Christ Prays the Psalms (Intro)

It’s been awhile.

In Richard Hays’ The Conversion of the Imagination, there is this wonderful essay entitled “Christ Prays the Psalms.” Hays uses Rom. 15:3 as a jumping off point, though I am going to quote Rom. 15:1-4 for context, “We who are strong have an obligation to bear with the failings of the weak, and not to please ourselves. 2Let each of us please his neighbor for his good, to build him up. 3For Christ did not please himself, but as it is written, “The reproaches of those who reproached you fell on me.” 4For whatever was written in former days was written for our instruction, that through endurance and through the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope.” (ESV)

Notice what Paul does in verse 3. He says that Christ did not please Himself. After all, it is written, “The reproaches of those who reproached you fell on me.” The citation is from Psalm 69:9. You have probably read this verse quite a few times. I know I had read it a ton and I missed the salient point: who is speaking this verse? Look at the wording again: “the reproaches of those who reproached you fell on me.” Who is the me? This is linked up and used as support for Christ not pleasing Himself. So who prays Psalm 69:9? Jesus Christ Himself.

There is a question I like to ask people to get a gauge on them. What book of the Bible that people really like would you go without? For awhile my answers was Psalms. I just never connected with the book. I get that David is upset and sad because people are trying to kill him, but I cannot really identify with that myself. Plus, sometimes he seems so whiny. And while asking for forgiveness is obviously great and something I do, I just didn’t find the Psalms to help a lot in this.

But back to Christ praying the Psalms. So Hays points out that Paul did not argue for Jesus praying this Psalm, he just took it for granted. Moreover, this practice seems to be pretty widespread. After all, in the crucifixion narratives he often quotes the Psalms, so there is good reason for this imaginative link to be established.

Throughout church history, therefore, the Psalms have been a popular place to see Jesus Christ in the Old Testament. But what does it mean to see Jesus in the Old Testament? Lately I have been reading a lot on figural reading/theological interpretation of Scripture. To put it simply, throughout church history there has been an insistence in thinking that there is a spiritual sense alongside a literal sense of the text. Figural reading/theological interpretation of Scripture try to recover that practice.

So take our passage from Psalm 69:9 again, “The reproaches of those who reproached you fell on me.” The point is not making a connection to Jesus based on systematic theology. That is, they are not saying that we can talk about some systematic theological category like how God uses suffering and then connect this passage with Jesus’ life and death. Nor is the point one of biblical theology, namely, that the righteous have always suffered and so as the supremely righteous one Jesus suffers too. Instead, the point is that to really truly understand Psalm 69:9 is to see Jesus Christ. And this does not go for just Psalm 69:9, but for all of Scripture, even where the New Testament writers do not give us clues.

Frankly, I find the whole thing rather disturbing. It is not natural to me by any means. Even being convinced that figural reading should be practice, I still find myself really uncomfortable with engaging in it and reading some of the ways theologians throughout history and today engage in it. A big way of it becoming natural, though, is just by doing it, so I plan this series as an exercise in the figural reading of Psalms, with my eyes fixed on Jesus Christ, the author and perfecter of the Psalms.

I am not sure how many days a week I will post, but I hope I will not let the series die. Most of the time a post will just be on one psalm, but longer psalms (like 119) will probably be broken up and maybe some posts will discuss more than one psalm. We will see how it goes.

Nowadays, I really like Psalms. It has become one of my favorite books. But still, I do not expect this to be an easy task. Moreover, my reading is far from a definitive one. This series is one of exploration, of trying to learn to listen, of searching the text until I find King Jesus. There will probably be false starts, slip ups, misreadings, and (hopefully) places where my reading is on the right track but needs to be supplemented. But we must begin somewhere.

To give a taste, not too long ago I had an experience where seeing Christ in the Psalms came naturally. It was this last Easter on Good Friday that I was thinking about Hays’ work and his article “Christ Prays the Psalms.” I was reflecting on the oft-neglected day of Holy Saturday. I had just read a book by a Christian theologian on being diagnosed with incurable cancer. He talked a lot about the lament psalms, another frequent topic of thought for me. While thinking about Holy Saturday, I was not sure what the proper terminology was, so I had to look it up. Before doing so, I thought it should be called Silent Saturday because the crucified God was dead in a tomb and his body was decaying; for a moment, God seemed to blink. All of this made me think about the lament Psalms even more. As is well known, Jesus quotes Psalm 22 on the cross: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

So I began reading the Psalms with Holy Saturday in mind. The gospel writers loved reading the lament psalms in terms of Jesus, so maybe I would see something. And as I began doing so, these reading just welled up irresistibly inside me. I had tried to make myself read Scripture prophetically before, to no avail. Now I just opened myself up: maybe God would speak something if I am willing to listen.

I ran across passages like this: “O Lord, how many are my foes! Many are rising against me; many are saying of my soul, ‘There is no salvation for him in God.’ … I lay down and slept; I woke again, for the Lord sustained me.” (Ps. 3:1-2, 5) Or this one: “In peace I will both lie down and sleep; for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.” (Ps. 4:8 ) “Now I know that the Lord saves his anointed; he will answer him from his holy heaven with the saving might of his right hand…O Lord, save the king! May he answer us when we call.” (Ps. 20:6, 9)

This is already really long, so I will end it with one final word. I have been thinking a lot about the loss of figural reading in the church, how weird it is (to me), how the loss of figural reading is often tied to the anemia of the church, what recovery looks like, etc. And I found myself thinking of a particular vision.

So at the end we find ourselves in the middle of a valley full of bones. There are many and they are very dry. God cries out, “Son of man, can these bones live?” To which we can only reply, “O Lord GOD, you know.” And He commands us, “Prophesy over these bones and say to them, ‘O dry bones, hear the word of the LORD.'” (Ezek. 37:1-4, ESV)

May we hear the word of the LORD Jesus pray the Psalms.


Sitting at a Table Eating Animal Crackers

Tonight was a church event where parents could drop off kids that were not yet in middle school and they could go and have a date night while people who volunteered watched and hung out with the kids. I was one of the people who volunteered to hang out with the kids. I had a lot of fun doing so and I enjoyed spending a Friday night helping out.

Snack time eventually rolled around. I went and sat at four conjoining tables by a number of kids. This strange thing started to happen where kids would get up and go to a specific group of kids that were sitting on the floor. Kids kept doing so and it was the same group. I started to pay more attention and the kids in the group on the floor were basically saying things to lead to that outcome. The kids at the table would hear those things and be swayed and they would go join the kids on the floor.

Maybe I should have said something. There were things I heard, but it wasn’t exactly organic. Does it need to be? And we always tell ourselves we have to choose our battles, but I sometimes wonder if that is more out of comfort for ourselves more than anything else. The group of kids I sat by ended up dwindling down to one five year old girl, who decided to stay at the table. Maybe she didn’t hear or maybe she didn’t care, I’m not sure.

As I thought about what was happening, I grew sad. Kids aren’t born innocent and I know they have their flaws, but I see so much potential for good in their lives. It’s hard not to see a sweet five year old girl and not think about the ways in which she can care deeply about the world and thereby work for the good of the world. It’s difficult not to see a fun-loving three year old boy and not think about the way he can delight in the world and through that delight care enough to change the warts he sees. But already this potential was flickering.

And I thought about why I have these thoughts about children and not adults. I am still sad when I see some of the ways we act and how we are selling ourselves short. It is kind of heart breaking to see the ways we can work for the life of the world but then notice that we are content with our nice houses, nice cars, favorite shows, etc. But I don’t see it as much. Is it because the potential isn’t there? There’s still plenty of good and beauty we all can work for, yet seeing this is always dimmer, it’s only a flicker sometimes. So I began to realize my own fickleness.

So I was sitting at a table eating animal crackers and I was sad. Sad because already the potential and beauty of the world, these kids, this specific kid was being lost. And sometimes I worry we won’t ever find that beauty again.

Jesus and Gender Roles

The year was 1905 and a bombastic man by the name of Gilbert Keith Chesterton published a book entitled Heretics that contained essays that criticized the body of doctrine expounded by some of his most famous contemporaries. In a review of Heretics, G.S. Street said, “I shall not begin to worry about my philosophy of life until Mr. Chesterton discloses his.” Given Street’s review, he knew what he was getting himself into. Thus, in response Chesterton said, “It was perhaps an incautious suggestion to make to a person only too ready to write books upon the feeblest provocation.” And that is why Chesterton ended up writing one of my favorite books ever, Orthodoxy.

In a similar vein, this post is an answer to a challenge. Just as Street did not need to read Orthodoxy, my challenger need not read this post. Like Orthodoxy, this post can only be termed a “slovenly autobiography”: “even a bad shot is dignified when he accepts a duel.”

It was a few days ago when I asked the girl I am dating what she thought about male-female marital relationships. She said that she thought the woman should stay home once there are kids and that she does most of the cleaning, etc. This did not mean that the husband does no cleaning, but it’s far from a primary responsibility. Thus I found myself in the peculiar position of thinking that if we were to get married that I should be more involved in the very thing I despise: sweeping floors, doing dishes, and, if I dare mention it, doing laundry.

It’s not that I think women have to get a job and not stay at home. I think that is fine choice that many have made. I’m just not convinced that relationships should have those sort of gender roles automatically, and this for what many might think to be the most peculiar of reasons.

You see, I have found a different vision in the life and teachings of an unmarried, middle-aged, Jewish man who lived in the first century AD. He was a man from heaven, God on earth who came to be the long-awaited Messiah and the only true Man. In times of political tension he rejected the sword and in the adoration of crowds he felt called to serve. At one point, two of his followers asked to sit at his right and left hand, but he rebuked their attitudes of striving for positions of authority and glory as the world sees it. His other followers heard of their request and became indignant, but they missed the picture too. The other ten were not mad because James and John hadn’t yet understood the nature of Jesus’ Messiahship and kingdom, but because James and John beat them to the punch. In a place where reading for the first time we might think Jesus would emphasize how distinct he is in order to show why they cannot share in his glory, he instead tells them that He “did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many,” (Mark 10:45) and thereby invites us to participate in that glory.

We find him hanging out with the outcasts of society: prostitutes, tax collectors, and lepers. He cares about children who can offer him nothing. We find him being baptized in order to identify in his nation’s plight. It’s at that baptism that we find John the Baptist being perceptive when John recognizes that he is not even worthy to carry Jesus’ sandal, a statement said to a Man that we later find washing his disciples feet.

In Philippians 2:6-11, we find Paul teaching us that Jesus did not exploit his equality with God but instead took the form of a servant and died on a cross. Why? Did Paul just decide to wax eloquently about the status of Jesus and his suffering? We find the answer before that section: we are supposed to have the same mindset as Jesus by being humble, serving others, and valuing others above ourselves.

So I said that I don’t want a relationship where it’s a sort of score keeping or social contract. I shouldn’t worry about whether I had to do the dishes more than my allotted amount this week nor should I think about laundry and automatically classify it under the category of her duties.

“Yeah but who is actually that selfless?”

Not me, that’s for sure. I don’t think this because deep down I really enjoy doing laundry and want a stake in it. I’m halfway convinced that laundry is part of the fall, if not the main part. If you want to talk about our alienation from the created order, just look at the fact that we have to do laundry.

But I digress. None of us is that selfless. Obviously there will be days where I don’t want to do the dishes even though I should. Clearly there will be times where I will think about how doing the laundry is her job when that is the wrong attitude. Certainly there will be moments when I think about how hard my day is and how easy hers is and deplore the fact that I cannot even come home to a hot meal. But if falling short is a reason to not strive for something better, well, I would have given up on everything a long time ago.

Because I think a great many things are hard: properly understanding the Bible, living out the Christian faith, working on relationships, deeply and truly caring about others who have nothing they can offer me, and, if intuition is worth anything, wanting to do laundry when I get home after a 55-hour work week that was hopelessly tiring and frustrating. But I don’t want to go through life just skating by. I don’t want to get by with good enough. I know those things take work, but I’m not okay with not putting in the effort.

Naturally, all of that can be chalked up to my age. I’m idealistic and want to change the world in ways that haven’t happened. I want to live in a way that not many have gone before me have. And, so the point goes, as I get older I will grow out of this idealism and come back to the real world. Maybe so, but I hope not. I’d rather get my head in the heavens over taming heaven in order to get it into my head.

Then there was talk about compromise and a very perceptive question that was taken as the challenge to write this post: “Yeah but if she’s cool with doing it, what’s the problem?”

On compromise: “‘it is not ideal.’ -Michael Scott” -Brett Lunn. But more seriously, the problem I see it ties into the Biblical material discussed above. I guess I just don’t see it as following the teaching of the text. Maybe that’s just where I’m at and people are at different places (and maybe they are right and I am wrong), but I am not sure splitting up chores along gender lines or what we enjoy is right. We are called to revolutionary servanthood especially in the things we don’t like doing so that we might become more like the One True Man, the only Man who ever showed us what it was like to be Human perfectly, the same Man who ate with outcasts, visited possessed people at tombs, touched the diseased, fed those who wanted him to give into one of the biggest temptations he would face, and washed the feet of those who had followed him for awhile, but still didn’t understand.

I know there will be plenty of times where I would be happier if I didn’t have to do as much cleaning or whatever, but it’s not about happiness and what works best, it’s about wholeness of being, which is perfected in brokenness. As one thinker put it, “I wanna fold clothes for you; I wanna make you feel good.”

Because it’s in petty, unsexy decisions like this that we become more like the Master who taught us, “Anyone who wants to be first must be the very last, and the servant of all.” (Mark 9:35)


I’m White, You’re Wrong [Communing with Coates, part 1]

I am white. Always have been. I grew up upper middle class in a predominantly nice and white city. Don’t get me wrong, there were plenty of people of other races that went to the same public schools as I did and I was friends with some of them, but being white is what I know. It’s really the only thing I know.

Recently, for reasons stemming from Christianity to hip hop to present events, I have decided that it is best if I try to figure out what it means to not be white in America. Black people spoke a lot about how their American experience is different and I thought it was time to listen. Ta-Nehisi Coates’ Between the World and Me has garnered wide praise, so I figured I would check it out. You see, it’s easy to say that I care about race reconciliation or understanding “the black experience” and then never do anything about it. I get it, it’s only reading a book, but it’s a start.

I was excited. The cashier at booksamillion told me that she really enjoyed the book. It was listed as an important book for understanding how some (all?) black people view growing up in America. So I lit my vanilla and citrus scented candle and cracked it open. Then I read this: “But the belief in the preeminence of hue and hair, the notion that these factors can correctly organize a society and that they signify deeper attributes, which are indelible–this is the new idea at the heart of these new people who have been brought up hopelessly, tragically, deceitfully, to believe that they are white.” (p. 7)

I had read some of the amazon reviews. Some people loved the book, it was exactly what people had chalked it up to be. Here was a prophetic voice who could tell white people what it’s like to be black in America. Others were not too pleased. They thought Coates blamed white people for everything. I didn’t dig too deep because I wanted to try and just listen to Coates, not preconceived notions of what he did and did not mean.

I believe I am white. I’ve always checked those or the caucasian boxes when I have had to fill out the form. I’ve always know I was a white kid. I mean, I’m even on the pale side of the white spectrum, so if I ever forgot that I was white, I could recall running for 30 minutes outside the previous summer without a shirt on and receiving a burn. I’m that white. And here it seemed like Coates was telling me that being brought up to believe I’m white (although I don’t think anyone ever had to point this out to me) was tragic and deceitful. That believing I was white was tied into “preeminence of hue and hair,” words which evoke Hitler’s master race in my mind. So was Coates saying I’m as bad as the Nazis? At this point, I had three options.

First, I could simply stop reading. There’s a ready-made defense: “Look, I really wanted to understand. I even listened to black people on what books a white person should read. I spent my hard-earned money on Between the World and Me. I gave him a chance, I really did. I was willing to listen. But out of nowhere he associated me (indirectly) with the Nazis because I believe I’m white. So don’t tell me I didn’t try.” And then I could perpetuate the cycle by saying I tried and thereby didn’t need to put any more effort to it so that I could keep myself insulated by never opening myself up to horizons beyond my world because they might change me in really uncomfortable ways. Speaking solely from human proclivities, it’s honestly not a bad option.

Second, I could have finished the book but not actually opened myself up to what he had to say. The book is short and well-written, so this would not take a big time commitment. Moreover, it would give me the added benefit of then being able to point out that I have read the book. This would give me the clout that we all so desperately want. And, once, again, it would have allowed me to stay within my own world and not be stretched in any way. Again, this is a good option.

Lastly, I could bracket for a second that I know exactly what he meant. Maybe Coates really does mean that I am similar to the Nazis because I think I am white. Maybe he really is blaming white people for societal ills. I suppose all of these are possible, but would that be the charitable thing to do right off the bat? Even if a Nazi analogy reading is obvious, the plain sense, or whatever to me, does that mean I should believe that reading instead of questioning I am reading rightly? This quote gave me an opportunity to embody interpretive charity, grace, and love, so would I take it?

The last option is the one I took. I finished Between the World and Me and I have thought about it a lot since. I’m still not sure exactly what Coates meant by that quote, although I have some theories. Reading charitably is often hard. It’s easy to take people in a pretty terrible light so that we can write them off. I have heard a lot about racial tension, how white people have negatively affected black people (and still do), and how if I think a certain thing whether it be about politics, economics, or some other topic, then that means I am racist. So writing off Coates would have been easy, and if I had taken the easy option then I would be worse off today: I would have failed to love Coates, understand others less, have a narrower perspective, and be less whole of a human being.

So interpreting charitably is difficult and I am sure I will fail to do so in the future, but, to echo Coates, maybe the struggle is worth it.


Learning to Forget about Myself

I wish I could tell you that you would enjoy the narrative portion of this post, but I cannot guarantee that. Yet I think the point is missed if I simply spew advice without the narrative as background, so I find the “boring” parts equally important. I hope you will too.

This last Sunday I was invited by a family at my church to come over and have lunch that afternoon. I knew the family somewhat, but not that well. And they are great people, they just returned to the States from being overseas (with some visits back to the States) for five years. I had already come to know Mark, the father, and Jimmy and Nate better, the two oldest boys, because I helped out when the youth group at my church went to a Christian summer camp a year and a half ago.

I had the opportunity to sort of meet the whole family about a week ago, but it was just an introduction of names (and sometimes only a pointing to who the person was). The whole family looked like this (in order of age): Mark, the father, Joni, the mother, Jimmy, Nate, Truett, Abe, Isaac, Delaney, and Avonlea. They live with some extended family, the father and mother of Joni, Dave and Elaine. They are really great people too. They were some of the most encouraging and welcoming people when I first started attending church. There was also a couple there that just joined our church.

I arrived and talked to Dave, Elaine, and Joni for a bit. Elaine and Joni were working on preparing lunch. I also spoke a bit to Abe. While hanging around the upstairs kitchen, Delaney, 7, came by and we started talking. I hadn’t met her before, but she was pretty outgoing. Their whole family seemed to know of me, which I was appreciative of because I enjoyed getting to know Mark, Jimmy, and Nate at camp that summer. For anyone who doesn’t know, I became very close to my pastor’s daughters when I was up in Hannibal. They were/are around Delaney and Avonlea’s ages, so I tend to have a natural affinity for caring about young girls due to those beneficial experiences.

We all helped carry stuff downstairs so that we could eat. I saw Avonlea, 5, and tried to talk to her and wave to her multiple times, but she is very shy and so she didn’t respond. Nate and Truett showed me the room they share with Abe. Abe sat next to me at the table. I spoke to the adults about various things, but nothing too major. Delaney must have seen Nate and Truett showing me their room because she told me during lunch that she could show me her room too. So once we were finished with lunch, I went with Delaney to see her room. Avonlea joined us.

While Delaney was telling me about her room and all of her stuff, out of nowhere Avonlea decided to start talking to me. She started sharing important stuff about her room. They both showed me various jewelry they had, their stuffed animals, and their princesses. We talked about movies they liked, the book their mom was reading to them at night, and related topics. After learning about them and their room, we headed back downstairs.

Abe wanted to play baseball with a plastic bat and ball and he asked me if I wanted to play with him. I said yes. Delaney and Avonlea wanted to go outside with us. I pitched to Abe while he hit the ball as Delaney and Avonlea played on the swing. Mark came out to train the dog so it understood the boundaries of the electric fence. Delaney and Avonlea decided they wanted to play baseball with us, so while Abe hit we would all race to the ball in order to see who could get there first. We let Avonlea win once and she was happy. Delaney also won.

Then, Delaney and Avonlea had opportunities to try and hit the ball. Delaney had some success on her own. I helped Avonlea learn how to stand and swing the right sort of way and she ended up hitting the ball a few times. She was ecstatic, and so were we. Abe climbed a tree as I pushed Delaney and Avonlea on the swing at various times. It started to get cold and Avonlea wanted to go inside (Delaney was inside looking for gloves already), so she asked me if I would go inside with her. We all headed in.

Inside, Delaney, Avonlea, and I played “Guess Who?” for a few games. They showed me more of their room and also their storage room. If you haven’t noticed yet, I spent most of my time with the two of them. At one point, I pointed out to Avonlea that she wouldn’t even talk to me at first and now she was very talkative. She told me about that she’s shy with the characteristic sass that only a young girl around her age has. They were talking about their hair stuff when their Joni told me that I didn’t have to let them do my hair. I laughed and pointed out to Avonlea that my hair was almost as long as hers. She observed, “Your hair is curly. Do you curl it?!” I denied the charge while enjoying the cute honesty that surrounds children. And the way they grab your arm/hand so that you will come with them and you have to do that awkward walk/run thing (like when someone in a car tells you you can cross the street or someone holds a door open when you are a bit away) because they are going too fast to keep up by walking but if you jog you will run over them.

Mark told me that I wasn’t forced to be in their room learning about their stuffed animals. And that brings me to the inexplicable point that somehow I am good with children when pretty much anyone who knows me (including myself) would probably predict the opposite. That is something I have thought long about and I’m still not sure why, but I think I have a clue.

In Mark telling me I wasn’t obligated, he didn’t mean anything negative by it. He loves his family very much. But I think he was pointing out something that probably affects many people in being around little children. To be frank, I’m really not that personally interested in princesses, stuffed animals, and a lot of stuff that girls are interested in. There’s never been a point in my life when I wanted to sit down and learn more about princesses. I think that’s what partially explains why people have a difficult time around children: we are so interested in talking about stuff that we are interested in, that being around children and listening to them talk about princesses becomes a chore. We are oftentimes willing to put up with it and sometimes we can fool children with our fake reactions, but they end up figuring it out and that probably affects them in deeply negative ways that we never consider.

Because when Delaney and Avonlea are telling me about stuffed animal owls including the names of the father, mother, and baby owl, that’s not something I would think about looking at the tag to find out on my own. But what ends up happening is I’m interested in what they are interested in because I’m interested in them. I find joy in their joy in those things because I find joy in them. And that’s a lot easier for me to do with children. This was my first time ever getting to know Delaney and Avonlea and it was only for a few hours, but something about the openness of kids makes me more open. Kids laugh because they are happy, and they are never worried about whether it’s a “pretty” laugh according to social standards, which I think we could learn a lot from.

So maybe that’s why I get along with children so well. Because I actually care about what they have to say. Not as a means of getting through it so I can take my turn to talk, but as an outworking of my care for them. I’m no saint: this is not my natural disposition; I doubt it is anyone’s.

And all of that brings me to something else I noticed when I reflected on those moments. In learning about Delaney’s and Avonlea’s jewelry, I found myself forgetting about wanting to share the quirky things that interest me: language, cultural history, etc. When I talked to Mark and Joni last Sunday, I mentioned how I read a lot. They asked me what I was reading and I said I was reading Karl Barth right now and gave a bit of details. They mentioned that they would like to hear more. And to be honest, talking about Karl Barth probably interests me a lot more than it should. I could probably talk about him a lot longer than anyone would want to listen (and rightfully so). But they were willing to listen because they cared.

Because in those moments with Delaney and Avonlea, I learned to forget about myself. Don’t get me wrong, that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t share about my reading if people asked. The point isn’t being rude. And that doesn’t mean that all of the sudden I no longer enjoyed philosophy of language, I still did. I am still willing to share if that will help them grow in some way or help us grow as people in right relationships. But so much of wanting to share is because it is sharing about me instead of sharing for you and for us. And I think if we could learn to forget about ourselves, even if it’s only for moments at a time at first, and we could figure out how to want to share out of love for others, both in their own growth and in our growth in relationship, then we would be growing in a lot of ways. Since God wants us to be whole people who are flourishing in right relationships with others, this is something we should be pursuing. I can’t absolutize my experience and say what works for me will work for you, but I hope reading this either awakens you to these things or encourages you in pursuing them.

Delaney and Avonlea told me they had a lot of fun. I told them I did too. They said they hoped I would come over again. Yeah, I would like that.