Month: December 2020

Hello Kirk,

My name is Tim.  Although we have not met, we have something important in common; we both profess to be born-again Christians.  I have long admired your boldness and your defense of the gospel in the TV and film industry, which does not always show respect for people of faith.

You came to my attention recently when you hosted a Christmas party where several hundred people gathered.  Oh, how I wanted to be there to participate in the caroling; but I am at high risk for the coronavirus because of my age, history of respiratory problems, and ongoing treatment for cancer.  I will have to wait until next year.

So, it was disappointing, Kirk, to see that you did not wait until next year, because those attendees at your event were crowded together, singing out loud, with very few of them wearing masks.  Granted, it was outdoors, but in my opinion your guests were at an increased level of risk of catching or spreading the disease.

We all share the frustration and the inconveniences of this health crisis.  We all want to return to normal, to once again crowd into the pews.  But what I fail to understand is why so many Christians, including some notable church leaders, regard the governmental restrictions as an assault on religious liberty.  They have spoken of their right to worship and assemble — defying or disregarding local, regional, and statewide mandates.

What rights are we talking about, Kirk?          

Many years ago, I knelt at the foot of the cross and begged the Lord to invade my heart, pledged my fealty to the King of Kings, and declared myself all in as a believer.  And at that moment I relinquished every right.  In the words of the Apostle Paul, I had become a bond servant, a slave by choice.  To use a sports metaphor, I was no longer a free agent.  I was under contract, and my contract was purchased with the shed blood of the One who saved me.

In the New Testament of the Bible, it is written that if we are to be His followers, we must “… deny ourselves, pick up our crosses daily, and follow Him.”  Furthermore, we are instructed in the words of Christ to obey the governing authorities – “… to render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.”  If the governing authorities demanded of me to behave immorally, to practice violence, or to stop worshipping God; then I would be obliged to resist.  However, the government has asked you and me to limit our numbers and to wear a mask — not what I consider violations of the First Amendment, and no First Amendment right is without some limitations.

Take our church for example.  In the sanctuary there is a small sign on the wall that says MAXIMUM OCCUPANCY.  It is posted by the Ventura County Fire Department and states the maximum number of worshippers for meetings and banquets.  In the church kitchen there are strict guidelines for food preparation, handwashing, and face coverings, which are posted by the Ventura County Health Department.  These ordinances and many others are commonly accepted as reasonable constraints for the health and safety of the people who work and worship at the church. 

If you and others are correct, that the mask and the distancing are of no significance and do not stop the tide of infection, then the wearing of the mask would be silly and uncomfortable.  But it would do no harm! 

On the other hand, if Dr. Fauci, the CDC, and health professionals worldwide are correct, then not wearing a mask would be more than silly.     It will be deadly.  Yes, wearing the mask is inconvenient; but it is not insignificant, because more than 340,000 people in America are dead already … and counting.

One of my church friends asked, “What’s the big deal about masks?”  My question exactly!  What is the big deal?  The mask is such a little deal, a piece of cloth.  Why fuss over it?  Why not just wear it?  I do not consider the mask and social distancing as infringements on my personal freedoms, so I have no problem obeying this mandate. 

However, that is not my main reason.  I wear the mask because as a Christian I am compelled to love my neighbor.  The Scriptures tell us that we will “… be known as Christians by our love,” — our love for one another, and our love for people of all nations, tribes and tongues – all of whom are living with this pandemic and its restrictions just like us.  In this perilous time, I can think of no better way to demonstrate this Biblical admonition than to do my small part, to practice a minor inconvenience, and to consider the well-being of the people around me.

To me, that is Bible 101.

If you have another caroling party next year, I hope that distancing and masks are no longer necessary, that I get an invitation, and that with full throats we can sing the hymns, the psalms and the spiritual songs of the season.

Sincerely,

Your brother and neighbor in Christ,

Tim Piatt, Thousand Oaks

Our Christmas Letter 2020

Greetings from the Piatts

This December we share in the national grief over the thousands of lives that are lost and upended, and we pray for a sunnier and healthier 2021. Also upended are familiar traditions and routines.  We cannot gather in the usual numbers, travel is severely limited, and our shopping is online.  On the other hand, we are not searching for parking places, standing in long lines at the checkout, or dealing with the normal frazzle at this time of year.  We have found more time to sit on the sofa, hold hands, pray, and consider the abundant blessings of this year.

Our New Home.  We moved into our new apartment in April.  We have the luxury of our own space, with easy access to Emily and Darren’s house, patio, garden, and pool.  Liza is still and always the “mamarazzi,” creating photobooks for the family. Tim started this blog in April. You can read his stories at tidingsfromtim.com or on his FB link.

Our Daughters.  Wendy works for a renowned doctor and researcher who is looking for cures for cancer, and by night she is a gifted singer and songwriter.  Check out “Christmas Without You” by Sweetlove (Wendy’s performance avatar) and Wes Hutchinson on Spotify.  Annie has years of experience in HR at the university level, fights for social justice, and takes flight as an aerial dancer.  She and her beau Louie were married in November — Huzzah!  He also works in HR, plays a mean trombone, and appreciates beauty in all its forms. Emily is a mom of three boisterous and beautiful sons, is a wonderful musician, and expresses her creativity in the kitchen where she has a vibrant and growing business of designer cookies. (See @eatsweetems) Darren has been blessed to work for Amgen from home all these months.  He is a warm and loving husband and devoted Daddy.  Our daughters are amazing in their professional and artistic pursuits.  They are also amazing in their devotion to their parents and their love for one another. 

Our Grandsons.  Clark (six) is in kindergarten, and his cohort is now on site. He is a kind big brother to Calvin (three next month) and Davey (16 months).  Living under the same roof with these boys is magic.  Everything they said about grandparenting … times 10!

Our Church.  We appreciate the attitude of our church leadership who have complied with the governing authorities and are considering the safety of our congregation and our community.  Our God resides in our hearts, not in a building.  Until we can resume normal attendance, we “zoom” worship in our jammies.      

May the Lord bless you and keep you … and give you His peace!

Love, Tim and Liza

They could not get the plane off the ground.  Just three days before Christmas and I was sitting in a DC-9 at the airport in Austin, Texas, hoping and praying to make my connecting flight from Dallas to Los Angeles. As we watched various minions of the ground crew scurry in and out under the plane, everyone was asking: “What are they doing?”  “What’s wrong with the plane?”  “Will they get this bucket of bolts airborne anytime soon?”   

It was finally announced that an electrical problem had grounded the plane.  They herded the passengers – bellowing and bleating – through the terminal and onto another plane.  We took off almost two hours behind schedule.

When we arrived in the Big D, I sprinted from the arrival gate to the departure gate.  They were just closing the door.  Waving my ticket, I huffed and puffed my way through an explanation.  This guy took pity and made a hasty phone call.  He pushed a button, re-opened the door, and led me out to the plane.  In those days they did not have those protective tunnels.  It was cold and the weather was threatening as we walked outside to the mobile stairway and climbed on board.  The flight attendant walked to the back of the plane to fetch the passenger who got the last seat at the last minute as a stand-by. 

Too bad for him; lucky for me.

As I waited by the galley, I was aware of the scrutiny of the scowling passengers in the first two or three rows, and many others who were leaning out from their aisle seats to get a glimpse of the idiot who was responsible for this delay.

Turning away from the stares, I found myself face-to-face with the unfortunate stand-by who had come from the very last row and was no doubt thinking that he almost made a clean getaway. One look at him, and I knew in my bones that it was going to be a long night for me in Texas. 

Standing in front of me was a young man with sidewalls for a haircut, shouldering an olive-green canvas duffel.  His dress cap was neatly tucked under his epaulet, the seam on his trousers razor-sharp, his gig line straight, his buttons polished, his shoes glossy black, and his back ramrod straight.  An incredible picture of the effects of spit, Brasso, and discipline.  And not a day over nineteen!

As he tried to squeeze by me, I put out my hand to stop him and asked, “Where are you headed, soldier?”

Him: “Home, Sir. I’m headed home.”

It wouldn’t have been so bad if he had not called me “Sir,” and me at the ripe old age of twenty-four.

Me:    “Mustering out?”                   

Him:   “No, Sir.  Just on a leave.”

Me:    “How long?”

Him:   “Four days, Sir. I have to report back the day after Christmas.”

Me:    “Then what?”  I asked the question, but down deep I already knew the answer.  It was December of 1967.

Him:  “Vietnam, Sir.  We’re shipping out to Vietnam.”

With that I wished him a Merry Christmas, gave him a brief salute, did an about-face, and stepped off the plane.  Just then it started to rain, and by the time I descended the stairs and raced across the tarmac to the terminal, I was good and wet.  I returned to the boarding area and inquired about the possibilities, and that was met with a “lotsa luck” expression and a shrug from a guy behind the counter who had been too many hours on his feet.  And even though I was stranded in Dallas Love Field, my luggage made the flight.  Great!  Stuck in Texas and no underwear! 

I sat down and took in my surroundings.  They had put up some plastic Christmas decorations and were piping plain-wrap music.  They were trying to bring some cheer to those weary holiday travelers, but they were failing.  The crowds were maddening, frazzled and grumpy.  Just like me.   

So, there I was feeling sorry for myself, wet and cold, facing a long night in a real uncomfortable chair.  I dozed off for a while, awakened by a tap on the shoulder.  It was a woman in an American Airlines uniform who asked, “Sir, are you the passenger who gave up his seat for the soldier?”

She escorted me to the customer relations desk and explained to them what happened.  They tripped all over themselves, apologizing for the inconvenience.  They put me in an airport “limo” with several of their pilots and flight attendants and whisked me downtown.  At the expense of American Airlines, I was soon ensconced in a suite in the Dallas Hilton, offered complimentary room service, given credit at the hotel gift shop for overnight amenities, and got a free breakfast coupon.    

They brought me back to the airport in another “limo” and by 9:30 that morning I was on a flight to Los Angeles, which included an upgrade and real food.  When we deplaned in L.A., there was a representative of the airline holding a sign with my name on it.  When I approached, she presented me with a voucher for two round trip tickets to and from any American Airlines destination in the continental United States, good for one year.  I was floored.  Why all this largesse?

She explained that AA flight crews everywhere were buzzing about the flight the night before when a young soldier did not get bumped, and about the Good Samaritan with the Christmas Spirit who gave up his seat.   

I had to laugh, feeling a little embarrassed.  Yes, I made the right call, but my motives were somewhat mixed.  In that moment of decision, I had a vision of walking down the aisle of the plane to the very last row, with two hundred people staring me down, my having heartlessly booted the soldier, being hated all the way to L.A.  It was no-win situation. 

However, you could say I got a happy ending.  Home for Christmas, a limo ride, a night in a fancy hotel, and a flight upgrade!  With the two free tickets I took my mom to visit her kith and kin back in Austin. But the memory of those serendipities is not the takeaway for this Christmas story.

This is what sticks. The entire episode of the staring passengers, a chance encounter with a soldier, our brief dialogue, and my departure could not have taken more than two minutes; but those two minutes are frozen in time, and I wonder. Is his name among the more than 58,000 names etched in the stone of the Vietnam War Memorial, or did he survive?  Did he ever show up again at home for the holidays, or did someone from the Army show up on his parent’s doorstep with heartbreaking news?

There is always a pique of melancholy for me at Christmastime, because I never got his name, but I will never forget the eager face of that teenage grunt.           

Another love letter to Liza!

In the days that followed our meeting at a football game in October of 1966, Oh, the words that I spoke to my brother when I told him about you:  comely, fair, regal, classy, lovely, gorgeous, outstanding, keenly intelligent, better than the rest, striking, lofty in bearing, possessed of a wonderful figure, stunning in appearance, with that porcelain English skin.  We were in his law office when I told him that she was “the one,” the girl I would marry.  How I did go on!  And since then, my love, you have only grown in superlatives — like devoted, dedicated, faithful, and eminently good.

In a word, Liza, you are noble. 

One of my earliest remembrances of that word came at Christmastime when we always had a noble fir tree, which my mom went crazy to decorate.  Audrey considered the noble to be the classiest, the most beautiful, better than all the other trees; and thanks to the high ceilings in our living room, and the huge number of ornaments that she had amassed, we always had at least an eight-to-nine-footer.  The noble had those perfect layers of branches, which provided the open spaces to hang her heirloom glass balls, her hand-made bows, her collection of whimsical unbreakables, and those ornament clusters of hers that lay on the branches, attached with glossy red ribbons that were my job to iron each year.  You could have placed the tree in the atrium at Macy’s.  Instead, it stood just inside the French doors to our living room, and to passers-by it was a wondrous Christmas tableau.                  

When at the age of ninety-three Audrey came to live with us, she brought her holiday treasure trove, and that just provided another opportunity to observe the content of your loving character.  A lesser woman might have balked at her mother-in-law’s Christmas tree mania, but you did not.  You never expressed anything like … “Well, he loves his mother’s cooking and tree-decorating better than mine.” 

You knew that as a kid I cherished those moments of lying beneath my mom’s tree and looking up and out through the wonder of it.  You embraced her artistry and her stuff, and then you grafted her vision onto your own.  You took it to another level and gave our family a new and unique set of traditions.  Our children have loved our Christmas treasures, and you have allowed and encouraged them to appreciate their Grammy.  You have risen to the occasion of the most noble and arboreal artistry.  When I see the love and labor you have put in year after year to adorn our tree and our house, it feels like a personal gift to me.  Thank you.

Noble Fir.  Noble Girl.

Merry Christmas.

Love, Me   

My mother swore that she would never set foot in a Walmart.  She had read stories about them.  In big towns and small hamlets across the land, the presence of a Walmart store killed off the “mom and pop” businesses.  It griped her that Main Street USA had largely disappeared.      

She also swore off Ralphs markets.  Allow me to explain.       

At my 35^th college reunion in 2000, we were all approaching sixty, and the big topic of conversation was what to do for, and what to do with, our aging parents.  Our parents were in their 80’s-plus, and we roundly discussed the blessings and the challenges of a generation of parents who were living longer than any other in history. 

Just three years earlier my mom had come to live with my wife and me and our three daughters.  She was ninety-three.  We thought she might last another year, maybe two, but she fooled us.  Through stubbornness, zest for life, and some good ole Texan Johnson genes; she almost made it to the century mark, dying just two months after her ninety-ninth birthday. 

She had resisted the move, wanting instead to stay in her cozy apartment, not wanting to give up her independence.  That is a common sentiment among oldsters, many of whom – like my mother Audrey — believe that getting old is a temporary condition.  My mom was sure that she would regain her strength of old, but too many falls had taken their toll.  She was black and blue from head to toe.  After she seriously damaged her rotator cuff, she finally gave up and gave in to our pleas to make her home with us.   

There were some hard adjustments for her.  She was stuck with a walker, could not lift anything off the stove or out of the oven, and could no longer make her legendary potato salad.  All her life she worked hard and served others.  It grieved her not to feel useful anymore.  So much had been taken away by old age and infirmity, that she desperately wanted to hold onto something.  She decided that she would not give up her yams – a side dish she had faithfully prepared for years for our holiday family gatherings.  Problem was, she could not do the yams by herself; she needed a sous chef.

Guess who?

Step One.  Buy the yams.  A trip to the market.  I volunteered to run the errand for her, but she insisted that we go together. 

But do you know the difference between a solo trip to Vons for a short list of items and a trip to Vons for a short list of items in the company of a ninety-five-year-old woman with macular degeneration?  Well, it is twenty minutes vs two hours.  Minimum! She had to get ready.  After all, she could not leave the house without a bathroom stop, combed hair, dressy shoes, a pair of slacks, and her red wool blazer. And we couldn’t just pop in the truck. Audrey’s popping days were over.        

But oh, how she loved going to the store! “A” of all, it was an outing with her son in the Dodge pickup.  “B” of all, she got to ditch the walker and push the shopping cart instead; it made her feel less like a frail older woman and more like any other shopper.  “C” of all, she loved to go up and down the aisles, touching everything, like a little kid.  When I picked up a one- pound can of Yuban coffee off the shelf, she peppered me with questions about the prices of all the other coffee brands.  This Depression Era lass was frugal to the max.  When we got to the produce section, she picked over the yams, touching almost every single one, choosing by feel to get the right amount of firmness. 

Step Two.  Prepare the yams.

Under Mom’s careful directions, I parboiled the yams, allowed them to cool, skinned them, and sliced them into one-inch rounds.  Together we arranged them in the glass baking dish.  I dusted them with Audrey’s special recipe blend of brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and pats of real butter.  For the record, Audrey was mortified at the thought of little marshmallows.  We covered the yams with foil and put them in the fridge overnight.

Step Three.  Audrey’s outrage.

We all packed and piled into the car the next morning for the drive to my brother’s house, a 90-minute trip.  We were about fifteen minutes from our destination when Audrey shouted, “STOP THE CAR.  WE HAVE TO GO BACK.  I FORGOT MY YAMS.”

We checked the trunk, and sure enough, no yams. 

“Mom, we can’t go back.  That’s a round trip of more the two hours.  Let’s look for a market.”

“No market will be open on Christmas.”

We hadn’t driven more than three more blocks when lo, there was an open Ralphs right there on Foothill Boulevard in Claremont. A granddaughter accompanied her into the market.  We were relieved; we would have just enough time for a yam do-over before dinner. But when she returned to the car, Audrey sat down with a bag of yams in her lap, a scowl on her face, and a “harrumph” in her voice.

“I am never shopping at Ralphs again.”

“What happened, Mom?  Were they rude to you?

“I’ll tell you what happened.  They make those people work on Christmas Day.   Shame on them! Those workers should be home with their families. I am never shopping at Ralphs again.  NEVER!”    

Audrey was stubbornly true to her word.  She never again darkened the door of a Walmart or a Ralphs. She wanted me to boycott them also; and out of loyalty I have largely avoided them, talking my patronage to Target and Vons instead. However, the need occasionally arises for me to visit one of her forbidden places. But I always wear a big hat, not taking the chance that my late mother will gaze downward from the heavens and recognize me … and be mad.