Going further back into my educational life, we find ourselves walking around the beautiful mountaintop grounds of Covenant College. When I wasn't reporting to false alarms on behalf of the Lookout Mountain Fire Department, when Phil Covington and I weren't making our legendary "cake shakes" (often the only edible things in the Great Hall dining room), and when I wasn't playing the intramural sport of any given season...I was a history major. As I'll share tomorrow, this desire had been ingrained in me well before setting foot on Covenant's campus. Still, I knew that many collegians end up changing their major, but once I met the individual who would be my academic advisor and treasured professor, I knew without a doubt I would never budge from the craft of Herodotus.
If I attempted to inscribe the depth of what Dr. Louis J. Voskuil did for me, the world would run out of ink. To be completely honest, it's hard to know where to begin.
To me, Dr. Voskuil is to the professorial world what Michael Jordan is to basketball. Whenever you saw Jordan play live (and I was privileged to do so once), you knew you were going to see stunning excellence. When Lou Voskuil walked into a classroom--whether it was for Medieval Civilization, Modern Russia, The 1960s in America, Historiography, or anything else--you instinctively knew all present would drink deeply from the well of knowledge and wisdom.
On the surface, one wouldn't imagine there'd be much thunder and lightning. Dr. Voskuil's Dutch blood means there is a surface of dignity and reserve, but that is a thin, veneer-like cover for a giftedness and knack for communicating the flow of history in all its personality and pulsations. Every day in class, I felt I was walking amongst medieval guild members, lurking in the court of Peter the Great, or sitting in on LBJ's strategic decisions to bomb Hanoi. He was never the type to raise his voice; I do remember Voskuil's decibel range was a fairly moderate one. And he was old-school. In these days of Wordles and PowerPoints, Dr. Voskuil's straightforward lectures and provoking questions would fly in the face of slick gadgets. But he showed you didn't need to fast-track to the 21st century to be profoundly effective.
Carefully, Voskuil would move through the chronological flow of time, showing the cause-and-effect relationships that is a must in good historical understanding. Eschewing the idea of treating history in a purely topical, semi-fractured format as is done so often today, Voskuil helped me see history as an overarching, meaningful narrative. In truth, this is the way history should be taught.
More than that, Voskuil opened my eyes in a number of other ways. He and I weren't necessarily on the same area of the political spectrum, but he prodded me to ask why I believed what I did. I admired how someone could respectably and kindly make a case for how his faith and politics intersected, even if we had some minor differences in where we landed. But more than that, Voskuil lived out his faith with vigor. He was a member of the Association for Public Justice, looking for ways to influence public policy, welfare reform, and transformative justice in the life of the nation. More recently, he and his wife Audrey have been involved in reaching out to the poor and homeless in the greater Chattanooga area.
And Dr. Voskuil has not only connected the dots in class; he exemplified how to connect with others. I remember many a meal with other students at his home: the Roman meal in which our Ancient Greece and Rome class dressed up in togas; the amazing stroganoff his wife made for our Modern Russia class; and the graduation dinner for all the senior history majors. But I warmly remember the way Dr. Voskuil intentionally reached out to me. I had a fairly difficult senior year, fraught with headaches and post-concussion issues from a summer head injury during a stupid backyard wrestling event (I'll spare you the details...suffice it to say I should be in a wheelchair). Through all the symptoms I experienced, through every blackout, after every wince of pain, Dr. Voskuil's concern was evident. He never failed to check in on how I was doing and was kind enough to give me an extension on a boatload of work. It was the tender side of the man I will never forget. It is the spirit of kindness and wisdom that he continues to carry into the sunset years of life.
More than anything, Dr. Voskuil instilled in me the fire, the passion, that history mattered, that learning mattered. All has meaning, because the God who breathed life into history acts in history. And our life has meaning, in both the glory and warts of humankind, because God has shaped us in His likeness. All we can do has a measure of significance.
Even the actions of an Ethics teacher in St. Louis, here in large part because of the imprint of Louis J. Voskuil, who connected history to life and connected his life to mine.
No pantheon of my greatest teachers would be complete without you, Dr. Voskuil. You have truly earned your place on Olympus. Not to mention in the hearts of those you have taught and befriended.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
My Greatest Teachers: Those Who Push
I fully realize the bizarre nature of going from more recent to more chronologically distant in my pantheon of great teachers, but keep in mind--my blog, my rules!
Whereas Tom Foley, former Covenant School chaplain, was and is a fantastic mentor, another individual has been instrumental in my life by modeling how to think well. Three times I was blessed to grab the scholarly and pastoral C. John (Jack) Collins for various courses during my years at Covenant Theological Seminary in the mid-90s. Since I have a father who taught Old Testament at the seminary level himself, I like to think I can recognize which OT profs are the gold in the bank. Jack Collins is right up there with the purest, most dazzling bullion.
To describe Dr. Collins is to dance in the fields of happy wonder and Socratic discipline. First of all, the man is comfortable in either the theological or the scientific world. Collins snagged both his B.S. and M.S. from Massachusetts Institute of Technology (yes, MIT...you readers can scoop your jaw off the floor) before eventually following a call to the ministry. He worked through another master's degree at Faith Evangelical Lutheran Seminary in Tacoma and eventually served as a church planter in Spokane, Washington. He also managed to score a Ph. D. from Liverpool before landing on Covenant Seminary's campus at the same time I did in early 1993. He is a voluminous reader and a phenomenal writer (author of books on Adam & Eve, miracles, and the relationship between science and faith).
It wasn't until I was halfway through my seminary studies that I finally climbed aboard the Collins Express and held on for a wild ride. Although three classes (Old Testament Historical Books; an intensive Hebrew reading class; and Old Testament Prophets) were all I had with the man, he left an indelible imprint.
First of all, the man made you work. Like a pack animal carrying the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Some would think this worthy of complaint, but I appreciated it. If we were heading into ministry of some kind, we were setting ourselves up for all sorts of hardship and difficulty. The sooner our sensibilities were used to bashing through a wall and doing some hard academic work, we definitely weren't going to survive meetings with difficult church elders, work through difficult Scripture passages in sermon preparation, or be able to faithfully counsel parishioners through tragedy.
An example of this was how you prepared for a Collins test. He called them "unit quizzes" in Prophets class and to date, this is the only time I felt he lied to us. They were the equivalent of exams. Getting ready for them would leave me feeling like John Belushi after a crazy night at Delta House (Could this be the rarest of oddities: A connection between seminary study and Animal House?). I normally could be quite efficient in test prep, but Jack Collins strapped a quarry load of TNT to that modus operandi and blew it straight to kingdom come. For my Prophets "unit quizzes", I'd have to study at least ten hours. At least! To top it off, Dr. Collins would have us memorize Old Testament passages and write them out on the test.
No problem, you say? Memory work is to be expected. True. But did I neglect to tell you we had to memorize and write out those verses in Hebrew? Mastering that would take at least four of the ten hours of study. But that re-taught me an important credo: If success and excellence are worth it, then they are worth your unencumbered and passionate pursuit. As long as it takes.
It was Dr. Collins who told us that the study and discussion of the Biblical text would bring about an exchange of ideas, but the truth was there. I remember when he said, "Disagree with my conclusions on something? Good! Build your case and be prepared for counter-arguments." From Dr. Collins, the pursuit of truth and understanding was a contact sport--an encouraging, eminently coachable contact sport--but yes, it could be an intellectual hockey game. And I grew to love it quickly, simply because I was pushed, prodded, and shoved to be greater than I was, even if he didn't realize he was doing it all along.
Not that he couldn't take some kindly inflicted damage. Once, when L.B. Graham and I were taking his intensive Hebrew reading class, Dr. Collins let it slip that he was suffering from a pulled rib muscle. Being the kind, compassionate souls we were, L.B. and I decided to have some fun with this, making enough jokes and causing the good Doctor to laugh so hard he probably kept re-damaging the pulled muscle. Dr. Collins was certainly patient enough with me when I would bring soup in a bread bowl to class along with some Irish cream-scented coffee that caused him to bemoan the gruel they had in the faculty coffee pots.
But he could dish things right back. At the end of our last year at seminary, about eight of us gathered one evening to watch Spinal Tap (you know, typical seminarian cinematic fare) and then L.B. and I convinced everyone to come along late at night to the Collins homestead. While the family slept, we descended on their suburban home with bar soap and plastic tableware. Dr. Collins and his wife Dianne (yes, John Cougar Mellencamp fans...their names are Jack and Dianne) awoke the next morning to soap-inscribed Hebrew lettering all over their driveway and a lawn filled with knives, forks, and spoons driven into the turf.
I at least thought he'd not discovered the cutlery until he mowed the grass, but I felt we were in the clear. Until I got my Prophets exam back in the seminary mail room the next week. Taped to it was a red plastic fork, and next to that were the words "You should be aware that someone has been forging your Hebrew handwriting."
Guilty as charged.
It was you, Dr. Collins, who taught me how to tackle Hebrew well. But you taught me so much more. You showed me how to tackle difficulties with force and skill. You pushed me beyond what I thought were my capabilities. And that has bled over into my teaching career, my thinking, and being a husband and a father.
And because of your place in all that, I am eternally grateful. Because you pushed me.
Whereas Tom Foley, former Covenant School chaplain, was and is a fantastic mentor, another individual has been instrumental in my life by modeling how to think well. Three times I was blessed to grab the scholarly and pastoral C. John (Jack) Collins for various courses during my years at Covenant Theological Seminary in the mid-90s. Since I have a father who taught Old Testament at the seminary level himself, I like to think I can recognize which OT profs are the gold in the bank. Jack Collins is right up there with the purest, most dazzling bullion.
To describe Dr. Collins is to dance in the fields of happy wonder and Socratic discipline. First of all, the man is comfortable in either the theological or the scientific world. Collins snagged both his B.S. and M.S. from Massachusetts Institute of Technology (yes, MIT...you readers can scoop your jaw off the floor) before eventually following a call to the ministry. He worked through another master's degree at Faith Evangelical Lutheran Seminary in Tacoma and eventually served as a church planter in Spokane, Washington. He also managed to score a Ph. D. from Liverpool before landing on Covenant Seminary's campus at the same time I did in early 1993. He is a voluminous reader and a phenomenal writer (author of books on Adam & Eve, miracles, and the relationship between science and faith).
It wasn't until I was halfway through my seminary studies that I finally climbed aboard the Collins Express and held on for a wild ride. Although three classes (Old Testament Historical Books; an intensive Hebrew reading class; and Old Testament Prophets) were all I had with the man, he left an indelible imprint.
First of all, the man made you work. Like a pack animal carrying the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Some would think this worthy of complaint, but I appreciated it. If we were heading into ministry of some kind, we were setting ourselves up for all sorts of hardship and difficulty. The sooner our sensibilities were used to bashing through a wall and doing some hard academic work, we definitely weren't going to survive meetings with difficult church elders, work through difficult Scripture passages in sermon preparation, or be able to faithfully counsel parishioners through tragedy.
An example of this was how you prepared for a Collins test. He called them "unit quizzes" in Prophets class and to date, this is the only time I felt he lied to us. They were the equivalent of exams. Getting ready for them would leave me feeling like John Belushi after a crazy night at Delta House (Could this be the rarest of oddities: A connection between seminary study and Animal House?). I normally could be quite efficient in test prep, but Jack Collins strapped a quarry load of TNT to that modus operandi and blew it straight to kingdom come. For my Prophets "unit quizzes", I'd have to study at least ten hours. At least! To top it off, Dr. Collins would have us memorize Old Testament passages and write them out on the test.
No problem, you say? Memory work is to be expected. True. But did I neglect to tell you we had to memorize and write out those verses in Hebrew? Mastering that would take at least four of the ten hours of study. But that re-taught me an important credo: If success and excellence are worth it, then they are worth your unencumbered and passionate pursuit. As long as it takes.
It was Dr. Collins who told us that the study and discussion of the Biblical text would bring about an exchange of ideas, but the truth was there. I remember when he said, "Disagree with my conclusions on something? Good! Build your case and be prepared for counter-arguments." From Dr. Collins, the pursuit of truth and understanding was a contact sport--an encouraging, eminently coachable contact sport--but yes, it could be an intellectual hockey game. And I grew to love it quickly, simply because I was pushed, prodded, and shoved to be greater than I was, even if he didn't realize he was doing it all along.
Not that he couldn't take some kindly inflicted damage. Once, when L.B. Graham and I were taking his intensive Hebrew reading class, Dr. Collins let it slip that he was suffering from a pulled rib muscle. Being the kind, compassionate souls we were, L.B. and I decided to have some fun with this, making enough jokes and causing the good Doctor to laugh so hard he probably kept re-damaging the pulled muscle. Dr. Collins was certainly patient enough with me when I would bring soup in a bread bowl to class along with some Irish cream-scented coffee that caused him to bemoan the gruel they had in the faculty coffee pots.
But he could dish things right back. At the end of our last year at seminary, about eight of us gathered one evening to watch Spinal Tap (you know, typical seminarian cinematic fare) and then L.B. and I convinced everyone to come along late at night to the Collins homestead. While the family slept, we descended on their suburban home with bar soap and plastic tableware. Dr. Collins and his wife Dianne (yes, John Cougar Mellencamp fans...their names are Jack and Dianne) awoke the next morning to soap-inscribed Hebrew lettering all over their driveway and a lawn filled with knives, forks, and spoons driven into the turf.
I at least thought he'd not discovered the cutlery until he mowed the grass, but I felt we were in the clear. Until I got my Prophets exam back in the seminary mail room the next week. Taped to it was a red plastic fork, and next to that were the words "You should be aware that someone has been forging your Hebrew handwriting."
Guilty as charged.
It was you, Dr. Collins, who taught me how to tackle Hebrew well. But you taught me so much more. You showed me how to tackle difficulties with force and skill. You pushed me beyond what I thought were my capabilities. And that has bled over into my teaching career, my thinking, and being a husband and a father.
And because of your place in all that, I am eternally grateful. Because you pushed me.
Monday, April 15, 2013
My Greatest Teachers: Those Who Mentor
It was February of 2000 and my plane was landing at Dulles Airport outside of Washington, D.C. This journey was taking me to the Covenant School in Charlottesville, Virginia, where I would guest teach and interview the next day for a teaching position in the Bible department. It was somewhat scary and difficult to think about a potential move, but we were thinking about relocating to a high-level medical community for Joshua's significant needs.
I strolled off the plane toward the waiting area at the gate where a small crowd was gathered in these pre-9/11 days of being able to meet your party immediately off the plane. Seeing a well-built, respectable-looking character holding a card with my name on it, I walked right over to the man known as Tom Foley.
"Luke," he said, his smile beaming like the moon that hung in that night sky. "Welcome."
It wasn't the first time I had encountered this man who would be a fine example, a driven yet compassionate leader, and a dear friend. But until that point, every contact with Tom about the teaching gig and any questions I had about Covenant or that he had about me had taken place over the phone. And so began a four-year term in which I desired to learn from this man.
Don't ask me why that thought was so instinctive. Perhaps it had something to do with the first three years of my teaching career. In Louisiana, we had enjoyed our time at Westminster Christian Academy in Opelousas tremendously. I had grown professionally. I had been asked to detonate, then rewrite, revise, and renew the curriculum for my Ethics, Christian Doctrine, and Worldviews classes. I had been named department chairman. Opportunity seemed boundless. But I knew that I was also in a position where I was learning so fast on the go, and having to put out so much of myself, that I was in danger of drying up by not taking anything in from a teacher positioned above me in the same area.
I needed a river from which I could drink and refresh myself. I needed to get outside my comfort zone and be challenged. I needed to place myself under someone, to clip my wings go they could grow back stronger.
I needed a mentor. And Tom Foley was--is--the gift I needed.
It's really difficult to describe Tom in a way that does him justice and incorporates all the meats of his personality stew. I do recall that he struck me as a very humble person. When I mentioned I was in desperate need of mentoring, his first words were, "Well, I don't know how effective I'll be, but if you want to throw in your lot with me, go for it."
During my time in Charlottesville, I had a mother lode of moments when I couldn't make heads or tails of the man. There were times that Tom could make you feel edgy. I didn't know when he'd be dropping by my classroom or ambling past at the moment I was typing up a quiz and he'd say, "I think you should really change that third question." One day he kept me behind after a department meeting and lit into me: "Your classroom management is going to hell." I was slightly encouraged by the fact he used the present participle rather than the past tense, and thus there was time to change. But he was right. I was going through a spell when I needed to clamp down and take charge, and I did.
There were others times when Tom displayed the compassion and kindness for which he is well known. There was never a time we met when he didn't pray for me. After each round of constructive criticism (which thankfully got less frequent as time went by), he would always ask, "Are we okay?", always wanting to confirm that no matter what, we were brothers fighting on the same side. I remember seeing him weep openly when he was convicted there were things--important priorities--in his life that he had deeply neglected. When you prayed with Tom, you sense you were in the throne room of the Almighty Himself.
For the first couple years I was vexed over what I viewed as Tom's vacillation between hard-line and godly love. As I matured and figured things out, I came to realize those were two sides of the same coin that all great mentors possess. Tom was merely making the call and giving me the direction that I needed at the moment I needed it. And that meant Tom had to be different at times, but boy did he make the right call over and over.
It was Tom who was speaking in chapel on the morning of 9/11 when our headmaster, Dr. Ron Sykes, approached him beforehand and whispered into his ear the news of the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center. I saw Tom's eyes widen and his body harden, and then I knew instinctively that he was praying himself through this difficult time. He managed it with supreme grace.
It was Tom who--during a conversation at Bodo's Bagels in late July of 2000, just before new teacher meetings got underway--spoke the line that would be formative in my teaching soul for years to come: "We are teachers of truth, and God will give us relationships." Translation: Do what you're called to do, and the opportunities for deep, meaningful, ongoing interaction will come naturally. Given the location where he spoke that wisdom, I call it the Bodo's Mandate.
More than anything, I remember that through all my scatter-brainedness and need for growth, Tom never stopped believing in me. He exemplified what great teacher/mentors display: a long trust in a consistent direction (to tweak Eugene Peterson). During my second year at Covenant, he asked me to build a unit on the Old Testament minor prophets into eleventh-grade Bible. Excited but curious, I asked him why. He quickly replied, "Because it's Bible, because it's important, and because I know you'll do it creatively and do it well."
Tom also emphasized (I believe rightly) that when teaching Bible in a Christian school--especially in an increasingly secular society as ours--it does no service to be sectarian. Rather that teaching from a "room"--a denominational bunker of belief, be it Presbyterian, Baptist, Catholic, Methodist, etc.--Tom said in C.S. Lewis-esque fashion, "Stay in the hallway, the great stream of Christian consensus. What have Christian believed at all times in all places? That's from where you work." Even now when a student asks me a question in class, the first reminder that goes through my head is, "Stay in the hallway. Stay in the hallway."
After several years of figuring out the ropes and pushing up the mountain of professionalism, I got to the point where Tom had full confidence. Once after a department meeting in early 2004--at this point we were getting set to move to North Carolina and pastor a church--when I had gone back through my notes and found some information he needed, Tom emailed me and said, "Thank you for doing this. You have become a 'right hand' that I will miss greatly."
Now Tom is no longer at Covenant, but he is still a great mentor. To me. And to others. He heads up Christian Educators Outreach, an organization dedicated to placing and developing Christian teachers and leaders in Eastern Europe (with special emphasis in Hungary and the Ukraine). And if these folks get from Tom what he gave me, then that part of the world had better get set for some amazing transformation.
It's been some time since I had some face-to-face time with Tom, but his influence is always there. For now, God may have taken me away from Tom Foley, but it's impossible to take Tom Foley out of me.
Thank you, brother.
I strolled off the plane toward the waiting area at the gate where a small crowd was gathered in these pre-9/11 days of being able to meet your party immediately off the plane. Seeing a well-built, respectable-looking character holding a card with my name on it, I walked right over to the man known as Tom Foley.
"Luke," he said, his smile beaming like the moon that hung in that night sky. "Welcome."
It wasn't the first time I had encountered this man who would be a fine example, a driven yet compassionate leader, and a dear friend. But until that point, every contact with Tom about the teaching gig and any questions I had about Covenant or that he had about me had taken place over the phone. And so began a four-year term in which I desired to learn from this man.
Don't ask me why that thought was so instinctive. Perhaps it had something to do with the first three years of my teaching career. In Louisiana, we had enjoyed our time at Westminster Christian Academy in Opelousas tremendously. I had grown professionally. I had been asked to detonate, then rewrite, revise, and renew the curriculum for my Ethics, Christian Doctrine, and Worldviews classes. I had been named department chairman. Opportunity seemed boundless. But I knew that I was also in a position where I was learning so fast on the go, and having to put out so much of myself, that I was in danger of drying up by not taking anything in from a teacher positioned above me in the same area.
I needed a river from which I could drink and refresh myself. I needed to get outside my comfort zone and be challenged. I needed to place myself under someone, to clip my wings go they could grow back stronger.
I needed a mentor. And Tom Foley was--is--the gift I needed.
It's really difficult to describe Tom in a way that does him justice and incorporates all the meats of his personality stew. I do recall that he struck me as a very humble person. When I mentioned I was in desperate need of mentoring, his first words were, "Well, I don't know how effective I'll be, but if you want to throw in your lot with me, go for it."
During my time in Charlottesville, I had a mother lode of moments when I couldn't make heads or tails of the man. There were times that Tom could make you feel edgy. I didn't know when he'd be dropping by my classroom or ambling past at the moment I was typing up a quiz and he'd say, "I think you should really change that third question." One day he kept me behind after a department meeting and lit into me: "Your classroom management is going to hell." I was slightly encouraged by the fact he used the present participle rather than the past tense, and thus there was time to change. But he was right. I was going through a spell when I needed to clamp down and take charge, and I did.
There were others times when Tom displayed the compassion and kindness for which he is well known. There was never a time we met when he didn't pray for me. After each round of constructive criticism (which thankfully got less frequent as time went by), he would always ask, "Are we okay?", always wanting to confirm that no matter what, we were brothers fighting on the same side. I remember seeing him weep openly when he was convicted there were things--important priorities--in his life that he had deeply neglected. When you prayed with Tom, you sense you were in the throne room of the Almighty Himself.
For the first couple years I was vexed over what I viewed as Tom's vacillation between hard-line and godly love. As I matured and figured things out, I came to realize those were two sides of the same coin that all great mentors possess. Tom was merely making the call and giving me the direction that I needed at the moment I needed it. And that meant Tom had to be different at times, but boy did he make the right call over and over.
It was Tom who was speaking in chapel on the morning of 9/11 when our headmaster, Dr. Ron Sykes, approached him beforehand and whispered into his ear the news of the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center. I saw Tom's eyes widen and his body harden, and then I knew instinctively that he was praying himself through this difficult time. He managed it with supreme grace.
It was Tom who--during a conversation at Bodo's Bagels in late July of 2000, just before new teacher meetings got underway--spoke the line that would be formative in my teaching soul for years to come: "We are teachers of truth, and God will give us relationships." Translation: Do what you're called to do, and the opportunities for deep, meaningful, ongoing interaction will come naturally. Given the location where he spoke that wisdom, I call it the Bodo's Mandate.
More than anything, I remember that through all my scatter-brainedness and need for growth, Tom never stopped believing in me. He exemplified what great teacher/mentors display: a long trust in a consistent direction (to tweak Eugene Peterson). During my second year at Covenant, he asked me to build a unit on the Old Testament minor prophets into eleventh-grade Bible. Excited but curious, I asked him why. He quickly replied, "Because it's Bible, because it's important, and because I know you'll do it creatively and do it well."
Tom also emphasized (I believe rightly) that when teaching Bible in a Christian school--especially in an increasingly secular society as ours--it does no service to be sectarian. Rather that teaching from a "room"--a denominational bunker of belief, be it Presbyterian, Baptist, Catholic, Methodist, etc.--Tom said in C.S. Lewis-esque fashion, "Stay in the hallway, the great stream of Christian consensus. What have Christian believed at all times in all places? That's from where you work." Even now when a student asks me a question in class, the first reminder that goes through my head is, "Stay in the hallway. Stay in the hallway."
After several years of figuring out the ropes and pushing up the mountain of professionalism, I got to the point where Tom had full confidence. Once after a department meeting in early 2004--at this point we were getting set to move to North Carolina and pastor a church--when I had gone back through my notes and found some information he needed, Tom emailed me and said, "Thank you for doing this. You have become a 'right hand' that I will miss greatly."
Now Tom is no longer at Covenant, but he is still a great mentor. To me. And to others. He heads up Christian Educators Outreach, an organization dedicated to placing and developing Christian teachers and leaders in Eastern Europe (with special emphasis in Hungary and the Ukraine). And if these folks get from Tom what he gave me, then that part of the world had better get set for some amazing transformation.
It's been some time since I had some face-to-face time with Tom, but his influence is always there. For now, God may have taken me away from Tom Foley, but it's impossible to take Tom Foley out of me.
Thank you, brother.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Reading Reflections, April 13
A young man, in a family steeped in the wretched actions of an alcoholic and abusive father, rises above the dire slough of despond and finds a way out through hard work, sheer determination, and an internal drive that screams "forward".
The memoirs of a business tycoon who revitalized an industry? A film star who wins an unexpected Oscar? A politician known for cooperation, even-handedness, and results? An athlete who stunned the world with his success? Horatio Alger? Oliver Twist?
None of the above. The enrapturing story of Ginger: A Boy's Journey from Scotland to the White House (Dunrobin Publishing, 2012) takes us on the sweeping grand adventure of Chef David Macfarlane, who went from humble beginnings in Scotland to a chef who served President Clinton and his staff. A personal story that evokes both heartache and joy, Ginger traces the human experience in toxic relationships, working class conditions, dream-chasing, and the healing power of vocational fulfillment.
Some might find it difficult to imagine a book written by a chef which is not a cookbook. As the forward ably tells the reader, this is not a cookbook. It is a cook's book. And true, this is not a more high-profile chef like Gordon Ramsay or Rachel Ray. But that is precisely what holds the reader's interest--the everyman quality, the earthiness, the sense that David Macfarlane is cut from the same human cloth as us. This solidarity draws the reader fully into the text.
Macfarlane briskly moves through the details of his life. The pace is most engaging in his early years, with much emphasis on his love for Scotland, his passion for cooking and baking, and his dysfunctional family dynamics with his father at the center of the storm. During the middle portion of the book, Macfarlane slows down the pace as he sketches the far-ranging details of his Navy career. The speed of the book, in fact, needs to slow down--and it never truly lags--during this section as there are many levels of authority, individuals, and promotions and retirements that one should take time and not hurry this area. The story culminates in Macfarlane's interviews in Washington, D.C. which blazed a trail to working in the White House food service.
Macfarlane blends both the poignant shards of human existence and a wry sense of humor on these pages. Readers might find the recollections of physical abuse especially distressing and difficult to swallow and might need a handkerchief nearby. There are references to bullying he received, for no one reason than being a redhead. Macfarlane also relates some of the political side of things in the Navy, with some people making life difficult and others being a pleasure to work for. He also has a knack for showing how the little things of life--and even the off-the-cuff responses--can make lasting impact. You'll understand how his fib "No, I don't iron" turned out to be the biggest break of his career.
One note of importance: Macfarlane is a chef telling a story. His goal is to share his heart with the reader. Keep this in mind when working through the style of the writing. It is quite informal and conversational, much like how some people will say "I write like I talk". The earthy nature of his Scottish background and passion strengthens the book itself. The reader will sense they have lived a great sequence of days that redeem initial misery and leading to a great triumph of the spirit. For this reason among others, Ginger is very much worth one's time.
The memoirs of a business tycoon who revitalized an industry? A film star who wins an unexpected Oscar? A politician known for cooperation, even-handedness, and results? An athlete who stunned the world with his success? Horatio Alger? Oliver Twist?
None of the above. The enrapturing story of Ginger: A Boy's Journey from Scotland to the White House (Dunrobin Publishing, 2012) takes us on the sweeping grand adventure of Chef David Macfarlane, who went from humble beginnings in Scotland to a chef who served President Clinton and his staff. A personal story that evokes both heartache and joy, Ginger traces the human experience in toxic relationships, working class conditions, dream-chasing, and the healing power of vocational fulfillment.
Some might find it difficult to imagine a book written by a chef which is not a cookbook. As the forward ably tells the reader, this is not a cookbook. It is a cook's book. And true, this is not a more high-profile chef like Gordon Ramsay or Rachel Ray. But that is precisely what holds the reader's interest--the everyman quality, the earthiness, the sense that David Macfarlane is cut from the same human cloth as us. This solidarity draws the reader fully into the text.
Macfarlane briskly moves through the details of his life. The pace is most engaging in his early years, with much emphasis on his love for Scotland, his passion for cooking and baking, and his dysfunctional family dynamics with his father at the center of the storm. During the middle portion of the book, Macfarlane slows down the pace as he sketches the far-ranging details of his Navy career. The speed of the book, in fact, needs to slow down--and it never truly lags--during this section as there are many levels of authority, individuals, and promotions and retirements that one should take time and not hurry this area. The story culminates in Macfarlane's interviews in Washington, D.C. which blazed a trail to working in the White House food service.
Macfarlane blends both the poignant shards of human existence and a wry sense of humor on these pages. Readers might find the recollections of physical abuse especially distressing and difficult to swallow and might need a handkerchief nearby. There are references to bullying he received, for no one reason than being a redhead. Macfarlane also relates some of the political side of things in the Navy, with some people making life difficult and others being a pleasure to work for. He also has a knack for showing how the little things of life--and even the off-the-cuff responses--can make lasting impact. You'll understand how his fib "No, I don't iron" turned out to be the biggest break of his career.
One note of importance: Macfarlane is a chef telling a story. His goal is to share his heart with the reader. Keep this in mind when working through the style of the writing. It is quite informal and conversational, much like how some people will say "I write like I talk". The earthy nature of his Scottish background and passion strengthens the book itself. The reader will sense they have lived a great sequence of days that redeem initial misery and leading to a great triumph of the spirit. For this reason among others, Ginger is very much worth one's time.
Friday, April 12, 2013
My Little Thrasher of Joy
On this day, twelve years ago, I woke, showered, dressed, gobbled down my breakfast, and began the drive to the Covenant School in Charlottesville, Virginia. It was a glorious Maundy Thursday morning and I was looking forward to that afternoon when our baseball team would take on (and beat) Fishburne Military School over in Waynesboro. But more than anything, I felt a moment of sheer anxiety. It had nothing to do with class preparation that day, nothing to do with baseball that afternoon. It had everything to do with what would go down the next morning, when my wife Christy would have our second child at University of Virginia Medical Center.
We had both seen the sonograms in January. The baby was to be a "she".
We were having a girl. More to the point, I was having a girl.
But my anxiety was due to the reality that this girl would be having me.
I am the oldest of three boys. My father was the youngest of five boys. My mother was the youngest child on her family, behind two half-brothers followed by my Uncle Bob. Dating and marriage were one thing for me regarding the opposite sex. But being a father to a little girl? It was hard for me to fathom. I barely felt competent to deal with three-year old Joshua at that time.
I was scared out of my wits. And then Lindsay Jael Herron Davis arrived the next morning at 10:13 ET and promptly got about the upside-down toboggan ride of life. Bump. Roll. Crash. It's been a lot like that. And we wouldn't have missed it for the world.
Tomorrow, Lindsay will turn twelve years old. It's been an adventure filled with every emotion and event imaginable. She has been the most wild of our three children--to be fair, the boys didn't have the muscular strength to go recklessly nuts in their younger years. She was known for swan-diving out of her highchair after lunch. She fell down the stairs of our townhouse in Charlottesville, and she smacked her head on the ceramic tile of our Florida kitchen after tripping over her two feet at Thanksgiving 2006.
She wants to join a lacrosse team--never mind she's never played the game. When playing T-Ball for the Cubs in Salisbury, NC, she got in some good hits and made even better artwork in the infield dirt.
Lindsay can draw. Oh my word, can she draw like her life depended on it. No one in the family even approaches her creative level. And she is a gifted writer, analytical and opinionated in nature. She wants to get a notebook for her birthday so she can journal about current events and write political articles. Yes, we have a future journalist on our hands.
And what makes my heart both heavy and happy at the same time is how much growing up has been forced upon Lindsay in just these twelve years. Growing up jammed in the middle between two special-needs brothers caught in the web of myotubular myopathy--one brother who survives, one who died at nineteen months--causes one to take a view of life that's ahead of the childhood curve.
Our conversations are peppered with deep, probing questions about hardship and God's place in it all. Because she's suffered a good deal, Lindsay tends to be more acutely aware of other people's difficulties. Yes, she overanalyzes things and feelings more than the average bear, but when it comes to the emotions of others, I'd rather engage a bucking bronco than a dead horse.
Her bedroom can be like her life--crazy, chaotic, and everything spilled everywhere. She is calm about some things and anxiety-ridden about others and some days I pray she discovers the balanced middle of it all. But we can't imagine life without her.
The Georgia state bird is the thrasher, an aviary tornado that settles into trees and literally thrashes around, scattering leaves and what not. In a good way, Lindsay is our little thrasher of joy. Whatever she scatters in our lives, we are never the same. And we are better for it.
Happy birthday, little thrasher.
We had both seen the sonograms in January. The baby was to be a "she".
We were having a girl. More to the point, I was having a girl.
But my anxiety was due to the reality that this girl would be having me.
I am the oldest of three boys. My father was the youngest of five boys. My mother was the youngest child on her family, behind two half-brothers followed by my Uncle Bob. Dating and marriage were one thing for me regarding the opposite sex. But being a father to a little girl? It was hard for me to fathom. I barely felt competent to deal with three-year old Joshua at that time.
I was scared out of my wits. And then Lindsay Jael Herron Davis arrived the next morning at 10:13 ET and promptly got about the upside-down toboggan ride of life. Bump. Roll. Crash. It's been a lot like that. And we wouldn't have missed it for the world.
Tomorrow, Lindsay will turn twelve years old. It's been an adventure filled with every emotion and event imaginable. She has been the most wild of our three children--to be fair, the boys didn't have the muscular strength to go recklessly nuts in their younger years. She was known for swan-diving out of her highchair after lunch. She fell down the stairs of our townhouse in Charlottesville, and she smacked her head on the ceramic tile of our Florida kitchen after tripping over her two feet at Thanksgiving 2006.
She wants to join a lacrosse team--never mind she's never played the game. When playing T-Ball for the Cubs in Salisbury, NC, she got in some good hits and made even better artwork in the infield dirt.
Lindsay can draw. Oh my word, can she draw like her life depended on it. No one in the family even approaches her creative level. And she is a gifted writer, analytical and opinionated in nature. She wants to get a notebook for her birthday so she can journal about current events and write political articles. Yes, we have a future journalist on our hands.
And what makes my heart both heavy and happy at the same time is how much growing up has been forced upon Lindsay in just these twelve years. Growing up jammed in the middle between two special-needs brothers caught in the web of myotubular myopathy--one brother who survives, one who died at nineteen months--causes one to take a view of life that's ahead of the childhood curve.
Our conversations are peppered with deep, probing questions about hardship and God's place in it all. Because she's suffered a good deal, Lindsay tends to be more acutely aware of other people's difficulties. Yes, she overanalyzes things and feelings more than the average bear, but when it comes to the emotions of others, I'd rather engage a bucking bronco than a dead horse.
Her bedroom can be like her life--crazy, chaotic, and everything spilled everywhere. She is calm about some things and anxiety-ridden about others and some days I pray she discovers the balanced middle of it all. But we can't imagine life without her.
The Georgia state bird is the thrasher, an aviary tornado that settles into trees and literally thrashes around, scattering leaves and what not. In a good way, Lindsay is our little thrasher of joy. Whatever she scatters in our lives, we are never the same. And we are better for it.
Happy birthday, little thrasher.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Gun Control? Knife Control? Nope. We Need Self-Control
To any overseas bloggers, what follows is my take on a hot-button American issue. Be assured, however, you are welcome to linger, read, and comment.
I was in my second year of teaching when the Columbine High School massacre occurred. On April 16, 2007, I was frantically emailing and calling former colleagues in Virginia, trying to ensure that none of my former students at the Covenant School had fallen victim to the assailant's bullets in the Virginia Tech shootings. Just last December, a nation was shell-shocked as children and adults alike were killed at the Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut.
Now another horrific tableau, the multiple stabbings at Lone Star College in Texas is forcing us to think what we can/must do about violence in America.
The tragedy and sorrow borne out of these and other frightening experiences prods us to ask questions, and that's completely reasonable. These moments shove us toward seeking solutions, and you can blame people for wanting that.
But it is precisely the type of questions we ask that are critical to the solutions we seek.
Many political leaders ask, "How can we keep our kids safe?" Some ask, "How can we preserve the inherent constitutional rights of citizens to own and operate firearms?" Another question has peppered forth: "What can we be doing for people who commit these crimes that have some sort of psychological or personality disorders?"
All of these questions have merit. But none of them is the question that cuts through the bull.
And that question is "What's wrong with us?"
But more on that later.
I do have some musings on this whole matter of gun control, of assault weapons, of weapon usage, of Constitutional rights, of citizen responsibilities. As follows:
1. You are free to ask me if I own a gun. I am also just as free to decide if that's anybody's business, or to answer in the negative or affirmative.
2. With rights come responsibilities. If you own a firearm, use it well. Aim true. Shoot well. Defend yourself when needed. Enjoy it. Don't be stupid.
3. The overwhelming number of gun owners in America follow the principles in point #2 above to the letter. Don't paint them as some sort of slobbering, uncontrollable militia, because it's way off base.
4. People who advocate for some level of gun control are not automatically the fringe-group, bleeding-heart pansies that some die-hard gun-rights people make them out to be. I know many on that side of the fence who mean very well and want real solutions. Their positions are driven by conscious, deliberate thought and an attempt to reach workable conclusions. Sift through the wordage on background checks, etc., and be civil.
5. Statistics: Stricter gun laws and a higher level of control measures have a tendency to lead not to greater safety, but to more attacks. And while I'm on the subject, yes, some people are calling for the confiscation of privately-owned firearms. Guess what? Whenever a government has done this in history, it has never turned out well for the civic health of the nation. (cough, Hitler!)
6. If you want decent intervention on the weapons issue, how about allowing the states to consistently enforce the laws that are already on the books? The last I noticed, the Tenth Amendment was still in the American Constitution.
7. To make jokes about weapons and asking "what about assault spoons?" or jumping on news stories like the Lone Star cluster of stabbings to score political points is uncivil and insensitive to the victims.
8. On the other hand, for a political leader to use grieving parents and families as props to pontificate about gun control initiatives neither does justice to the solution needed nor does it sanctify their tears.
To me--and you are welcome to take issue with this--any approach that tries to restrict "assault weapons" (a term which goes largely undefined on MSNBC, CNN, and Fox News and runs through our national discourse like a greased pig at a Kansas county fair) is going to ultimately make minimal progress, if any. In all likelihood, the safety of citizens would go into reverse, but again that's a debate for other times. The hard truth that we are learning right now--if we have eyes to see and ears to hear and hearts to receive--is that whether it's a gun, or a knife, or a spear, or a steel chair, or one's bare fists, or a sword, a woodchipper (forgive the Fargo reference), a bomb, or anything else...we are left with a truth hitting us between the eyes with magnum force.
There is something deeply, horrifically wrong with us.
In some people it operates at a more devastating, destructive level, but my point is there is something within all of us that is not right. Something that rears its ugly head time and again, where we reach out not to affirm or edify or protect someone, but rather tear them down either in body or spirit.
It was R. Lee Emery, in his memorable role as Gunnery Sergeant Hartman in the movie Full Metal Jacket, who barked at his Marines, "Your rifle is only a tool. It's a hard heart that kills."
Different situation today than the Vietnam War, to be sure. But my point is this: At their core, our hearts are hard, sinful masses within. And they desperately need changing.
There is neither any government law nor any line in the Bill of Rights that can mollify or snuff out that evil, that power that drives people to horrific ends. To be sure, there is only one solution. And it has to do with regeneration of the spirit, not layers of more controlling laws or liberation to greater stockpiles of bullets. Unless a crucified and risen Jewish carpenter graciously collars one's heart and initiates a joyful invasion of the soul, nothing will do any good.
I was in my second year of teaching when the Columbine High School massacre occurred. On April 16, 2007, I was frantically emailing and calling former colleagues in Virginia, trying to ensure that none of my former students at the Covenant School had fallen victim to the assailant's bullets in the Virginia Tech shootings. Just last December, a nation was shell-shocked as children and adults alike were killed at the Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut.
Now another horrific tableau, the multiple stabbings at Lone Star College in Texas is forcing us to think what we can/must do about violence in America.
The tragedy and sorrow borne out of these and other frightening experiences prods us to ask questions, and that's completely reasonable. These moments shove us toward seeking solutions, and you can blame people for wanting that.
But it is precisely the type of questions we ask that are critical to the solutions we seek.
Many political leaders ask, "How can we keep our kids safe?" Some ask, "How can we preserve the inherent constitutional rights of citizens to own and operate firearms?" Another question has peppered forth: "What can we be doing for people who commit these crimes that have some sort of psychological or personality disorders?"
All of these questions have merit. But none of them is the question that cuts through the bull.
And that question is "What's wrong with us?"
But more on that later.
I do have some musings on this whole matter of gun control, of assault weapons, of weapon usage, of Constitutional rights, of citizen responsibilities. As follows:
1. You are free to ask me if I own a gun. I am also just as free to decide if that's anybody's business, or to answer in the negative or affirmative.
2. With rights come responsibilities. If you own a firearm, use it well. Aim true. Shoot well. Defend yourself when needed. Enjoy it. Don't be stupid.
3. The overwhelming number of gun owners in America follow the principles in point #2 above to the letter. Don't paint them as some sort of slobbering, uncontrollable militia, because it's way off base.
4. People who advocate for some level of gun control are not automatically the fringe-group, bleeding-heart pansies that some die-hard gun-rights people make them out to be. I know many on that side of the fence who mean very well and want real solutions. Their positions are driven by conscious, deliberate thought and an attempt to reach workable conclusions. Sift through the wordage on background checks, etc., and be civil.
5. Statistics: Stricter gun laws and a higher level of control measures have a tendency to lead not to greater safety, but to more attacks. And while I'm on the subject, yes, some people are calling for the confiscation of privately-owned firearms. Guess what? Whenever a government has done this in history, it has never turned out well for the civic health of the nation. (cough, Hitler!)
6. If you want decent intervention on the weapons issue, how about allowing the states to consistently enforce the laws that are already on the books? The last I noticed, the Tenth Amendment was still in the American Constitution.
7. To make jokes about weapons and asking "what about assault spoons?" or jumping on news stories like the Lone Star cluster of stabbings to score political points is uncivil and insensitive to the victims.
8. On the other hand, for a political leader to use grieving parents and families as props to pontificate about gun control initiatives neither does justice to the solution needed nor does it sanctify their tears.
To me--and you are welcome to take issue with this--any approach that tries to restrict "assault weapons" (a term which goes largely undefined on MSNBC, CNN, and Fox News and runs through our national discourse like a greased pig at a Kansas county fair) is going to ultimately make minimal progress, if any. In all likelihood, the safety of citizens would go into reverse, but again that's a debate for other times. The hard truth that we are learning right now--if we have eyes to see and ears to hear and hearts to receive--is that whether it's a gun, or a knife, or a spear, or a steel chair, or one's bare fists, or a sword, a woodchipper (forgive the Fargo reference), a bomb, or anything else...we are left with a truth hitting us between the eyes with magnum force.
There is something deeply, horrifically wrong with us.
In some people it operates at a more devastating, destructive level, but my point is there is something within all of us that is not right. Something that rears its ugly head time and again, where we reach out not to affirm or edify or protect someone, but rather tear them down either in body or spirit.
It was R. Lee Emery, in his memorable role as Gunnery Sergeant Hartman in the movie Full Metal Jacket, who barked at his Marines, "Your rifle is only a tool. It's a hard heart that kills."
Different situation today than the Vietnam War, to be sure. But my point is this: At their core, our hearts are hard, sinful masses within. And they desperately need changing.
There is neither any government law nor any line in the Bill of Rights that can mollify or snuff out that evil, that power that drives people to horrific ends. To be sure, there is only one solution. And it has to do with regeneration of the spirit, not layers of more controlling laws or liberation to greater stockpiles of bullets. Unless a crucified and risen Jewish carpenter graciously collars one's heart and initiates a joyful invasion of the soul, nothing will do any good.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
North of Hadrian's Wall
This past weekend, our family spent a few hours at Missouri Tartan Day at Frontier Park in St. Charles. While we also enjoy Oktoberfest (also celebrated there in September), I had been anticipating this Scottish festival quite eagerly, and not just because my publisher is Scottish. The outstanding memories included the clan tents, several stone-and-weight throwing demonstrations, tossing the caber, the music and dancing tent, and the St. Louis Caledonian Pipe Band. The band especially knocked the socks off the crowd with renditions such as "Scotland the Brave" and "Amazing Grace."
Immersing ourselves into Scottish culture was quite enjoyable, even if we were doing so on this side of the Atlantic Ocean and not in the land north of Hadrian's Wall (Yes, a trip to Scotland is on my bucket list). And it didn't end there. I have been reflecting on Scottish heritage lately--part of my own ancestry is Scottish, though the majority share of my bloodstream is owned by Welsh platelets.
In America, we tend to think we have shaped a good deal of the world around us. And yes, we are movers and shakers, but if you want to look at a culture that has set in motion a great deal of what we enjoy and in which we partake, consider the Scots. To wit:
- Consider the Scots when it comes to our American system of representative government. The Protestant Reformer John Knox studied under John Calvin at Geneva and brought reformation to the Scottish Kirk (church). Part of the reform consisted in a new approach to church leadership. Knox taught that God had ordained power into the governed, not the government, and the parishioners elect their represented spiritual leaders. This, when combined with Scottish Common Sense Realism within the Scottish Enlightenment, later influenced thinkers such as John Locke, whose writings formed the philosophical basis for much of our American constitutional republic.
- Consider that Scotland was the first nation to make education compulsory (in 1490). This could be done in local schools or at home or by other means, but the result was a highly educated, extremely literate population that produced economic authors like Adam Smith, historical novelists like Sir Walter Scott, and poets like Robert Burns.
- Consider that Scotland and Scottish sport has been imported into the modern Olympic games. The stone-throwing and weight-throwing competitions in the Highlands are the forerunners of the shot put and hammer throw we watch every four years.
- Consider that Scotland gave us James Watt, the man behind the steam engine, which transformed the world in the Industrial Age and opened roads, literally and figuratively.
- Consider this: Do you like math? Scotsman and mathematician John Napier discovered logarithms as a method of simplifying more complex calculations. Also, he encouraged the common use of the decimal point.
- Consider this: Do you like coffee? Do you like to keep hot chocolate hot, or your soup warm? You might want to thank the Scottish chemist and physicist Sir James Dewar, who invented the vacuum flask, also known as the Thermos.
- Consider this: Do you have a television? All hail Scottish inventor John Logie Baird, whose scanning disk enabled the first true modern version of the TV.
- Consider this: Do you use an alarm clock or a plug-in clock of any type? Have you ever had to send a fax? Give it up for Scottish inventor Alexander Bain, who came up with the electric clock and the first facsimile machine.
- Consider this: Have you had helium-filled balloons at a party? Truly aye, Sir William Ramsay, the Scottish chemist, was the first to isolate helium.
- Consider this: Have you ever needed to get a shot or have blood drawn? The Scotsman, Dr. Alexander Wood, invented the hypodermic syringe in 1853. And if you've been sick and been prescribed penicillin (provided you aren't allergic to it)? Thank Alexander Fleming, the Scottish biologist and pharmacologist, who nailed down that antibiotic in 1928.
- Consider this: Do you love watching Sherlock on the BBC or previous episodes on Netflix? Have you been enraptured by reading any of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes? You guessed it. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was born in Edinburgh, Scotland!
- Consider this: Have you played golf? Scottish invention. Do you love watching curling in the Winter Olympics? That started in Scotland, too.
Little wonder that Winston Churchill himself once pontificated, "Of all the small nations on earth, perhaps only the ancient Greeks surpass the Scots in their contribution to mankind."
Selfishly, I'd edge the Scots ahead. Let's face it: They beat the British at Bannockburn. They didn't go down at Thermopylae.
Immersing ourselves into Scottish culture was quite enjoyable, even if we were doing so on this side of the Atlantic Ocean and not in the land north of Hadrian's Wall (Yes, a trip to Scotland is on my bucket list). And it didn't end there. I have been reflecting on Scottish heritage lately--part of my own ancestry is Scottish, though the majority share of my bloodstream is owned by Welsh platelets.
In America, we tend to think we have shaped a good deal of the world around us. And yes, we are movers and shakers, but if you want to look at a culture that has set in motion a great deal of what we enjoy and in which we partake, consider the Scots. To wit:
- Consider the Scots when it comes to our American system of representative government. The Protestant Reformer John Knox studied under John Calvin at Geneva and brought reformation to the Scottish Kirk (church). Part of the reform consisted in a new approach to church leadership. Knox taught that God had ordained power into the governed, not the government, and the parishioners elect their represented spiritual leaders. This, when combined with Scottish Common Sense Realism within the Scottish Enlightenment, later influenced thinkers such as John Locke, whose writings formed the philosophical basis for much of our American constitutional republic.
- Consider that Scotland was the first nation to make education compulsory (in 1490). This could be done in local schools or at home or by other means, but the result was a highly educated, extremely literate population that produced economic authors like Adam Smith, historical novelists like Sir Walter Scott, and poets like Robert Burns.
- Consider that Scotland and Scottish sport has been imported into the modern Olympic games. The stone-throwing and weight-throwing competitions in the Highlands are the forerunners of the shot put and hammer throw we watch every four years.
- Consider that Scotland gave us James Watt, the man behind the steam engine, which transformed the world in the Industrial Age and opened roads, literally and figuratively.
- Consider this: Do you like math? Scotsman and mathematician John Napier discovered logarithms as a method of simplifying more complex calculations. Also, he encouraged the common use of the decimal point.
- Consider this: Do you like coffee? Do you like to keep hot chocolate hot, or your soup warm? You might want to thank the Scottish chemist and physicist Sir James Dewar, who invented the vacuum flask, also known as the Thermos.
- Consider this: Do you have a television? All hail Scottish inventor John Logie Baird, whose scanning disk enabled the first true modern version of the TV.
- Consider this: Do you use an alarm clock or a plug-in clock of any type? Have you ever had to send a fax? Give it up for Scottish inventor Alexander Bain, who came up with the electric clock and the first facsimile machine.
- Consider this: Have you had helium-filled balloons at a party? Truly aye, Sir William Ramsay, the Scottish chemist, was the first to isolate helium.
- Consider this: Have you ever needed to get a shot or have blood drawn? The Scotsman, Dr. Alexander Wood, invented the hypodermic syringe in 1853. And if you've been sick and been prescribed penicillin (provided you aren't allergic to it)? Thank Alexander Fleming, the Scottish biologist and pharmacologist, who nailed down that antibiotic in 1928.
- Consider this: Do you love watching Sherlock on the BBC or previous episodes on Netflix? Have you been enraptured by reading any of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes? You guessed it. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was born in Edinburgh, Scotland!
- Consider this: Have you played golf? Scottish invention. Do you love watching curling in the Winter Olympics? That started in Scotland, too.
Little wonder that Winston Churchill himself once pontificated, "Of all the small nations on earth, perhaps only the ancient Greeks surpass the Scots in their contribution to mankind."
Selfishly, I'd edge the Scots ahead. Let's face it: They beat the British at Bannockburn. They didn't go down at Thermopylae.
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