28 March 2008

Dispatches from the Line Mk.Y-I

So I know that this is the Jasperse Family Blog, the repository of all things Wingnut, the home of my general musings and thinkings, as well as other general bloginess. I know that it is all these things and more. I know, as the administrator and main author of this page (there are two authors, actually!), that this page can be whatever I make it into.

As many of you know, I work at the "Big City Airport". Locally, it is known as Gerald R Ford International Airport. If you look in an Ac-U-Kwik, which I'm guessing not many of you get the chance to do, it would be listed by the alpha-numeric Identifier, GRR.

I work second shift, something that I have grown to love and loathe, especially now that Shan is going back to work, and my son is at home. That's a different topic for a different post. The point today is that second shift affords me a bit more down time than first shift. I therefore have more time for my mind to wander off alone somewhere. More often than not, for some reason, these thoughts have something to do with aviation.

But these thoughts usually aren't really aviation-specific, and it would be misleading to label them as such. So here is a hybrid label: Dispatches.

I imagine it being a semi-regular feature, consisting of all the random stuff that floats around between my ears having to do with life and work with wings and wingnuts. Probably funny stories too, I have a bunch of those.

Perhaps I should not put so much thought into something so trivial as blog entry labels. Before you think that, I should inform you that this idea sprung up in mere seconds last night. It's not like I put a lot of thought into this!

A quick note about the numbering: Since this is intended to be a series, I felt I should number them. Why Mk? Mk is an abbreviation of Mark, the term that the Brits use to designate different variations of their aircraft. The variants were listed as different Marks, with each successive one receiving a higher number. They used Roman numerals, hence the I for the first Mark. In the US, by contrast, most aircraft with numerous variations will have the model number of the aircraft followed by a letter of the alphabet, hence my favorite warbird, the B-17G, or the aircraft I trained in, a C-172Q.

But Y? The Y preceding the numeral is a designation that is used by the United States military to designate a test version of an aircraft, not yet in production or use by the military. During the testing phase, future production aircraft had their designating number preceded by Y, like the YF-22 Raptor (now just F-22), or the current "next big thing", the YF-35.

Okay, that's enough. I'm going back to work now.


wingnut

24 March 2008

Easter Questions

It was an Easter weekend to remember.

It was Elijah's first. Since he belongs to both families, on Saturday we spent the afternoon and evening celebrating at Shan's parents, with the traditional Saturday Hamburger. Sunday was spent with my folks, trying to keep my nephews from squishing their new cousin in their excitement. They just can't wait for the day when he can hold his own against them. Eli took his first Easter in stride, sleeping on Grandpas and Grandmas, spitting up on aunts, and all over his first Easter outfit. Grand traditions indeed!

Easter is supposed to be a time of celebration, of springing into new life. Interesting how the ancient pagan religions all celebrated Easter without knowing why. The cold tomb of winter has been opened, and the warmth of Spring has resurrected all it touches: new grass to mow, new flowers to sprout, new baby doves to hatch.

This celebration of New Life is preceded by Lent, a time to contemplate life, to contemplate death, and to contemplate what that means in our life. To seek direction, to seek peace, to seek the Resurrection.

With an infant son at home, there is not much time to contemplate anything. Not much spare time to seek direction or peace. Not much time to look for a Resurrection.

We kinda have to do it all at once. We concentrate it, into two or three hour periods while there is a nap happening.

And so it happened, Sunday evening, from about 9:00 or so until we went to bed, that my wife and I celebrated Lent, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday.

Our celebration did not follow the normal pattern. We began by celebrating Good Friday: Do we really have to do this? Is there no other way? This is going to be awful! This is not worth it.

As the sun set on our lament, we began our celebration of Saturday. Now what? We asked. It happened. We are in this situation now. What do we do? Our lives have changed forever. Do we like the change? Can we deal with the change? How do we deal with the change? The despair of Friday gave way to the limbo of Saturday: Do we receive the gift He has given us by allowing everyone else to raise him while we work? Is that right? Is that a way to be thankful? Can we still be good parents and be gone all day? Can we be the parents Elijah was meant to have if we both are out of the house full time? Can we still give our children our best love and care when we're both tired? Do we stay here and look to the day when we can pay off our mortgage and not be forced to work like we do? Or do we plunge headlong into absurdity, walking away from our American Dream for something more affordable?

The darkness of our limbo is stifling. We cannot see anything. No clear path, no stunning example is there for us to examine. Only the darkness.

But then, as the last vestige of hope fails, there is a light. A sliver, a tiny shaft pierces the blackness of our hearts. The stone is rolling away! Our hope reawakens, strong and bold. We reach for it, not daring to believe it will support us, yet not daring to fully abandon it. Daylight floods our tomb as we continue to reach for the hope of God.

The stone is fully away now, and we blink as we step out into the brilliant, dazzling daylight. We still cannot see the path in front of us. We do not know where it will lead, what will happen. But we do know this: Our God works for the redemption and resurrection of all His Creation. That is our hope.

Because Easter Sunday is about hope. The Resurrection is about hope.

Things will get better.


wingnut

14 March 2008

A Scientific Revelation. Where's our grant money?

My wife has had an epiphany. So profound, so meaningful, so absolutely true, that I would be shirking my God-given gift if I did not share it with you.

Farts are funny.

When my father-in-law belts one out at the dinner table, everyone groans. Except him. And me. I can't help but laugh, because he finds so much joy in sharing these moments with family. You can see it spread across his face as he breaks out into a huge grin. He loves it.

Shan and I last night were lying in bed trying to sleep, or rather, I was trying to sleep, Shan was trying to keep me awake, and we were both listening to Eli make his baby grunting noises and squeaks in his sleep. Shan then brought to my attention the fact that Eli always smiles when he's gassy. This is nothing new in the world of parenting. As a matter of fact, I have said it myself many times in the past two months, "Oh, that's not really a smile. He's just gassy." I have heard my sister say it about her two sons, I have heard my cousin say it about his son. Everyone says it. It's just gas, not a real smile.

Ladies and gentlemen, building on the logic and insight of my wife, the time is right to make our findings known.

My wife and I, after careful consideration and impressive research, have concluded that in fact, those smiles are real smiles.

Infants lack the complex intelligence needed to practice sarcasm, and therefore cannot fake a smile. Since babies do, in fact, smile, and since we know now they cannot fake it, babies smiles are real.

It is also, as stated above, well known that babies smile when gassy. When considered in light of the fact that babies cannot fake a smile, the fact that babies smile when gassy brings to mind an interesting fact, namely that babies must think gassiness is funny.

Now our little Elijah is a smart person, but he has not yet had the opportunity to experience comedy in the same way his parents have, and therefore does not have a fully developed sense of humor as do most adults.

Elijah lacks a developed sense of humor, and yet he smiles when he's gassy. It must mean, therefore, that gassiness is inherently funny. Farts must be an empirically humorous for an infant without a complex intelligence to find them funny.

In other words, it is something instinctive. Something innate within the human creature thinks farts are funny.

Why else would Whoopee Cushions be so popular?

Why else would my father-in-law, a grown man, laugh at something so seemingly juvenile?

Why else would my wife and I be wide awake at 2:30am, waiting breathlessly for the next round from the cradle?

Why else would Elijah smile at me with all he was worth before filling his diaper in my arms this afternoon?


wingnut

10 March 2008

The busy life of new parents. Or why I have neglected my blog for nearly a month.

The short reason is, I don't know. I just haven't had much to say. Probably more accurately, I have had too much to say.

Too much inspiration, not enough discipline. Too many spectacular, articulate ideas, not enough time without a bottle in one hand and a burp cloth in the other. Not that I am complaining. Far from it. Our little blessing continues to redeem us and love us and make everything okay no matter what. But it takes up all our time, that is for sure!

This past week has been especially interesting. We finally threw in the towel on the old Cavalier. The water pump finally peed itself out, and the repair cost was nearly the cost of the car itself. Combined with a great deal on a Chevy Malibu from Sparta Chevy, the timing just felt right. As I said on facebook, it's not that we enjoy having a car payment, but the peace of mind that is evident on Shan's face and her demeanor when she drives her new-to-us car is very much worth it. Besides, everyone tells us that the Malibu is a very dependable car. Given our track record with the Cav, the Blazer, and of course, my first Malibu ( I miss you, Big Red), we hope to get at least ten years out of this one.

The only issue we had with it was apparently the previous owner was some sort of factory chimney, and the car smelled like a bowling alley on Monday morning. A good dousing with Febreeze and three air fresheners later, we are winning that battle.

Another interesting happening this week was the receiving of an anonymous Meijer gift card. A $50 anonymous gift card. No return address. And, of course, mailed from Grand Rapids, so no figuring out who lives where. We have a hunch though, and it figures they wouldn't tell us.

So yesterday, at church, we continued the Philippians series. We're moving verse by verse through Philippians. Yesterday, we focused on the tension and stress that Paul was under. Here he is, in prison, not knowing whether he will be executed or allowed to go free, and he is still encouraging and shepherding his fellow Christians in Philippi.

Actually, linguistic experts have studied the Greek manuscripts, and say that verse 22 of chapter 1 in particular, is written very disjointed and awkward. It definitely is Paul's style, but we can see from the very way he wrote it that he is under unimaginable stress. He quite literally does not know if he will be alive tomorrow. It made me think of what Shan and I went through with our miscarriages and infertility. There were times when both of us wondered if we were going to continue to be married. It got that bad.

So now, with our little blessing, life again is busy, stressful, and chaotic. We do not know what tomorrow has in store for us. We can't say it will get better, as a matter of fact, we can be relatively certain that it will get worse. But, like Paul says in verse 6, our God will continue the good work He has begun in us until the end of time.

It's busy. It's hectic. It's tiring. But if Paul can find comfort in Christ while in prison, waiting to possibly be executed, then we can too. I can't imagine raising a son is as bad as being chained to a wall, not knowing if you'll be alive the next day.


wingnut