Wednesday, November 30, 2016

High-Low

November 30, 2016

On the way home from granddaughter Izzi's basketball game tonight (her team won!), Nate asked their normal suppertime question: "What was your high today?" and later, "Did you have a low?" It is something he started years ago to get the girls to open up about the things going on in their lives, and to help them focus on the good things in their lives. The rules are simple; when someone is talking, the others listen, and you have to have a high, but not necessarily a low.

The question finally came to me. It was hard, not because there was nothing good in my life today, but because there were so many good things. I was able to help my friend Harry split and stack a load of wood, the part of my woodpile that was not yet undercover I got in the shed, listened to two different friends concerned with the direction their churches are going, got to see Izzi play basketball. That's just for starters. The only 'low' is my left wrist, which throbs almost continuously. It gets worse when I do heavy work, and limits my practice time on the bass, but all that is pretty small stuff compared to what many face on a daily basis.

It's quiet here tonight. The clock behind me is tick-tocking its way through the evening, the dog snoozes on the floor before the fireplace, while Linda checks recipes. In a few minutes, I'll write another chapter or two in this year's Advent story before turning in for the night. All of this happens within the context of the Scripture I read this morning. Paul's letter to the Galatians presses home his conviction that we live by grace, not by keeping rules. It is that grace that sets us free from worry and fear, the worrying about our past, and fear of the future. For this especially, I am thankful tonight.

Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Longing for God

November 29, 2016

"One thing have I asked of the LORD, that will I seek after: that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the LORD and to inquire in his temple." Psalm 27:4

When I left the house this morning to have breakfast with my friend Willie, Linda was slumbering quietly in bed. It's not often that happens; she has lots of friends who often want to have breakfast with her, so she's usually up pretty early. Before heading out the door, I switched on the Christmas tree, plugged in the lights to her carolers on the mantle and the creche in the hallway, and lit the lights around the porch windows. Linda loves decorating for Christmas, and has a real knack for it. Cresting Airport hill, I became aware of a physical ache somewhere inside me, and realized it was my longing just to be in her presence. Three years ago we wondered how it would be for both of us to be retired. Would we grow tired of being together all the time? Turns out, I can't get enough time together.

The Scripture for this morning speaks of a similar longing to be in God's presence, a determined seeking him out just to be with him. It is an admirable sentiment, but I have to admit, my longing for God is not nearly as strong as my longing to be in the presence of my wife. I can't ever remember wanting God so much that I literally could feel the ache inside me. So, after all these years of being a Christian and a pastor, I still have a long way to go, and much to learn. My prayer tonight is that I would long for the presence of God as I long for the presence of my wife. That would make me very thankful.

Monday, November 28, 2016

Remembering

November 28, 2016

"Remember." It's that simple. In our men's Bible study, tonight we worked through Ephesians 2, where St. Paul tells us what we were before Christ, what God has done for us in Christ, how and why he did it, and then implores us to respond to it all. You might think he calls us to do some great act of courage or faith, to demonstrate our devotion with some act of obedience or worship, but all he says is, "Therefore, remember."

Memory is a wonderful and fearful thing. Many of us have memories we'd just as soon forget;  sins committed, opportunities missed, traumas we have endured. Memories like this haunt us, dogging our path with regret, pain, and that sense of isolation that strikes fear into the soul. They evoke emotions that are just as real as at the time we went through that experience, though it be years ago. Then there are those memories that conjure up warm feelings of connectedness.

Most of us know someone who is present with us in body, but the ravages of dementia have erased huge swaths of memories to the point that they no longer even know who they are. The loss of memory can be as fearful as the presence of it. In the text we studied tonight, that simple command is arresting. We aren't commanded to do some great act of faith, nor to observe a ritual of devotion, but to simply remember.

I've found that it is when I forget that I get into trouble. I get distracted, let my attention wander, simply put...I forget to remember. I cannot think of a single sin I've ever committed, an opportunity missed, that isn't traceable to forgetting to remember what God in Christ has done for me, made available to me.

This season of Advent is a time of remembering, not merely with nostalgia, but with that active memory of what God in Christ has accomplished for our salvation and life. There is nothing missing, no shortfall of grace and mercy.

John Newton is remembered for penning the words to that most-beloved hymn, "Amazing Grace, How Sweet the Sound." He wrote of how he had learned the Gospel at his mother's knee, but forgot. Over and over, as he descended into sin, becoming a slave trader, and finally becoming enslaved himself, he forgot. Until the day he remembered, and returned to the Christt who had been pursuing him for years. As an old man walking the streets of Bristol, he would often talk with people. Inevitably, he would tell them, "I am an old man and have forgotten many things. But this I remember: I was a great sinner, and Christ is a great Savior."

Remember, Jim...and give thanks tonight.

Sunday, November 27, 2016

Where Lies the Heart

November 27, 2016

How she does it is beyond me. Sunday dinner with the family is always a raucous affair when the entire crew is present and accounted for. The kids spread out to the back room and spare bedroom while we clear the table and do up the dishes. Conversations shoot back and forth, criss-crossing the room until two by two, the kids gather their children and head for home. Linda and I have a short while before it's time to head back to church to teach bass in SOTA, our school of the arts.

When I return around seven in the evening, it is to a home warmed by the fire, scented by Linda's candles, with Christmas decorations starting to take their places from the back room to the living room. It's a good place to come home to. I'm not the only one who thinks so. Guests inevitably comment on how warm and welcoming our home is. Here's a hint: it's not me. Linda has a way with decor, but I don't think it's the decor that attracts the people. It's her heart. That's what makes our house a home, a place I always want to come at the end of my day. I am grateful for it, but even more for the woman who makes it what it is.

Saturday, November 26, 2016

The Rest of the Story

November 26, 2016

Years ago, Paul Harvey had a radio show called "The Rest of the Story," where he told the behind the scenes stories of famous people and events, always ending with his signature, "And now you know...the REST of the story!" It was from that era that today's story begins with a recounting of how the romance between a certain Linda and James began. We were students at Houghton college, which sponsored its Artist Series in which we were exposed to high culture with philharmonics, operas, and ballet. It was to the latter that I invited Linda to our very first date. It was Wagner's Tristan and Isolde, and at intermission as we stood on the steps of Wesley Auditorium, I asked her how she was enjoying it so far. She smiled at me, and assured me that it was the most wonderful thing she had ever experienced.

She lied.

This was a woman on a mission-she was determined to win my love, and was not about to jeopardize it by telling me the truth. Fast forward forty seven years. Tonight she is giving me an early Christmas gift, treating me to Tschaikovsky's Nutcracker at Shea's in Buffalo. She isn't trying to win my love, but is demonstrating hers. Her taste in music hasn't changed in all those intervening years, but her love has remained the same, except for having grown deeper. Normally, a lie is not something for which to give thanks, but I am grateful tonight for that lie that took us down a winding path to tonight.

Friday, November 25, 2016

Losing It

November 25, 2016

I must be losing it. Well, actually, I did. I had a Christmas gift for Linda put away, but today when I thought I'd retrieve and wrap it, I couldn't find where I put it. I've looked everywhere I can think of, to no avail. I still have time to locate it, but not knowing where to look makes it a bit difficult. I want to find it for two reasons: I paid good money for it, and it's for Linda. The Bible tells how God looks for us. I wonder if his motive is similar to mine: He paid a good price for us, and he searches because he loves us even more than I love Linda, which is a lot.

I'll keep looking for that elusive gift, and God keeps looking for his lost children. He paid the price of his Son's blood for us, and isn't about to quit looking till he finds what is lost. I hope to do the same, but I'm not as good at looking for lost things as God is. But losing something I've paid for is a reminder of greater things for which to give thanks tonight.

94 Years of Blessing

November 24, 2016

Last year about this time, my then 93 year old mother and I had a little conversation that went something like this:

Me: I've been limping around with this darned plantar fasciitis. How about you, mom? How are you doing? Does anything hurt?

Mom (after pondering a moment): No...nothing hurts.

Me: You're kidding me! I wish I could say that.

Mom: The doctor says I have a bad valve, but with these new, non-invasive surgeries, he can fix it. I asked him what that meant.

Me: So what did he say?

Mom: If I didn't have the surgery, I probably have less than a year to live. If I had the surgery, he could pretty well guarantee me another five or six years. I told him, "I can hardly see to read, I can't taste my food, I can't hear, and have trouble getting around. Why would I want five or six more years of that?"

Me: So you aren't going to have the surgery?

Mom: Nope.

That conversation was more than a year ago, and today for Thanksgiving, Linda and I drove to Churchville where she lives with my brother and sister in law. We had a wonderful dinner with her, my brother and sister in law, one of their sons with his wife and children, my sister, and one of her daughters, son in law, and their kids. Mom is mentally as sharp as ever, and for someone who can't taste her food, did pretty well with the turkey and all the trimmings. Usually we are pretty upset when the doctor gets a diagnosis wrong, but not this time. Next week, we'll go back to celebrate the Bailey Christmas. Our kids and grandkids will join us, and we will again give thanks for the 94 years mom has blessed this earth.

Bailey Charm

November 23, 2016

Thanksgiving Eve. Years ago, one of my nephews coined a little ditty which he wanted us to believe referred to himself, but which since we've claimed as a sort of birthright: "The Bailey charm: Can't read it in a book; Can't buy it in a store." For our clan, it's our time to be together, with all the weirdness that entails. When we gather at our daughter's, it starts off normally enough with a delectable dinner of cordon bleu, but after the table is cleared, the fun really begins.

It all began in 2003, as we were caught in the throes of a nasty power struggle within the church. It had taken its toll upon us, and we desperately needed some way to counteract the negativity that had nearly overwhelmed us. Linda bought a large linen tablecloth upon which we recorded some of the things for which we were thankful in spite of our circumstances. Every Thanksgiving Eve since then, we have brought out that tablecloth and added the new blessings of each succeeding year. There was the year Matthew laid newborn Nathan on the table and traced his outline, and the traced hands of the grandchildren growing larger each time we met; the thankfulness for new homes, new opportunities. It's getting hard to find an empty spot, as each grandchild plus the occasional guest adds their gratitudes to ours. Our only problem is each child wants that tablecloth when our time comes. It is the record of God's faithfulness and our amazement at blessing upon blessing.

Following the tablecloth, everyone files into the living room for a certain segment of "A Christmas Story," after which Todd ceremoniously brings the Leg Lamp through the dining room to its revered spot in the front window. Ian dutifully rubs the lamp just as he did spontaneously that first Thanksgiving Eve when he was still in diapers. Everyone files outdoors to admire the "glow of electric sex" while reciting the appropriate lines from the movie. Next door is a beautiful Victorian home replete with a widow's watch, elegant landscaping and decorations to rival a Hallmark Christmas Special. We have the leg lamp. And I suspect, much more fun. My nephew was right; you can't read it in a book or buy it in a store. It's available nowhere else in the world, and I get to be a part of it. I am blessed, and very thankful tonight.

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

Politics and Latin

November 22, 2016

What possibly could be the connection between pastor Ellis and Donald Trump? It's strange the way the mind works. This morning on my way into town to have breakfast with my friend Willie, the rumors of "quid pro quo" arrangements between foreign governments and the Clinton foundation popped into my head. I have no idea what is or is not true about these allegations, but that term just appeared before me. It is from the Latin and means, "this for that," an arrangement where it is understood that if you give me something, I'll give you something in return. It usually refers to illegal or shady dealings. It were these rumors that were partly responsible for Trump's surprise election victory a couple weeks ago.

It's the Latin part that caught my attention. When I was in seventh grade, I already knew I was to be in some sort of Christian ministry. I thought it would be on the mission field, but the conviction was already there. Our guidance counselor, who I suspect was Roman Catholic for reasons I'll explain, suggested that I take Latin because that was the language of the Church and of the Bible. Vatican II had only recently taken place, changing the Mass from Latin to the native tongue of the believers, but for those who had grown up in the years prior to 1959, Latin was clearly the language of the church. I don't fault that counselor for not knowing that the Bible was originally written in Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek. He figured I needed to know Latin if I were to know the Bible.

So Latin, it was, along with all the little phrases that come with learning a language that is foundational to our own, especially in the legal, theological, and medical fields. Those words that somehow surfaced as I topped Airport Hill took me back to God's call upon my life and pastor Charles Ellis who was, and still remains, my model for pastoral ministry. Pastor Ellis died nearly twenty years ago, and probably had never even heard of Donald Trump, but today they were connected in my mind as current events and a Latin phrase took me back to those days when I was barely thirteen, but hearing God's call clearly enough to enroll in basic Latin in seventh grade.

Memory truly is a strange beast, but I am grateful tonight for words in today's news that triggered memories of long-ago events that changed my life.

Monday, November 21, 2016

Feeble Prayers, Faithful Provider

November 21, 2016

Through the years, I've listened to countless prayers that were offered with fervor and flowing speech, and silently wondered why my prayers and prayer life seemed so weak and small. I've been in prayer meetings where others prayed with such power that both the one praying and those around them were moved to tears, and remained silent because by comparison, my prayers lacked power and polish. I've read about the miracles accomplished through prayer and how the Spirit of God is unleashed only through prayer, and wondered if I've been more of a hindrance than a help for the Kingdom of God. If only I could pray better or more powerfully, perhaps greater things could have been accomplished. I can't claim hundreds who have been saved under my ministry, haven't seen teens or young adults enter Christian ministry under my tutelage, and wondered, "What more if I had been better at prayer?"

This morning I picked up a copy of the Guideposts magazine and opened to the section devoted to quotes from "today's positive thinkers," and read these words from Max Lucado: "Our prayers may be awkward. Our attempts may be feeble. But since the power of prayer is in the one who hears it and not in the one who says it, our prayers do make a difference."

Let that soak into your parched soul. May it seep deeply into your heart with its refreshing truth. The power of prayer isn't in the one who prays, but in the one who hears. Even weak and feeble prayers heard by our Father have power. The little child who haltingly asks her father for help may be weak, but her father who loves her has power far beyond her own, and is willing, even eager to help. Be encouraged, O my soul! Be thankful, feeble heart! Your Heavenly Father hears your halting prayers and stands ready to answer.

Sunday, November 20, 2016

Serving

November 20, 2016

Little Nathan loves his ice cream. I mean, he LOVES ice cream! Every Sunday, he is the first to finish his dinner, after which he asks for permission to get the ice cream from the freezer. His father usually tells him he needs to wait patiently for everyone else to finish their dinner. He waits, but not patiently. So today when he was willing to forego his ice cream to help pack the shoeboxes into the shipping cartons and the cartons into the semi trailer, you know he is excited about the project. He was gone all afternoon, helping out at the church, working hard to get those shoeboxes ready to ship.

Nathan is just nine years old, but already has a heart to serve. Tonight, the girls are spending the night. Their folks were in Glens Falls for the Panama girls' volleyball state finals, which they won; a first for Panama. The weather has been so bad that they decided to stop for the night rather than drive all the way home. We are blessed to have a warm house for them to be with us. I wish I had a photo of Nathan working, but I wasn't there, I am thankful nonetheless, to have a grandson who loves to serve, and granddaughters who love to spend the night with us.

Saturday, November 19, 2016

Safety

November 20, 2016

It's been a long day, and I am very tired. The morning was spent digging ditches and laying drain tile for friends whose yard is soggy and basement damp. Hopefully, this will take care of the problem. This evening we drove to Buffalo to watch the grandson of our best friends perform in his high school production of Grease. It was incredible what these kids did! The choreography was professional level, as were the vocals.

My gratitude is simple. I am grateful that although there were a few close calls, I didn't flip my tractor while we were doing the job, and that the weather cleared up for the ride home after the play. The misty rain made visibility pretty dicey on the way up, but everything was clear for the ride home till we hit Cassadaga. No surprise there! The snow started falling, the roads were slushy, and we took our time, arriving without incident. A warm fire in the stove for Alex and Abi, and I am ready for bed, thankful for this day of blessing and safety.

Friday, November 18, 2016

Soggy Bones

November 18, 2016

Laughter is one of God's better gifts to us. Like all of his gifts, it can and often is twisted and perverted for evil purposes, but in pure form, it is a delight that lightens the burdens and lifts the heavy heart. We laugh a lot in the Bailey family, usually right after ascertaining that the object of our mirth is not seriously hurt. It was a little more than fifteen years ago when I was messing around in the backyard with my classic 1942 Harley. I hadn't had it long and was getting used to the foot clutch and tank shift, which to the uninitiated, is a bit trickier than it looks. I was doing pretty well until the time I put it in gear and looked up to see a clothesline right about neck high about fifteen feet in front of me. Somewhat rattled by the vision, I clipped a nearby lilac bush with the right handlebar. Those who witnessed the affair insist that it was operator error, but I prefer to think of it as pure biker athleticism as I executed a perfect forward flip through the air. I have to admit a slight miscalculation at the end, although I did stick the landing. Unfortunately, I was flat on my back and actually heard the ribs break as I hit the ground. I picked myself up, righted the bike and killed the throttle before those ribs registered their displeasure.

Linda was in the backyard at the time, and ran to me (sounds tender, doesn't it?), and found me lying on the ground in a fetal position. Thinking I had had a heart attack, she was very solicitous until she learned what had been my undoing, and that it was probably not fatal. I won't say that she collapsed in peals of laughter, but the smirks and uncontrollable shaking were dead giveaways. Knowing there wasn't anything that could be done for broken ribs, I tried to refuse a trip to the emergency room, but was outvoted. It wouldn't have been so bad if that had been the end of it, but my kids called in their friends who all traipsed down to the hospital to enjoy the show, which they did immensely, much to my dismay. Nowadays, they wouldn't have been allowed to trail along as they wheeled me, clad in one of those skimpy hospital robes, to X-ray. If they had limited their enjoyment to a few discreet chuckles, I wouldn't have complained, but I could have done without all their pointing and outright guffaws at my expense.

In recent weeks, I've been trading puns with our granddaughter Alex as a way of maintaining contact while she is away at college. Most of them are admittedly pretty pathetic, to the point that her roommate told her she really wasn't very funny at all. But we just chalk it up to jealousy that she isn't a Bailey, which as my nephew famously said, "Bailey charm; Can't read it in a book, can't buy it in a store." The same could be said for our sense of humor, which as Linda regularly reminds me, often comes dangerously near sounding like my father. I'm not sure, but I don't think that's a compliment. That humor however, serves to entertain us, lightening the burdens of the day, which in the humorless times in which we live, can become oppressive. Proverbs 17:22 tells us that "a merry heart does good like a medicine: but a broken spirit dries the bones." Tonight, I feel pretty healthy, having traded puns and laughed with Alex all the way home from college while her sister Abi snoozed in the back seat. And my bones feel downright soggy.

Thursday, November 17, 2016

Better than Expected

November 17, 2016

Occasionally, a job goes even better than expected. After a few errands this morning preparatory to a few of us laying drainage tile for a friend on Saturday, uncommitted time beckoned me to put in an outlet for some of Linda's Christmas decorations. We have this one place where she likes to arrange a creche, but it has no available receptacle. Consequently, we've used cheap LED flashlights to try to light it, with varying degrees of success, each degree however, bordering on unsatisfactory.

My original plan for the receptacle would have entailed plenty of guesswork when it came to drilling the hole for the wiring through the floor, so taking a second look, I found a spot by the edge of the cellar stairs that enabled me to fish a wire with ease. A hole cut in the wall, about six feet of wire, two holes drilled through the floor joists, a couple wire nuts later, and the job was done. There was even an over-sized junction box with only three wires running into it that made it easy to connect everything. Best of all, I didn't electrocute myself or burn down the house!

My repair projects usually take about three days longer and hundreds of dollars more than I expected. To have one go better than planned is like manna from heaven. I even had time left over to mow the lawn for one last time. I know, this is not big stuff. Pretty petty, if you want to know. But life is made up of mostly little things, and I've learned that gratitude for the little things is what trains us in gratitude for the difficult things. I am in training, and today was easy. Tomorrow may not be, but I will give thanks anyway.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Faith, Hope, and Love

November 16, 2016

"Faith is our attitude and approach towards God; Hope is our attitude and approach towards the future; Love is our attitude and approach towards others." So began a radio sermon I heard this morning, the first of a three-part series. After giving me plenty to think about, the preacher continued by examining Hebrews 11-the "faith chapter" of the Bible. This designation he dismissed as somewhat misleading, drawing attention to the fact that the chapter is sandwiched between words about perseverance. Faith is not the intellectual exercise we often make it out to be. It's not the emotional experience we often want it to be. Faith is that holding on no matter what.

The common denominator in the stories of the heroes of faith in Hebrews 11 is men and women who persevered over the long haul. Abraham made plenty of mistakes along the way, but kept on keeping on. It was a good word for me. I was driving to Rochester to see my mom, a nearly two-hour ride, giving me plenty of time to think and reflect. When that happens, my mind often drifts to the many ways in which I fall short. Hearing again the story of Abraham who persevered in spite of his shortcomings was an especially welcome encouragement this morning.

My faith is in God who in Christ dealt once for all with my sins and shortcomings, nailing them to the cross. My hope is in the future to which he now calls me in spite of my past. Loving others is the link between what God did in the past in Christ and what he will yet do when Jesus inaugurates the Kingdom of God. I am grateful tonight for this morning's sermon and how the preacher patiently and deliberately worked through the text to minister grace to this hearer of the Word.

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Overcoming

November 15, 2016

"Be not overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good" Romans 12:21. There is much chatter on the news and social media about the hatred unleashed by our recent presidential elections, with the inevitable note that people are afraid. Maybe we should be; the future is always somewhat unpredictable, and the election certainly jerked us in a new direction that leaves the old familiar patterns in the dust. Our president-elect has no political track record, but leaves a broad trail behind him in the business and social world. People don't like what they see, but they haven't liked what they've seen of his opponent, either, which is a big reason why he won.

There is the usual fallout from a bitterly contested election, with recriminations and accusations flying around like flocks of starlings. St. Paul's words to the Roman Christians are surprisingly apropos for today. The evils we see, no matter what the lens we look through, will not be overcome by a different brand of evil. The political and social fires that burn across our nation will not be extinguished by lighting new fires. Evil is not the opposite of good, but the perversion of it, and the only way to overcome it is to deal with the perversion, the twisting of that which was good. It is deliberate and delicate work, not for the faint of heart.

I would suggest that the first order of business would be to actually try to listen to one another, which is hard to do when you see the other as a complete idiot for holding to his/her position, and harder still when the one who sees things differently than you refuses to talk, unfriends you on Facebook, or demands that you not only listen, but that you also agree with him/her or be branded a bigot, homophobe, racist, or elitist snob.

I am grateful tonight for friends on both sides of the political spectrum, and for the common faith that often is the only thing that binds us together. I am grateful that some of the heat of this election may eventually give way to light. It may not, but I live in hope.

Sunday, November 13, 2016

Three Little Words

November 14, 2016

"Girlfriend, fiancée, wife." Spending a few hours at college with our daughter and granddaughter somehow brought those words to mind. Our conversations didn't deal with any of that, but on the way home, those three words were swirling around in my head. Three words, all referring to the same person, but each with a weight all its own.

Linda and I have different accounts of our first meeting, so we won't start there. I can't remember how it was that we first started dating, other than I had asked her to an opera. Yes, an opera, can you believe it? Tristan and Isolde, sponsored by the college artist series. At intermission, as we stood on the steps of Wesley Chapel, I asked her how she was enjoying it, and although I didn't know it at the time, she looked me squarely in the eyes and blatantly and deliberately lied to me! So we went from being friends to girlfriend/boyfriend on the basis of a lie. Go figure.

Things moved along for about six months, till she decided that she couldn't handle being with someone who was so serious. Just before Easter break, she broke up with me so she could date Roger, but that whole enterprise foundered when she told her dad about her decision. "Next time, why don't you go with some drunk I don't care about?" were his first and last words to her that entire Easter break. We saw each other at college later that spring, but when summer came, she went home, and I went to work at Miracle Mountain Ranch in Spring Creek, PA, which just happened to be only about an hour from her home.

One day that August, a big green 1961 Galaxie trailing a cloud of dust and containing Linda came roaring up the dirt road to the camp. We talked, and I gave her the ruby ring that had belonged to my grandfather. Friends to girlfriend to nothing to girlfriend again. The following December 1, the relationship deepened when I asked her to marry me. That's a whole story in itself, but she said yes...well, actually she didn't. But her response was affirmative, and she became my fiancée. That word had a nice ring to it, but it didn't have quite the punch of the next word: wife.

I can still remember how that word felt the first time I could claim it, and 46 years later, it still has that magical ring to it. That word still amazes me; to know that sense of belonging that it incurs. I look at my granddaughters, with all the uncertainty of dating yet before them; the questions, the wondering, the joy and heartache that we all endure to get to where Linda and I are today, content with each other, secure in a love that has passed the test of time, endured the storms of life, and now blesses us with deep satisfaction and joy. Three little words brought to mind as we shared time with our granddaughter; three little words that changed my life and make me very thankful tonight.

What Makes it Worthwhile

November 13, 2016

For the past four years, I've engaged in this discipline of gratitude that has been so transformative for me. Last Sunday and this morning I had the opportunity to recount to two different congregations my story of how after a year of renouncing negativity and embracing gratitude, the melancholy that had been my lifelong companion simply and unexpectedly vanished. This four years I've documented the details of my gratitude in writing, posting them nightly on Facebook and on blogspot.com under the title "Refrigerator Word Art." Like our grandkids' paintings and drawings on our refrigerator, I figured my musings wouldn't necessarily interest anyone outside the family, hence the title.

The more I observe people, both face to face, and through social media, the more I realize how our lives are poisoned by all the negativity that surrounds us. I suppose some of it is unavoidable; we cannot hide our heads in the sand and pretend that the world is all sweetness and light. Evil is real, the world is often harsh and cruel; there is plenty to complain about, and more than enough work to be done to try to make it a better place. But making a better world is not accomplished by negativity, hostility, anger, or complaining; those attitudes and activities that are so prevalent among those who claim to be making a difference.

Since retiring from preaching, it has been especially gratifying to put in writing that for which I am thankful. Without the discipline of writing sermons, it would be easy to just stop thinking altogether. I had been worried that in retirement my world would shrink to the dimensions of our 2 1/2 acres, a pretty small world, indeed. I am content here, but need more than this as a reason to get up in the morning. Nightly writing has made me stay aware of a world larger than my immediate surroundings, kept me looking for grace in unlikely places. I am grateful for many things tonight, not the least of which is what this discipline has done for me, and for the opportunity to share it with others. If just one or two people take it seriously and begin to similarly forsake criticism, complaining, and negativity and begin learning to give thanks in all situations, all my writings will have been worth the effort.

Saturday, November 12, 2016

When You Don't Feel Like It

November 12, 2016

The blessing often comes quite by surprise, when you don't expect it and don't deserve it. Two funerals in as many days, a full day tomorrow preaching twenty miles away in Sherman, driving another twenty to East Randolph for a church conference, then School of the Arts at Park church, I didn't much feel like going anywhere today. But Linda had told our friend Kelly that we would show up for the small group ministries scavenger hunt, and even though Linda told me it would be OK if I stayed home and rested, I wasn't about to be the killjoy in it all. So dutifully and a slight bit reluctantly, I joined her and headed to church.

I can be a slow learner, but once the lesson gets into my head, it usually sticks. Some years ago, I learned that even though staying home might be appealing to the hermit in me, missing out on the camaraderie and fellowship wasn't worth the trade. It wasn't tonight, either. It took me a couple stops on the scavenger hunt, but I soon got into the swing of it all, and the four of us sixty-something adults were like goofy kids, singing at a lighthouse, saying the pledge of allegiance in a dollar store, and taking selfies of ourselves with Ugly Lucy.

The dinner group our sons are in got their instructions mixed up and ended up singing Amazing Grace to the residents of a nursing home. As the residents teared up, so did our daughter in law Jeanine. Maybe it wasn't such of a mixup after all. After all, those blessings often come by surprise, where and when you least expect them. And now at the end of it all, I am home, feeling much more fulfilled than had I stayed home to prepare for tomorrow's preaching. Lesson reinforced: When you make the effort to be with other Christians even when you don't feel like it, they bless you, and you go home thankful.

Friday, November 11, 2016

Satisfaction's Source

November 11, 2016

A dvd from the five dollar Walmart bin, eight grandkids with bellies full of Meema's macaroni and cheese, and all is under control. It's not often that I have them alone; it's much more common for me to have some commitment on a Friday night that leaves her with the entire crew. One would think that this old codger would take all these kids in stride, but I have to admit to some apprehension. On those evenings when the both of us are tag-teaming it through the night, she is the one with the most time in the ring.

One blessing that comes with the age span of the kids is the older ones who just take charge keeping the younger ones entertained. Abi and Izzi helped little Gemma build a snap-block snake that ran from the bedroom, around the kitchen, through the dining room, and into the living room, while I cleaned up the kitchen and did the dishes.

I'm about to pull the plug on all the political commentary on Facebook. Everyone seems to be angry, vindictive, and bitter, with it making little difference between which side of the aisle one is on. I made the commitment a couple years ago to stop forwarding all those posts; it's about time I stopped even reading them. The time spent with the grandkids tonight around the dinner table, making block snakes, and listening to their laughter as they watched the dvd fills me up inside, and lends credence to my observation that most of what makes our lives meaningful has little to do with the big events swirling around on the national scene.

I had a conversation with someone recently concerning our well-intentioned resolve to stay in touch with friends who move away. It lasts for a few months, but is increasingly difficult to maintain as the years go by because life is built mainly with small bricks and boards, one at a time. It's the everyday commonplace activities that are the glue holding us together, like sharing a meal together, making small talk after church, and simply greeting one another as we pass on the street. There was a bonding tonight with the grandkids, and I am thankful.

Thursday, November 10, 2016

One Blessed Day

November 10, 2016

The sun came up again this morning, casting shadows from the trees, slowly drying the dew. Hector, our stray cat soaks up the warmth sitting on the end I cut off the barn beam when I made the mantle for our living room fireplace. It sits in front of the house next to a half barrel filled with the remnants of the summer's marigolds. Emma charges across the creek chasing scents and sounds only she can detect, while I changed the oil on my bike and sorted out some of the junk in my shop. It's amazing how quickly stuff can accumulate when you're a packrat.

Spruce needles covering the surface of the goldfish pond needed to be removed, so donning my boots, I waded in with the pool skimmer. My fish thanked me profusely, if that's what's meant by their darting to and fro as I moved the net across the water. Otherwise, they were just trying to avoid being tossed in the grass with the needles, a task at which they were eminently successful.

Earlier in the morning, Harry and I met at a friend's house, taking in the lay of the land as we figured what would need to be done to solve the soggy lawn and water seepage into his basement. I'll get my tractor back next week, just in time to haul it down the road to move the gravel we'll put in the ditch along with the drainage tile. Being able to help our friends is one of the blessings of being a part of a congregation that takes seriously the gospel injunction to love one another with brotherly love, ministering in practical ways to each other's needs.

Jordan's Funeral Home is one of the anchorages of our community. No one looks forward to going there, but we all do, and when we gather, comfort is given and received, and old friendships renewed. The gentleman in whose honor we will gather tomorrow was a pillar of the community for years, having lived his entire life in Sinclairville, except for his military service overseas during World War II. A longtime member of the Methodist church, a dedicated member of the volunteer fire department, and an even more dedicated husband, father, and grandfather, his quiet ways didn't garner much attention, but his sterling character lives on in his children and grandchildren.

Chuck and Kelly are delightful friends who bless us repeatedly with their kindness, their love for Christ, and their devotion to ministry. They blessed us tonight as we sat at their table, talking, laughing, and finally, praying together. They are the kind of friends most people wish they had, but we actually do. An evening with them is never a chore, and sitting with them in the house Chuck grew up in and recently had remodeled, was one of those experiences that fills the soul with deep satisfaction.

Across our country, people are rejoicing or lamenting our president-elect. Some, who two weeks ago were aghast at Mr. Trump's refusal to say he would accept the results of the election, are now refusing to accept the results of the election, rioting in the streets and fomenting the very violence and hatred they claim to fear from a Trump presidency. We live in a crazy, mixed-up world, but most of life consists in the small, everyday events such as I recount for today. Nothing spectacular; nothing earth-shattering, but it is days like today that I know how blessed I am to be a Christian, an American, and a retired pastor living in the same small community where I have invested most of my life. Sometimes I almost want to pinch myself to make sure it is real. It is, and for every moment of it, I give thanks.

One Blessed Day

November 10, 2016

The sun came up again this morning, casting shadows from the trees, slowly drying the dew. Hector, our stray cat soaks up the warmth sitting on the end I cut off the barn beam when I made the mantle for our living room fireplace. It sits in front of the house next to a half barrel filled with the remnants of the summer's marigolds. Emma charges across the creek chasing scents and sounds only she can detect, while I changed the oil on my bike and sorted out some of the junk in my shop. It's amazing how quickly stuff can accumulate when you're a packrat.

Spruce needles covering the surface of the goldfish pond needed to be removed, so donning my boots, I waded in with the pool skimmer. My fish thanked me profusely, if that's what's meant by their darting to and fro as I moved the net across the water. Otherwise, they were just trying to avoid being tossed in the grass with the needles, a task at which they were eminently successful.

Earlier in the morning, Harry and I met at a friend's house, taking in the lay of the land as we figured what would need to be done to solve the soggy lawn and water seepage into his basement. I'll get my tractor back next week, just in time to haul it down the road to move the gravel we'll put in the ditch along with the drainage tile. Being able to help our friends is one of the blessings of being a part of a congregation that takes seriously the gospel injunction to love one another with brotherly love, ministering in practical ways to each other's needs.

Jordan's Funeral Home is one of the anchorages of our community. No one looks forward to going there, but we all do, and when we gather, comfort is given and received, and old friendships renewed. The gentleman in whose honor we will gather tomorrow was a pillar of the community for years, having lived his entire life in Sinclairville, except for his military service overseas during World War II. A longtime member of the Methodist church, a dedicated member of the volunteer fire department, and an even more dedicated husband, father, and grandfather, his quiet ways didn't garner much attention, but his sterling character lives on in his children and grandchildren.

Chuck and Kelly are delightful friends who bless us repeatedly with their kindness, their love for Christ, and their devotion to ministry. They blessed us tonight as we sat at their table, talking, laughing, and finally, praying together. They are the kind of friends most people wish they had, but we actually do. An evening with them is never a chore, and sitting with them in the house Chuck grew up in and recently had remodeled, was one of those experiences that fills the soul with deep satisfaction.

Across our country, people are rejoicing or lamenting our president-elect. Some, who two weeks ago were aghast at Mr. Trump's refusal to say he would accept the results of the election, are now refusing to accept the results of the election, rioting in the streets and fomenting the very violence and hatred they claim to fear from a Trump presidency. We live in a crazy, mixed-up world, but most of life consists in the small, everyday events such as I recount for today. Nothing spectacular; nothing earth-shattering, but it is days like today that I know how blessed I am to be a Christian, an American, and a retired pastor living in the same small community where I have invested most of my life. Sometimes I almost want to pinch myself to make sure it is real. It is, and for every moment of it, I give thanks.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

Holding the Future

November 9, 2016

The responses from professing Christians that I've been reading about yesterday's presidential election have been pretty interesting. I'm not sure what to make of them. Some are talking as if the world would have ended had Hillary won, while others are talking that way because Trump won. I'm puzzled. I thought Jesus Christ was our Lord and Savior. This morning's reading from "The Daily Light," written more than a hundred years ago, pretty well sums up my convictions on the matter.

“I, I am the LORD, and besides me there is no savior.”—There is one God, and there is one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus.—“There is no other name under heaven given among men by which we must be saved.” --from Isaiah 43:11, 1 Timothy 2:5, and Acts 4:12.

I wish Mr. Trump the best, and will pray for him as I have been praying for president Obama, for wisdom and humility, strength and grace to endure this most difficult job. And I am thankful tonight that the election is over, and that though we don't know what the future holds, we know who holds the future.

Progress

November 8, 2016

I am thankful tonight that all the election foofraw is finally over. Except of course, for the recounts, legal challenges, gloating (or moaning and groaning), excuses, analysis paralysis, and vilification. At least, we don't have to endure any more of those endless political ads. Mostly, I am thankful that whichever candidate will be sworn into office in January, Jesus Christ hasn't been dethroned and is not threatened by Democrats, Republicans, ISIS, or any other human foolishness.

I am thankful that after an expensive week of mishaps, not once did I lose my joy. A few years ago, even one of the events of the past week would have sent me into a major funk. Tonight, I look back on an expensive truck repair, a broken bass, a lost phone, and all I see is Gospel lessons and learning experiences. Major progress! Thank you, Jesus.

Monday, November 7, 2016

Lost and Found

November 7, 2016

The saga continues! My poor cell phone had to spend the night shivering in the cold, lost and all alone, wondering if anyone even missed her, while back at home, I nervously paced the floor, worried sick, starting at every sound, picturing in my mind the worst scenarios. Doesn't that sound like the plot for a good story? Alas, only part of it is true. The phone did spend the night out in the cold, but after praying about it, I slept like a baby till about four thirty this morning, when I awoke from a dream in which I had found it nestled in some weeds near the overpass just north of Falconer.

Unable to get back to sleep, I got up, showered and dressed, and left a note for Linda. It had occurred to me that although calling my number wouldn't help because I had set it on silent mode, perhaps If I dialed it in the dark, I could see it light up. I drove to Falconer, parked the car and began walking the route from the church parking lot to Hough Hill Road, about half a mile out of town, all the while repeatedly dialing my number. To no avail.

On the drive home, it occurred to me that with gps technology on the phone, perhaps there were a way to log in and locate it using my iPad. Lo and behold, I had downloaded just such an app somewhere along the line, and after breakfast and about fifteen minutes of fiddling, I was staring at a map of Work Street in Falconer, just south of the expressway overpass, with an icon of my phone center screen. Linda offered to go with me to look for it.

She has started calling me Tim for my computer savviness, and would prefer that from now on I call her Abby Sciuto. While I was searching the weeds alongside the road, she scuffled along the curb, kicking up the leaves. We hadn't been there ten minutes when she came walking up with a smirk, asking me who I loved the most, before handing me my phone, a bit worse for wear, but still working.

In one of Jesus' parables, he speaks of a woman who searched her house for a lost a coin, rejoicing when she found it. In that culture, it wasn't just any coin, but part of her dowry, her insurance for hard times or old age in a day when a woman was always just a heartbeat away from financial disaster and economic insecurity. Today, it isn't those things that plague most of us; it's things like losing a cell phone with all one's contacts, security information, and schedule, alongside a host of other applications that have become necessities upon which we depend. The rejoicing of the woman in the story was Jesus' way of describing the joy in heaven over one sinner who repents. Today, he would get his point across talking about a lost cell phone, which while not a major catastrophe, would have been a major and expensive inconvenience. I'll have to live with a screen that looks like a spider web, but I can do that.

And I am feeling the nudge of the Holy Spirit. When was the last time I was as determined to look for a lost person as I was to look for this lost phone? What does that say about my priorities, my values, my faithfulness? I think I'll hang onto this phone. It is a good reminder of the persistence of Jesus in his searching for me, and is a challenge to me to care as much for a lost soul as a lost phone. Tonight, I am not only giving thanks IN this; I am giving thanks FOR this lost and found, cracked up phone (1 Thess. 5:18, Eph. 5:20).

Sunday, November 6, 2016

Butter Fingers

November 6, 2016 Lately it seems like everything I pick up, I drop. Friday, it was my bass. Today I preached at Falconer United Methodist, and was invited by the pastor to help serve communion, which I was glad to do. I was one of two serving the bread. I observed that when the communicant approached the server, the latter would break off a piece of the bread and hand it to the communicant, so I followed suit, which went well for awhile. For awhile. When we were about halfway through the line, I handed a piece of bread to a little old lady who didn't quite get a grip on it before I let go. The bread bobbled, I reached for it as it bounced twice from my grip before hitting the floor. It looked like that commercial where the guy is fumbling his phone across traffic and through the house before losing it in the swimming pool. The communion decorum was completely lost as I noticed those behind shaking as they tried to conceal their mirth. After church, as I walked to the parking lot, I phoned my friend Harry to arrange rides to band rehearsal this afternoon. I put my phone in my pocket as I always do, mounted my bike, and headed for home. I hadn't gone a quarter mile before I noticed my pocket didn't have its normal phone bulge. I turned the bike around, drove slowly back to the church parking lot, scanning the lane I had just occupied. Nothing. Not even a squashed phone. A search of the parking lot revealed nothing. I repeated the circuit. Twice. Still no phone. I had to get home to grab a bite before rehearsal, so I had to let it go. Linda called the pastor to see if anyone had turned in a phone, to no avail. This afternoon as I rushed to rehearsal, I grabbed a cup of coffee to go and placed it in the mug holder in the console of Linda's car. It was too hot to drink, so after just a couple sips, I left the rest and went to rehearsal. When it came time to come home, I loaded my borrowed bass into the car, sliding it into the backseat with the neck between the two front seats and above the console. You know where this is going, don't you? Yep. Unknown to me, the neck nudged the nearly full mug, dribbling its contents into the mug holder next to it. Fortunately, Linda had a supply of restaurant napkins in the glove box, but I know that more coffee entered the mug holder than I sopped out of it. Where the rest of it went, I don't know. Adding all this to my dropped bass, I'm getting a bit nervous about holding onto much of anything. I seem to be...losing my grip. But I am thankful tonight that Jesus doesn't lose his grip on me. Unlike that unruly piece of bread or my slippery phone, I have too often actively tried to wiggle out of God's grip, but fortunately, his hold is strong and secure. Jesus himself said it in John 10:27-29. "My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me: And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand. My Father, which gave them me, is greater than all; and no man is able to pluck them out of my Father's hand. I may be butter fingers, but God is not, for which I am thankful tonight.

Saturday, November 5, 2016

Answered Prayers

November 5, 2016 Yesterday I wrote about giving thanks in everything, and how that played out when I snapped the neck of my bass. Here's the rest of the story. I took the broken bass to Monaco's in Amherst, about an hour and a half's drive. He is a master luthier, and believes it is fixable, so it's in his capable hands. On the way home, I got to thinking about what exactly in all this I was thankful for (I know, that's not good grammar, but it'll have to do). Three things came to mind: 1) It's fixable. 2) the fix is affordable. 3) I was the one who broke it, and not someone else. Had someone else broken it, it would have been harder to swallow. 4) (I never said I was good at math) It wasn't a vintage instrument. I had almost closed on a 1948 Kay bass before I got this one. Mine is a standard workhorse instrument. It's repairable. Breaking a vintage instrument is another matter altogether. I would have been heartsick for months. But even with these ruminations, I still didn't have a bass for the concert Monday. I texted my bass instructor who sent word out to his college students, hoping for a loaner. Then this afternoon, just before a wonderful play put on by our granddaughter Madeline's middle school, our daughter Jessie texted Bill Eckman, who owns Germaine and Poppalardo music in Jamestown. Grandson Ian takes guitar lessons from Bill, and I've known him for years, a quiet and unassuming, but masterful musician and teacher. When I began taking bass lessons, I had asked Bill if he had any rentals available, but he didn't, so it never occurred to ask him about an instrument today. Bill texted back that he would lend me his own personal bass for the weekend. I've tried it out, and it plays beautifully, much more easily than mine. It will be the Christian thing to do to give it back, and I will be, and am thankful tonight for Bill and his generosity.

Friday, November 4, 2016

Thankful No Matter What

November 4, 2016 This next Sunday I'll be preaching for a pastor friend, hopefully helping to set the stage for a fall stewardship campaign. When we met a few weeks ago to map out what this might look like, we decided that I would speak on gratitude being the foundation for generosity. I believe that to be true, and since I've been writing for three years about gratitude, it wasn't much of a stretch for me to put together. I finished the sermon yesterday, and one of the main points I wanted to make is that gratitude is not dependent upon our circumstances. In 1 Thessalonians 5:18, St. Paul tells us that we should "in everything give thanks, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you." He turns up the heat even more in Ephesians 5:20 when he tells us not just to be thankful IN everything, but also to "give thanks FOR everything." Apparently Paul was not particularly concerned with coddling our feelings. Preparing a sermon is one thing; preparing oneself is quite another, and God has some interesting ways of doing that. Today, our granddaughter Alex had been offered a ride to Fredonia with some college friends who were on their way to Rochester for the weekend. Since I was already going to be in Fredonia for band rehearsal, I offered to pick her up, take her out to dinner, and bring her home. When I asked Linda to meet us, she jumped at the chance, as I knew she would. It was a nice day, and I wanted Linda to have her car to meet us there, so instead of taking my bass in the car as I usually do, I loaded it into the back of my pickup. But as I was putting the bass into the back of my truck, it got stuck, and when I dislodged it, it dropped about six inches, snapping the neck. I was just about sick, because our concert is Monday night, and I had been looking forward to playing the upright with the jazz band. I wouldn't go so far as to say God caused this mishap. It was my own lack of foresight in how I placed the instrument into the truck. But I do believe God is giving me both the opportunity of practicing what I preach and a ready-made sermon illustration. I'm still working on Paul's word in Ephesians to give thanks for everything, but at least I am able to give thanks in everything. I called the repair shop and learned that it is fixable and even affordable, so tomorrow I'll take it to Amherst, hopefully I'll be able to get a loaner for the weekend, and I do have a killer sermon illustration that has some real credibility.

Thursday, November 3, 2016

Choices

November 3, 2016 Today's Scripture lesson included these words from Jesus: "You refuse to come to me that you may have life." (John 5:40). With these words, Jesus pinpoints the issue we face. We have choices in life, and we choose to accept or refuse Jesus' offer of life. We cannot imagine that we would refuse Jesus; others may, but surely not us! And yet these words stand. We make choices every day either to come to Jesus or to move away from him. We move towards him in worship and obedience; we move away when we yield to temptation, neglect prayer and the Word. At the moment, we don't see our actions and thoughts as receiving or refusing him, but that's what happens. And the end result is that we are daily, even moment by moment, choosing life or death. Tonight, I'm grateful that we have the choice. If it is possible to refuse him, it is also possible to receive him. We are not condemned to a destiny beyond our control. For the choice and the result I am thankful, as well as for the warning Jesus gives us here.

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

Leadership

November 3, 2016 "It's been harder for you than you thought it would be." Breakfast with pastor Joe is not an everyday occurrence, but it's always interesting and profitable. This morning was no different. We talked and laughed, two pastors thirty years apart, but one in spirit and love for ministry. A lot of people have been wondering how the transition has been working out at this stage of the game, a little more than two years in. I have to admit, it's been an adjustment going from being in the center of all that's going on to not being in the know. An adjustment, but not a bad thing; I'm learning what it's like to be part of the congregation, which has been quite enlightening. Joe's comment is only partly true. There are adjustments I didn't realize I'd have to make, but not having the weight of leadership responsibility has been worth the trade off. Whenever new leadership takes over, there will be changes. Joe is not Jim, and that's a good thing. He has his own style of leadership, his own vision of ministry. But we both love Jesus Christ, and we both love Park church, and in order for Park church to thrive, it is necessary for me to let go and let him lead. When I officiated at weddings, I often told the parents of the bride and groom that if their children were to succeed in marriage, it was necessary for them to let them go, to release them into the care of someone who could never love them as they love them. That's what it's been like in this transition. Has it been challenging? At times. But seeing the church thrive is worth it. Joe is a good pastor. He is different than me, but after 32 years, it was time to let go. Park needed different leadership, and is blessed to have this man at the helm. "It's been harder than you thought it would be." That was pastor Joe's observation. I'm not one to criticize my pastor, but I think he's wrong on this one. It's different in ways, but I made a decision long ago that I would not be an interfering former pastor. I've seen that happen, and it's never pretty. My role now is support, not leadership, and I am grateful to be retired, and to be able to say, "Joe is MY pastor." He leads in his way, and people are coming to Christ, new leaders are being raised up, and the ministry in Cassadaga Valley is growing. How can I be anything but thankful? Thank God, and thank you, Joe.

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

A Genuine Saint

November 1, 2016 Today is All-Saint's Day, wherein the Church traditionally honors those who have died during the past year. All Hallow's Eve, or Halloween, as we have come to know it, has pagan roots in which the spirits of the dead were placated by "treats" so as to avoid them playing "tricks" on the living. The Church took this pagan festival of darkness and the macabre, and transformed it into a Christian celebration of lives lived in and through the light of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Unfortunately, humanity being what we are, whenever and wherever the Gospel begins to lose its grip on the common life of a society, the Christian celebration begins to wane as the old paganism rises zombie-like from its all-too shallow cultural grave. Halloween in America today almost rivals Christmas in decorations, festivities, and attention, which gives place for somber thought as we consider how religious Christmas observation is under attack in our secular culture. But I digress. The word "saint" has many connotations. In the apostle Paul's letters, he addresses even the most backslidden followers of Christ as "saints." The Corinthian Christians barely demonstrated any Christian virtues whatsoever, yet he calls them saints. The word in this context simply means those who profess to be followers of Christ. Over time, the term became constricted so as to refer only or primarily to those who exhibited such extraordinary Christian character that they were canonized by the Church and given the title "Saint" So and So. We still use this designation when we refer to Saint Peter or Paul, or to the post-apostolic leaders of the Church, such as Saint Augustine or Saint Beatrice. Rarely do we use the term to describe or identify ordinary Christians, but once in awhile, it is particularly fitting to do so. This afternoon, I had the distinct pleasure of sitting in the company of one of God's local saints. She would blush to hear me use this word of her, but it is true. She hasn't performed any miracles of which I am aware (one of the determinants of official sainthood), but there is no doubt in my mind as to the extraordinary Christian character she displays. She witnesses to everyone she meets, and even if someone is hard to love, she manages to do so. She has seen her share of sorrow, borne her portion of pain and suffering, all without rancor, bitterness, or regret. She doesn't get around much anymore; her failing eyesight sees to that, but she is a missionary in her own home, loving those who come to see her, and never failing to try to direct their feet in the ways of Christ. A young person can live a holy life; the movers and shakers in the Christian world are often in their thirties or forties. They make a big splash, live large and faithfully share the Gospel. The Church and the world would be poorer without them, but to my mind, they don't quite make the grade as saints, for one simple reason: It takes a lifetime for God to mold a saint. There is still too much work to be done when we are in our fourth, fifth, or even sixth decade. A genuine saint takes time, which may be why there are so few of them. I had the privilege of sitting with one this All-Saint's Day, and was greatly blessed and am deeply thankful for my friend, Saint Jane Green.