes how sad it is to know that some of the store's worst customers are a group of people wearing their church t-shirts who are rude to staff and then sit around and gossip. Come on Christians. We can do better.

Give more this year. In tips, in love, in deeds, in words and joy. Be a light to this dark world. Reflect the compassion of Jesus and live it out. Radiate the love of Jesus to a world that trades in harsh words, cynicism and selfishness.

3) Be servants. Jesus said that he came to this world to serve and not to be served. If we call ourselves Christians, that means we are followers of Jesus Christ and that these words should resonate with us. Does being a servant describe your life? Husbands, what does serving your wife look like in your house at the moment? How about with your kids? How does being a servant play out at work? How does it play out at church? Being a servant is a mindset that entails setting aside your needs to serve others and it can be a complete foreign concept to us. It starts at home. Believe me, I can do better and I know it. Perhaps many of us can do better. This world will be a better place when we have more people, Christians particularly, who view the journey through this life through the lens of being a servant. It's serving without complaint, accepting responsibility, being quick to apologize and quick to forgive and being patient and loving.

I leave with a verse that's one of my favorites, a prophecy from Isaiah 9 that describes the coming of Jesus. Just as Jesus is a light to a dark world, we can be lights this Christmas season: "The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; Those who dwelt in the land of the shadow of death, upon them a light has shined."