From Peter's Viewpoint

Let me talk to you briefly about a man called Peter. Peter would have been one of those sanguine (fancy word for spontaneous, excitable people-pleasing) individuals who would create some sort of action every time he walked into a room.

Or onto a boat, which he did on a regular basis, owing to the fact that he fished for a living. If he were alive and well today here on planet earth, he would likely be living in some cove in Newfoundland or British Columbia.

I will not embarrass Peter by recalling some of his most outrageous moments (even though unauthorized biographies often do just that). Suffice to say, he was an ardent follower of someone called Jesus of Nazareth, along with eleven others. Where Jesus went, they went; where Jesus slept and ate, they slept and ate; where Jesus – well, you get the picture.

The three years of public service and private mentoring came to a sudden, albeit temporary, pause one day when there was a crucifixion. The Romans had Palestine as part of their ever-expanding empire at that point in time, and death by crucifixion for common and religious prisoners was the most common form of execution.

Whether He was considered a common or religious prisoner, Jesus was put to death by crucifixion. Serious students of history do not deny there was a Jesus of Nazareth that was crucified just outside Jerusalem around 30 AD. While there is no disputing that fact, the greater debate arises with His claims to divinity, and even greater dialogue occurs over this event called the Resurrection.

Those who call themselves Christians will argue the point that with every other significant religious leader, there is a tomb with a body, but with Christianity, there is a tomb but no body. Those who call themselves Christians will argue that the scores of Roman soldiers who guarded Jesus' tomb with their lives (literally) would never let their captive escape – unless something supernatural prevented them from doing so. And those who call themselves Christians would also argue that a trip to the right tomb by even the rightful owner, Joseph of Arimathea, would produce the corpse of Christ.

And then there's Peter. Remember him? The one who denounced and denied Jesus in the very moments He needed him most? Well, he saw the empty tomb, along with the folded grave clothes; he had deep conversations with the resurrected Christ, both by the seashore and in the upper room. And he was one of over 500 people who interacted with Him for forty days after the resurrection.

Because Peter encountered a resurrected Jesus, his life was drastically changed. The Peter before the resurrection and the Peter after the resurrection were very different from each other. Tradition has it that he himself ended up being crucified - only in his case, it was upside down.

The Peter after the resurrection blazed a preaching trail throughout certain parts of the Middle East. Would he have lived for a lie? He ended up dying as a martyr. Would he have died for a lie? If he knew, in fact, that there was no resurrection, would his life and the other ten disciples' lives, plus the millions upon millions of followers, live and die for a lie?

It is Easter in a few days. There will be chocolate bunnies, Easter eggs, school breaks, and colouring contests to 'celebrate' Easter. There is no connection whatsoever between these things and the real meaning of Easter. Granted, it is presumptuous to maintain the historical, biblical rationale for significant annual events (Christmas being the other main one) in a culture that has essentially turned its back on these things, but it still is worth the effort.

The Resurrection – a term I prefer over 'Easter,' simply for word association – is a past event that significantly impacts both our present and our future. In other words, it is a life-changing and eternity-determining event. For serious students of history, it is worth looking into. Look through every available archive – that is, more than just the Bible. You may be shocked at the facts.

Just ask Peter.

A Nap a Day...

I would like you to try to guess what would be one of life's greatest pleasures for me. We've been friends for more than a couple of years now, so you probably think you know me. Go ahead, take a shot: Watching a Canucks game, live? Singing in a barbershop quartet? Spending a week in the Caribbean? Eating anyone of the following: a White Spot burger, a Hawaiian pizza, a Cordon Bleu steak (just not at the same time)?

Very, very good; I'm shocked at how well you do know me. But, as they say on some hilarious late, late show: Close, but no banana.

One of my favourite pastimes is (drum roll, please) having a nap. Did you get it? A nap. N-A-P. If I had my way, I would have a nap everyday, but somehow that strikes me as impossible in a classroom of students. I thought about having one as a I drove home from work each day, but when would I talk on my cell, clip my nails, and finish off my lunch? (Just kidding, officer.)

There are many benefits with napping. When I nap, I don't work. If I am prostrate on my bed (a creative way of saying 'nap,' Horace), I don't really have a care in the world. And when I am resting, I feel like I am re-loading for the rest of the day.

Some people can't drink coffee or have a nap anytime after 4:00 PM, or else it will keep them awake all night. I can drink a mug of coffee just before I go to bed, and I even have a nap right after supper – with no problem falling asleep five hours later. I draw the line Sunday morning: I will not drink coffee before church; it makes me toss and turn throughout the whole service.

I'm not sure if we could mandate regular naps beyond pre-school, but I would like try. I think we could get a lot more done in our classrooms if everyone crashed just after lunch. Wait a minute: They do crash just after lunch! Periods five and six are probably the toughest two periods to teach all day. You ought to hear all the snoring, wheezing, and bellowing. And that's just the staffroom (just kidding)!

However, come to think of it, that may not be a bad idea. Teachers could get caught up on their mountains of marking, students could get caught on the sleep they missed the night before (so they can stay up even later the next night), and it would represent a really nice break in the middle of the day.

No matter what side of the history of Israel you come down on (and I trust it is the right one), they had a special symbol of their relationship with Jehovah. It involved something called the Sabbath. It was introduced to them after they left Egypt (go watch "The Ten Commandments," for further details). In short, it was a break from everything once a week, a rest or cessation from all forms of labour. It was the seventh day of the week, the one we call Saturday.

I suggest we introduce our own form of sabbath rest, but not along religiously legalistic grounds. Whether it is a weekly sabbath, when there would be a stopping or at least a slowing down of all activity (actually we used to call that Sunday, didn't we?), or better, a daily sabbath (I'll call it a nap), I think it's worth looking into.

There's a time to go, to pause, and to stop – even traffic lights know that. I think – seriously now, people – that we need to take more time to pause, maybe even stop, on a regular basis. There is nothing really sensible about rushing here and there, living in the fast lane, caught up and wound up continuously, and wolfing down adrenalin liquids masquerading as cool drinks. No, I think pausing now and then, putting one's feet up, and pacing oneself on a regular basis is a wise choice.

So here's to the joy of napping. Fifteen minutes of a sabbath break everyday would be one of the greatest pleasures that I can imagine. A nap a day keeps the stress away, or at least makes it look manageable.

And I promise that fifteen minutes for me won't be when I am driving home. I need that time for marking my papers.

Great Service! (and not-so-great service)

I like to be treated like a somebody. I do not like to feel like a nobody. Maybe even in another lifetime, I would have been a great emperor. I can just see it now: "Ladies and Gentiles, arise in honour of the great Russian aristocrat, His Royal Heinous, Cragov von Funstonavich!" Okay, okay, perhaps not that sort of lofty treatment, but I don't want to be treated as a royal pain, either.

My 'rant' (with my name attached, of course) has to do with my role in life as Joe Customer, or his cousin, Joe Consumer. I am ill and weary (that would be sick and tired) of trying to buy something somewhere from someone, and being treated like I have economic leprosy. What do I need to do to get reasonable, courteous service in store - walk in with twenty dollar bills sticking out of my ears?

I have found service in many different quarters – from trades to fast food to small ticket items – appallingly lax at times. There seems to be a dearth of appreciation for me, the so-called valued customer (well, at least that's what the ad says). Finding a clerk is hard enough; getting them to stop talking to their fellow-employee is another thing. And getting them to understand that the better they treat the customer, the more secure their job is is possibly the hardest thing.

But with the ongoing deterioration of our families, and by extension, our culture, this will increase more and more. If kids aren't being trained at home how to interact with people other than their own clique, how to serve others (other than themselves), or how to think outside the X-box, they become adults who do the same.

I meet some of them every time I get fries with my order.

Is this true in every store, with every trade? Hardly. If you run a business or ply a trade at which you work hard, take no offense. I am obviously not discussing (a portmanteau of 'dissing' and 'cussing?) you and yours. I'm probably talking about your competitor, so keep up the good work. For me, good service will win me over for life; the inverse, unfortunately, is also true.

I believe it is a proverb somewhere: No servee, no jobee.

A case in point is our recent run of malfunctions in our kitchen over the past few months (no, Horace, it wasn't my cooking). On the one hand, we faced the repeated extreme incompetence of the extended warranty representatives; but on the other hand, the overwhelming, refreshing service of an appliance shop (their spelling, The Appliance Shoppe) out of Redcliff.

It was refreshing for the following reasons: They came when they said they would; they were upbeat and courteous; and they knew their stuff. I also really like the idea that they were a father and son team. However, if I say any more, I may have to charge them for free advertising!

My point is this: We need to get back to the days of good service in every sector of our society. Even I can remember when that was the rule and not the exception. Whether you are a butcher, baker, or candlestick-maker, remember that the customer (read: consumer, client, homeowner) comes first.

It starts with me and mine; namely, I must train my kids to know the difference between being a server and a doormat, between initiative and ambition, between drive and being driven. During these tough economic times, which may be here for a while, it is timely that our children learn how to treat others.

No matter who we come in contact with, then, it is always good to treat everybody as a somebody.

Proudly Irish

For years, perhaps even a decade or two, I was in denial of my Irish heritage. I tried my best to convince people that my ethnic roots were Danish, that my name was actually a rough translation of Crag Fonstad. Somehow I felt a closer kinship to a sweet breakfast snack, rather than a bar of soap.

Why I chose Denmark over Ireland I have no idea.

The turning point in my ancestral journey is connected with the letters PC. I would be curious if anyone out there in newspaperland could venture a guess as to what those letters stand for? Politically Correct? Incorrect. President's Choice? Wrong choice. Personal Computer? Hit the "delete" key. Protestant-Catholic? How sacrilegious!

Try Perry Como.

I typed that slowly, so you can read it slowly, and in fact I will repeat it: Perry Como. Many of you will have no idea who and what Perry Como is, and many others may be reluctant to admit you do. The late Perry Como was a crooner - a mellow, romance-type singer - probably most popular during the '50s, '60s, and into the early '70s.

Mr. Como was doing a Christmas special in Belfast a number of years ago, and I saw the DVD recording of that performance. I remember thinking as clear as day, as if it was some sort of spiritual conversion, the following thought: He is singing to my people.

Now I suppose I have removed all doubt in your minds as to my sanity. Well, be that as it may, though I can assure you that I am not out of my mind. Eccentric, perhaps, but not crazy. While I recognize my Irish roots, there are a lot of things I don't know about the land of my paternal grandparents. Let me list just a few here: I can't name all their the counties, I don't know what their flag looks like, I have no idea what their national anthem is.

For that matter, I would also add that I have serious issues with the IRA (Irish Republican Army), the UDR (Ulster Defence Regiment), and the Fenians (an Irish militia of about 150 years ago). Spilling blood in order to get one's way is an evil practice. True democracy is the higher road to take. Regardless of what side of Ireland's quest for independence you come down on, you must admit that their violent history for the past forty-plus years is very shameful.

My dad's parents came over to the New Country – as opposed to the Old Country - at the turn of the century (that would be about 109 years ago, Horace). They established a home in Winnipeg, Manitoba, before common sense prevailed and they moved out to Vancouver, British Columbia. All I really remember about them is that they talked funny, and by the mid-'60s they had both passed away. I was really young at that point, so I really never got to know them, much to my regret.

Today is, of course, St. Patrick's Day. I am celebrating it by eating some soup from last week: Seven days of food without refrigeration will turn anything green. And speaking of St. Patrick, he wasn't all that Irish: A recent book I read documented his Roman-British roots. As you likely know, what we call modern-day Britain was once controlled by the Romans. Patrick was taken to Ireland as a young man, but escaped back to his homeland. He later returned as a missionary, now with an adopted name in an adopted country.

So I am Irish and very happy to admit it. I think technically I should be wearing orange and not green, owing to the Protestant-Catholic differences. But I am not that different: One might say that, while I am a not religiously Irish, I am ethnically Irish (though two generations removed). (Which one reason why I speak of "them" and not "us.")

I don't know how you are going to celebrate St. Patrick's Day this year, but here are some suggestions: Have a shower using Irish Spring soap, drink some Irish-cream-flavoured coffee, watch John Wayne's "The Quiet Man," and eat a potato or two.

Then sit back and relax on that Irish summer lawnchair. You know, Paddy O' Furniture.

Sports, Occasionally

Although this is not a sports column, I do work up a sweat doing verbal gymnastics betimes. But March is such a "sporting" month, I just couldn't help adding my shrewd insight to the nutty world of athleticism. When I say "nutty" I don't mean peanuts, because athletes today are not playing for peanuts and tickets on game day aren't mere peanuts, either. I mean "nutty" as in what Mr. Oxford defines as "mad" (informal).

Where do I start? Baseball, with its spring training gong show and obscene salaries? Basketball, with it appropriately-named "March Madness" at the college level or sweaty arrogance both between the lines and between the sheets? What about professional football and its free agency chaos? I could talk about hockey, perhaps the least crazy of the big four professionals, and comment on its legalized fisticuffs - but I won't.

Some of you may want me to include golf, but I think I'll restrict my comments to sports.

Others may want me to speak to lacrosse, soccer, and curling issues, and perhaps someday I will. I sincerely see those as true sports, especially because so much is demanded of the individual to make the team succeed. The whole, then, is only as great as the parts that comprise it. My take on them is that they involve playing with others to truly be a team, but they rely so heavily on individual ability – more so than the big four (three paragraphs north of here).

But back to the nut gallery: One of the nuttiest stories to come down the wire (a cool journalistic term for 'news source') is that of the twenty-five million dollar man (not). I speak specifically of Manny Ramirez, formerly of the Boston Red Sox, and now of the Los Angeles Dodgers. This story has three sets of morons: Moron A is the management that offered him the money; Moron B is the agent that advised Manny what to do; and Moron C is Manny himself, the one who who turned it down. (Breaking news: We can all rest at night now, as Mr. Ramirez has just settled on a two-year contract for a mere $45 million.)

Now, I don't know for sure, but I believe Ramirez did not turn it down because he felt it was "unconscionable." (Mr. Oxford tells me that that means "not right or reasonable.") No, I believe he turned it down because it was not enough. Twenty-five million dollars is not enough? Enough for what? For whom? I can think of companies that could survive on that kind of money.

The greater obscenity is that is was a one-year contract.

If I could add another moron to my exhibit, I was add Moron D, another name for Joe Public (meaning sportswriters and fans). I don't hear their hue and cry. With over 500,000 of our American friends shown the door in January alone, with Massa Obama adding more zeroes to the national debt, as if doodling with the nation's future on scrap paper, this clown - who spends merely half a year swinging a stick at a small white ball - dismissed what is arguably the richest contract offer in sports history.

Then I also read last week where the Washington Redskins offered a $100 million contract to a former Tennessee Titan defensive lineman. (I'd reveal his name, but I am protecting him from perhaps some of my more ambitious readers who may want to claim him as their long, lost uncle.) My, oh, my: There's more money pouring out of every part of Washington these days...

On the one hand, there are lay-offs, foreclosures, bankruptcies galore across the nation, while on the other hand, there seems to be higher and greater salaries offered to professional athletes. I don't know which of the major four is worse, but after seven million dollars a year, who's counting?

Parents, don't raise your kids to be hardworking tradesmen or farmers. Get them into sports, any and every sports: The difference will be in the dough – as in the bread line or money in the bank.