Saturday, September 30, 2017

Thirty Days

September 30, 2017

“Thirty Days Hath September…” This simple rhyme does more than help me remember the number of days in a given month; it takes me back nearly fifty years. Frontier heroes like Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, and Francis Marion, “the Swamp Fox,” were staples of our television diet long before political correctness assigned them to the cultural trash heap. There was probably little historical accuracy in these shows, but they served to inculcate a spirit of integrity, loyalty, and patriotism that is in short supply today. We demand that the icons of the past display impeccable credentials that not even moderns can attain, and failing to do so, they are cast aside as unworthy. What many fail to realize is that the myths that surround them were designed to shape character more than record history. Any culture that rejects its stories cannot last for long.

But I digress. In the television series, Daniel Boone had an Indian (read: “Native American) sidekick named Mingo. Mingo was played by a Ukranian Jew named Edmond Urick, better known as Ed Ames. He was an imposing figure, standing at 6’ 3” back when 5’10” was average. He was a supporting or bit actor in numerous television shows, but it isn’t his acting that I remember; it is his singing. He had a rich baritone that could fill a concert hall, and made a number of recordings, two of which I had, but sadly, only one of which I can still locate. On the missing album was a song that began with that nursery rhyme but told of his unending love for the object of his devotion. 


Ed Ames sang that song back when Linda and I were dating. “Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November; through the year please remember that my heart belongs to you.” She did remember, not only through the year, but through more than 47 of them. We spent the entire day together visiting our granddaughter in college. With the morning comes the 47th October we have spent together. The nursery rhyme took me back to that song with Ed Ames’ deep baritone, which brought me back to today, and the 47 Septembers we have been together, and for which I am thankful tonight.

Thursday, September 28, 2017

Izzi and the Alarm

September 28, 2017

Sleeping in the spare room with my phone lying on the carpet beside the bed, alarm set for 5:25 didn’t get the day off to the best start. Waking at 6:15, it was immediately obvious that the combination of the muting effect of the carpeting, added to my not wearing hearing aids when I sleep, compounded by the fact that I have little trouble sleeping, just didn’t work. The men’s prayer meeting had already been in full swing for a quarter hour by the time my feet hit the floor.

Any observant person would not be out of line to ask why I was sleeping in the spare bedroom. Were Linda and I having an (ahem) misunderstanding? The answer is a resounding “No!” I had fully expected to spend the entire night in my own bed, my wife by my side. That is, until Izzi called. It so happened that she wanted to spend the night, and at 9:30, called in her request. Of course, we said, “Come on over; you are always welcome here.” In a few minutes, she showed up at our door, pillow and fan in hand. Therein lies the answer to the question that has been rolling around in your mind.

Izzi has it in her head that she cannot sleep without a fan blowing on her. And when she stays overnight, instead of sleeping downstairs with all the other grandchildren, she opts to stretch out on the floor at the foot of our bed, which can at times make for some fancy dancing in the middle of the night when I am making my way to the bathroom. Usually, we have our big window fan set up for her. Its steady hum is like white noise in the background. 

But last night, Izzi brought her own fan, and when later I came to bed, I lay in the dark hearing a rhythmic hmm, hmm, hmm rumbling in low frequency through the bedroom. Why I can hear that and not my alarm is a mystery, but there you have it. After tossing and turning for half an hour, I finally got up and made my way downstairs. 


It all worked out. We sent Izzi off to school, Linda headed to her exercise class, I got my sermon typed up, and I am thankful for an interesting start to my day, compliments of Izzi, who in her usual manner, gave me a hug and a quick, “Love you,” before bounding out the door. Even missing my prayer group, how can a day that starts like that not be a good one?

Wednesday, September 27, 2017

Zig and Zag

September 27, 2017

You know that God is at work when the best part of an introvert’s day is meeting new people. And if God is going to work in anyone else’s life, he starts by working in my own. I may be getting old, but I’m still pretty observant (about some things. Just ask Linda; she’ll fill you in on the details). If we were set side by side, Pastor Joe is the zig to my zag, the tick to my tock, the extrovert to my introvert. What I mean to say is, I’ve watched him for three years, and although he is younger than my kids, I’ve learned a trick or two from him. He wades into a crowd with a big smile and a “Hi, I’m Joe!” to which people respond like a drowning man to a life ring. 

Today after finishing the outline of my sermon, I met two young Hispanic women who needed food, directed them to where some was available, then took a stroll down the street to visit a couple who have been newly coming to church. We had a great time on their front porch, talking, laughing, and dreaming of a better future for them and for the congregation. I walked back with a much lighter heart than when I left the church an hour earlier. 

So tonight, I am thankful for the faithful and consistent example of hospitality Joe lives. I should add, that my wife is the same contrast to me that Joe is, but not in a pastoral role. I suppose after 47 years together, I should have learned more from her, but although I am able to learn, I am still in many ways a s-l-o-w learner. So in addition to Joe’s example, I’m thankful tonight for Linda’s patient endurance. She deserves a medal, but would probably prefer something a bit more practical, like real jewelry. 


Tuesday, September 26, 2017

On Our Backs

September 26, 2017

It wasn’t exactly a David and Goliath match, but watching them face off did remind me of the Karate Kid. I was standing by the ropes watching my friend and his opponent as they circled, looking for the advantage. They were in a championship ju-jitsu match, and my friend Cameron looked like he was in for a hard time of it. His opponent swaggered, muscles rippling, while Cameron calmly sized him up. Cameron isn’t pretentious about his skills. Looking at him, he doesn’t appear buff and ripped, which may work to his advantage. He knows his stuff, and showed it that afternoon.

Suddenly, Cameron was on his back, his feet planted on his opponent’s chest while he had a firm grip on his gi. To the uninitiated, his opponent had him down, and we were just waiting for the final move that would put him out. In fact, Cameron had his opponent right where he wanted him, in a grip that was wearing him down, making him use up his energy in a wasted effort to get through to him. Cameron was almost relaxing on his back while his opponent struggled to break free so he could maneuver. As the match wore on, his opponent wore out, and Cameron emerged the clear victor.


The devil swaggers through this world, muscles rippling as he makes an impressive display of might. To the uninitiated, he has Jesus and the church on our back, and is just awaiting the right moment to deal the death blow. To the casual onlooker, we are losing badly, but the saints and angels know better. Jesus knows exactly what he is doing, has a firm grip on old Slewfoot, and is calmly letting him wear himself out. Unlike ju-jitsu, we don’t know how long the match will last; we don’t know when the buzzer will sound, but when it does, God the Father will stand, raising high the hand of Jesus the Victor, to the triumphant cheer of all the faithful ones whose praise to God echoes throughout the universe for all eternity.

Monday, September 25, 2017

Sovereignty and Free Will

September 25, 2017

“Thanks a lot! My head hurts!” That’s how my friend Harry characterized tonight’s men’s Bible study. We somehow strayed from the text we were studying and like someone asleep at the wheel, drifted across the center lane into the theological differences between Calvinists and Arminians, of God’s sovereignty and human free will. Both pastor Joe and I have both Calvinist and Wesleyan roots, but approach the issue from slightly different angles, which makes for some interesting conversations.

The long and short of it is that if God didn’t draw us to himself in grace, there’s no way we would come of our own free will. And yet, that free will must be operative for us to respond in repentance and love; without free will, love cannot by definition exist. If everything were predetermined (which is itself a pagan, not a Christian concept), love dissolves into a mechanical cause and effect. If love isn’t freely chosen, it cannot be love. 

I for one, am grateful that God in his mercy reached out to me in Christ, offering the gift of salvation. I responded in repentance and faith, and he began a good work in me which he promises he will continue to do throughout my life (Philippians 1:6). By the power of his Holy Spirit, Jesus is holding on to me, promising never to let go of my hand (John 10:28-29), which is a good thing, because there have been many times I’ve let go of his hand. Do I have a choice in the matter? Of course I do! I can choose to walk away, and have at times done so, but God faithfully keeps drawing me back, beckoning me with the love proven in the Cross of Christ (Romans 5:8). 


I’ve told the story before, but it bears repeating. Once, when I had again stumbled over the same sin that had repeatedly tripped me up before, I prayed in frustration, “God, if I were you, I’d be SO done with me!” The words weren’t audible, but God spoke them loud and clear to my heart: “Aren’t you glad I’m not you?” Yes, I am. I most certainly am!

Sunday, September 24, 2017

Cool

September 24, 2017

2017 won’t bring too many more days like today. The thermometer topped out at 84, but the sun added another ten or fifteen degrees to how it felt on the skin. Even Linda, who loves the sun, sat in the shade today. Granddaughter Madeline celebrated birthday number twelve with family and friends gathered at their house for dinner and gifts. We ate outside under the huge maple trees in their yard, protected from the sun. We didn’t even have any coffee, which should give you an inkling of how hot it was. 

No complaints, though. It’s unseasonably warm for this time of year, but things will start to cool as October arrives, and I expect before November is out, we’ll have cranked up the furnace and lit the wood stove more than once. 


Our house sits in a valley; actually, more like a wide ravine, bounded on the back side by the creek with its towering shale cliffs on the far side. Just across the road, the hill rises just as steeply to the village cemetery at the top. Our house itself is shaded by huge Douglas firs in the front to the south, an old chokecherry tree on the east, and a maple and ash on the west. No matter how hot the sun bakes, those trees keep us at least fifteen degrees cooler without having to resort to air conditioning. The upstairs bedroom will be a bit warm tonight as the hot air is doing its best to escape the confines of the room, but for the most part, the house is cool. So tonight, in addition to twelve years of thankfulness for the lovely and gracious Madeline, I am thankful for the free air conditioning, compliments of the trees with their natural cooling mechanism put within them by God himself.

Saturday, September 23, 2017

Rest

September 23, 2017

I’m looking forward to tomorrow. Technically, it’s a day late, but Sunday as a day of rest is really appealing to me tonight. It’s been a busy week, culminating in a five-hour meeting today followed by helping my son get his winter wood in. Truth be told, I think I’ve over booked. I’ve made commitments that while manageable, are right on the edge of being more than I want on my plate at the moment. For Linda and me to get even an afternoon away for ourselves almost takes an act of God; the schedules are that full. 

For many people I know, it wouldn’t be a problem, but this old introvert is feeling the need for some down time. Which is what the Sabbath is all about. It seems strange to me that Christians often see it as a badge of piety to be so busy with “the Lord’s work” that they never take a day off. Maybe it’s the need to be needed that drives so much Christian effort. Whatever the motivation, that word “drives” haunts me. The Psalm says God leads us beside still waters; it doesn’t say he drives us. There is a big difference between the two, and if I am feeling driven, I can be pretty sure it’s not the Lord behind the wheel.

We ignore the Fourth Commandment to our peril. We keep winding the strings tighter and tighter and are surprised when they finally snap. And when they do, like a snapped guitar string, you don’t want to be near it when it pops. People get hurt when we fail to rest. 

I need time to feed my soul. There is no such thing as fast-food Christianity. God’s work in our souls is more like crock-pottery cooking; it takes time to simmer. So tomorrow, we worship, soaking our souls in word, song, and prayer, and if we’re really lucky, in silence. In the afternoon, we have a birthday party for granddaughter Madeline, and School of the Arts after that. It’s not a full twenty-four hour rest, but that’s the goal. I am thankful tonight for an evening home, for the weekly break that forces me to consider the reason for all I do, and for this Fourth Commandment that keeps pricking my conscience for the good of my soul.


Friday, September 22, 2017

Outnumbered

September 22, 2017

It’s never occurred before, but today a record was set. It won’t make Guiness’ record book, and won’t garnish any prizes, but it was a record, nonetheless. All it took was a glance around the table; it was obvious to all who opened their eyes, but I was the one who called our attention to it. I don’t know if there is any special honor attached to my perspicuity, but I’ll gladly accept any awards that happen to be lying around. 

Today, the men outnumbered the women at our writer’s group, eight to four! That’s almost as amazing as it would be to have more men than women show up for church. It just doesn’t happen! I think there is some obscure rule written down somewhere that forbids such deviation from the natural order of things, but we never got the notice, so here we were in all our masculine glory, eight old relics of another time and place. The testosterone was oozing from our very pores in all its virile glory, although no one grunted or scratched in unseemly places. There were women present, after all, and being as we are, card-carrying members of the Boomer generation, we do have a modicum of manners. 


These guys have stories! I’ve listened to a few of them, tales of adventure, youthful craziness, and reckless abandon that somehow eluded me when I was growing up in suburbia. There is a richness and rawness that are not usually present in the stories the women in our group write. Not to minimize or denigrate them, but their style and perspective is, well, different. The “guy” stories on the other hand, draw me in with their wit and edginess. Life seen through the eyes of these men reveals itself with a clarity that calls to the depths of my being. I am thankful tonight for these men who unintentionally yet unrelentingly have left their imprint deep on my soul. And I am glad that at least this once, we outnumbered the women.

Thursday, September 21, 2017

Surrender

September 21, 2017

Considered by most biblical historians to have been one of the “good” kings of Judah due to his refusal to worship the false gods of the surrounding nations, Hezekiah nonetheless is a pretty poor example of what it means to be good. It seems that he was inflicted by some sort of infection that broke out in a boil or access. Given the fact that his advisor the prophet Isaiah told him to get his affairs in order, it must have been pretty serious in that pre-antibiotic age. Hezekiah did what any godly, self-respecting king would do. He pouted. The story is found in Isaiah 38. 

Ignoring his immaturity, God heard and answered his prayer. Instead of dying, God gave Hezekiah 15 more years, which though a blessing to Hezekiah, was a disastrous tragedy for the nation. Twelve years into his reprieve, he became father of the one considered to be the most wicked of Israel’s kings—Manasseh. 

In his prayer of gratitude for the additional 15 years God promised him, Hezekiah said, “The living, the living man shall praise you as I do this day. The father shall make known your truth to the children; ” lofty words that apparently were not backed up by any parental backbone. He was an utter failure as a father, and consequently, a failure as a king.

Later when he had recovered, he invited emissaries of Merodach-Baladin, king of Babylon, to inspect his treasuries and armaments, for which he was chastised by Isaiah, who told him that all the wealth of which he was boasting would one day be carried away to the very nation he so rashly courted. But when told that it wouldn't happen during his lifetime, but it would be his sons who would bear the humiliation and torture of defeat and deportation, his response was, “The word of the LORD is good.” That may sound at first like pious submission to God, but his reasoning was utterly selfish: “At least there will b peace and truth in my days.”

As much as I detest Hezekiah’s arrogant and selfish attitude, I wonder how much like him I am. I revel in where God has placed me in life. There have been times when life was not as peaceful and bountiful as I know today. I wouldn't choose to go back there, but the words of St Theophan the Recluse haunt me: “Throw out of your head the idea that you can, through a comfortable life, become what you must be in Christ!” 


I must confess, the comfortable life is very appealing to me, and like Hezekiah, I am too willing to trade the will of God for personal well-being. Praying that I would be willing to yield to the sovereign and holy will of the Heavenly Father is not easy, but there is no other way to pick up the cross of Christ except by humble obedience.

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

That's Enough

September 20, 2017

“How do I make it happen?” In a variety of ways, he asked the same question over and over again. His concern was sincere; he felt the weight of pastoral ministry, what St. Paul described as that “eternal weight of glory,” something so significant and lasting and wonderful that when we’re fully cognizant of it, it leaves us trembling. Transforming broken lives and holding fast the truth of the Gospel are lofty goals, but they often get buried in the day to day detritus of budgets, hurting people, and conflicting personalities. 

Among the Scriptures that had arrested his attention was Ephesians 3:20-21. It’s part of a prayer: “Now unto him who is able to do exceeding abundantly above all we ask or imagine, according to the power at work in us, unto him be glory in the church by Christ Jesus throughout all ages, world without end.” I’ve been in this business long enough to have seen program after program that promises to increase everything from attendance to finances to enthusiasm for evangelism. It seems everyone who is anyone is hawking their panacea for whatever ails the church. It’s all well-meaning, and it’s not ill-advised to learn as much as we can about systems, psychology, etc. But there isn’t a program on earth that has the capacity to usher in the Kingdom of God. 

I reminded this young pastor that the Scripture he quoted says nothing about our talent, our plans, our programs. It speaks only about what God is able to do, and that it is far beyond our comprehension. If there is any technique, program, or process, it is simply to dream and ask big. Salvation is not within our ability, but it is available from the God of salvation to people, through people who know they are small, but God is not. 

I used to think I knew how to grow a church. When years ago everything I had worked for collapsed, I discovered a lot of what I knew wasn’t so. Anymore, I don’t know very much about growing a church, but I know enough to go to the One who does, and to ask big, ask continually, and approach humbly. That’s enough.



Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Smell

September 19, 2017

An olfactory palette of woodland humus, acrid wood smoke, and fading goldenrod greeted me as I meandered through the countryside this afternoon. This morning, it was the rising fog, misty in the air, carrying the fragrance of the grass. I breathed deeply as I rode, inhaling the unseen beauty that was in the air all around me. One of the reasons I like riding my sidecar bike is the ever changing smells that are impossible to detect when riding in a cage with windows up, air conditioning blowing. 

A dead skunk on the side of the road makes its presence known no matter how tightly the windows are rolled up; on a bike, the aroma is simply glorious, assaulting the nose like a prizefighter, leaving you teary-eyed and wheezing for breath. The fragrance of newly mown hay is sweet; that of what’s left after the cows have eaten it, not so much. But even the manure spread on the fields is not unpleasant unless it has been fermented in one of the huge liquid manure ponds common to the larger farms. 

Fall is particularly pungent with decaying leaves, forest detritus, and air that releases those scents by its very crispness, which is the other reason I like riding in the fall. Ascending even a small hill, the rise in temperature is distinctly noticeable, while the descent into a valley is a lesson in how quickly cooler air settles. Connoisseurs of great food or drink have an entire vocabulary used to describe that which can really only be experienced. Much of that vocabulary would be appropriate to describe today’s ride, but would only sound hokey. Needless to say, aside from the visual beauty that surrounded me today, the tactile feel of the air hitting my hands and face, and the olfactory smorgasbord from which I tasted, are gifts from God himself for which I am thankful tonight.


Monday, September 18, 2017

I Said I'd Never...

September 18, 2017

What was I thinking? I’ve asked myself that question more than once in the past couple weeks. Back in July when asked if I were willing to fill in a couple Sundays for a congregation that had unexpectedly lost their pastor, I agreed, but on the condition that I do more than pop in and out on Sundays. August came and went; September was supposed to bring a permanent solution which unfortunately, didn’t materialize. So the District Superintendent asked if I would be able to stay on for awhile. Again, I agreed, but only if certain somewhat unorthodox conditions were met. Doggone if the bishop didn’t agree to my conditions!

So here I am, in a place I said I’d never be in retirement, preaching again. For awhile. At least until January. It amazes me how in such a short time people can wriggle their way into one’s heart. What I said I’d never do, I’m doing. With a glad and thankful heart. It’s a challenge that gets the blood flowing. Not sure what we’re going to do, or how to turn things around, but faithfully proclaiming the Holy Scriptures will be central to it all. Beyond that, we’ll just have to see what God has in store. Whatever it is, I am looking forward to it, thankful for the opportunity God has dumped in my lap. Christians often talk of finding God’s will. I didn’t have to find it; it found me.


Sunday, September 17, 2017

Blessings

September 17, 2017

When a pastor spends most of his lifetime in one congregation, it becomes hard to discern whether what he is leading is average, sub-standard, or unusual. The particular church he is leading becomes simply the way church is. Not having the option of “church shopping” or of having ministered in a variety of settings, perspective is a rare commodity. 

Last week at our second monthly Dunkirk pastor’s prayer gathering, I was talking with the others about what is happening at Park church in Sinclairville. When I mentioned that between the two services, nearly 300 people are present on a Sunday, they were dumbfounded. When I talked about the Wrap, our before and after school program, or about our School of the Arts, or our I Am Free event in the village park, they could hardly believe I was telling them the truth. 

They talked about the few dozen people attending their churches, the frustration and futility they often felt; I didn’t know what to say. And tonight when Linda and I talked with our granddaughter who is at college, the same conversation played out all over again. She is leading Sunday School at a small congregation near her college, and is having a hard time grasping the fact that the church she grew up in is far from normal. The couple dozen people in that church know it’s dying, but either don’t know how to fix it, or are unwilling to make the hard decisions necessary for it to live.

I used to think I knew how to grow a church. I did it for over twenty years. Then it all collapsed. I was given the opportunity to put it back together again, and spent nearly ten years doing so, finally being able to hand over a healthy church to Joe, my successor and pastor. Here’s the rub: I can’t say we are any more faithful now than we were back then, and the folks struggling to get by with only a handful of people are just as dedicated and true to Jesus as we’ve ever been. So why do some churches grow and others at best stagnate? 

Pastoral leadership I believe has something to do with it, but even more is the inscrutable mystery of the wisdom of God. Technique, program, and personality all play their part, but it is the mysterious blessing of God that makes all the difference. Some very large churches are full but empty at the same time; and some very small ones are empty, but full. Full and full is best, and I am grateful to be a part of a church growing spiritually and numerically, and is reaching out to do as they did today, planting a new campus in Cassadaga. We now have Park church Sinclairville, and Park church Cassadaga, and I am grateful for the people and the leadership that is taking us in new directions, leading us into a future blessed in ways we cannot imagine.


Saturday, September 16, 2017

Hydraulics

September 16, 2017

Joseph Bramah is not exactly the household name he deserves to be today. One has to be living under a rock to not know who Colin Kaepernick is, but who knows Joseph Bramah? And yet Bramah’s impact upon our daily lives is greater and far more important than Kaepernick could ever dream to be. And tonight I am very thankful for this man (Bramah, not Kaepernick). 

Bramah lived in England from 1748 till 1814. He was a locksmith by trade, and an inventor by avocation. The locks produced by his company were famed for their resistance to lock picking and tampering, and his company had a “Challenge Lock” displayed in the window of their London shop. The challenge stood for over 67 years until the American locksmith Alfred Charles Hobbs finally opened the lock in 1851; Hobbs’ attempt required some 51 hours, spread over 16 days. But it is not for his locks that I am thankful tonight. The precision tooling required for his locks Bramah he also applied to hydraulics, inventing the pump and piston system that powers everything from bulldozers to log splitters. 

For the past week, we’ve been cutting and splitting the oak in our back yard that we had taken down last spring. Maple and ash split pretty easily, but oak is stringy. Splitting oak with a maul and wedge is possible if you’re young and muscular. There’s no way I could do it by hand. But with a hydraulic splitter, it goes pretty easily. Out of a cord and a half of wood, there was only one piece the splitter couldn’t handle.


This afternoon, I was helping my son Nathan with his wood. He split while I loaded the wood into the bucket of my tractor, drove it over to his wood cellar and dumped it in. Hydraulics for the splitter, hydraulics for the loader; a difficult job made much easier by this simple invention. I am grateful for this man, for his intelligence and inventiveness which make my life easier more than 200 years after his death.

Friday, September 15, 2017

Brick's Clock

September 15, 2017

More than forty years ago, we each received black powder rifle kits from our wives for Christmas. William Roland James III (or was it IV?), Brick, nicknamed for his brick-red hair, incise carved his stock, while I relief-carved mine. We hunted together for a couple years, unsuccessfully, if you measure success by deer down and meat on the table. Those times in the woods, the early morning breakfasts with steaming coffee, eggs and bacon, the conversations that knit our hearts together were a success of a totally different sort. We talked of life and faith, and the marvelous grace of our Lord. Shortly after finishing our rifles, Brick presented me with a beautiful carved wall clock, a slab of Black Walnut with a scene of ducks rising from a marsh, the work of his own two hands.

Four short years later, I was appointed to a new congregation where I served for the rest of my working life. A year after I left that little church in Alabama, Brick heard God’s call and moved to Texas where he went back to school and into ministry. We drove to Texas in the summer of ‘83, but until a few years ago, our only connection was Christmas letters. The clock however, has been a constant reminder of our friendship for the past forty years. A few years ago I got a call from Brick. He was coming up our way to pay a last visit to the cabin his parents had owned on the Raquette River in the Adirondacks. He explained that he had a brain tumor and wanted to see the place one last time.

He stopped by, and we talked like old times for a couple hours before he had to head on to his destination. It was the last time I would ever see him. He wrote me one last Christmas letter; his handwriting was shaky, drifting in crazy patterns all over the paper. I cried as I read it.


A few months ago, his wife Dorothy posted on Facebook that she had a new grandson. Her daughter named him Brick. No nickname. Just Brick. Tonight, I packed up that treasured clock to send to Texas. I’ve enjoyed it long enough; it belongs back in the family, with the people Brick loved, and who loved him most. He never got to meet his grandson, but I hope someday that clock will hang on little Brick’s wall, testimony to a good friend and a great man, who would have been a wonderful grandfather.

Thursday, September 14, 2017

Wood

September 14, 2017

I must be getting old. A day of driving to see my 96 year old mother, followed by a couple hours cutting, splitting, and stacking wood (with help, mind you!), and I’m about done in. The sweat was dripping from my brow, dripping into my eyes so much that I had to take off my glasses to see what I was doing as I loaded wood onto the rail of the splitter. I am grateful I can do the work, but sure wish it didn’t take so much out of me. The physical labor that used to be routine is definitely not routine at this stage in the game. 


But it is done, and wood stacked for winter has a beauty all its own. It won’t be too long before it is translated into warmth radiating from our stove in the back room as we sit nearby with the dog and cat snoozing contentedly on the floor. Oldtimers used to say that the wood heats twice; once when you cut, split, and stack it, and once when you burn it. If you don’t understand that saying, you’ve allowed yourself to get too far removed from real life. Milk doesn’t come from jugs and cartons in the store, and in our neck of the woods, winter warmth doesn’t come only from the thermostat. I’ll sleep well tonight, and tomorrow, the stack will look even better in the morning sunlight. Did I mention that I love living in the country? I do, and am thankful God has placed me in this corner of Creation. It’s a great place to live, and tonight I got to do it with my wife by my side, and my ten year old grandson in the back of the truck, handing us the wood to stack. Life is good.

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Closed


September 13, 2017

Gratitude is short and simple tonight. We closed on our Cassadaga house; it officially belongs to someone else! After trying to no avail to sell it three years ago, renting it out twice, and a two week delay from what was supposed to be our closing date, it is finally done. No more mortgage, no double utility payments, no more lawn care; it feels good to only have to worry about one house. The kitchen faucet was dripping, so this afternoon I fixed it. The new owner stopped by while I was working on it, and I told her I would make sure the cabinet handles matched before she moves in on Saturday. 


We had thirteen good years in that house; remodeled the bathrooms and kitchen, took down two load-bearing walls without even a hint of a sag, added an entry room on the back. New roofs on the house and barn, new furnace and hot water tank, new windows all the way around; we put a lot of ourselves into that house, and hope the new owner finds it to be a place of grace and peace, even of salvation. Yes, we are thankful tonight.

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Post Career Joy

September 12, 2017

Getting up at 5:30 is not a priority of mine in retirement, but today, I’m glad I did. A stop at Tim Horton’s for coffee, muffins, and bagels gave me the added benefit of a delightful conversation with Lisa, one of our children’s workers at the Wrap, our before and after school ministry. Then prayer and conversation with some Dunkirk area pastors whose vision for the city is inspiring. 


Father Dan is priest at Holy Trinity RC church in Dunkirk. He’s in his seventies, with a constant smile; joy simply radiates from him. Coupled with his compassion for those suffering from addiction, poverty, or health issues and his passion for the Gospel and the unity of the Church, he inspires me to press on and lean in to the ministry God has given me. I never anticipated work like this when I retired; in fact, I didn’t really want it, but the people God has brought into my life in these last seven weeks have worked their way into my heart and given me a retirement purpose I never imagined. These Dunkirk folks inspire and energize me, and for that and for them, I am thankful tonight.

Monday, September 11, 2017

This 9-11

September 11, 2017

Sixteen years ago, over 2,000 lives were snuffed out in a naked act of terrorism. People went to work in the morning as usual, never imagining that their lives would end in fear and suffering before the day was through. Many never had the opportunity to say goodbye to their loved ones, to kiss their children one last time, even to say final prayers. Many no doubt, just like the rest of us, had unresolved conflicts, were grieving broken relationships, struggling with addiction, in over their heads in debt. We have heard the stories of heroism, of courage and faith, but the all-too-common stories of failure and regret were also buried in the debris that fateful morning.

It’s almost a social media obligation to say something about 9-11, but there’s only so much remembering we can do. So I’ll take a different track, and take the time to remember the things for which I am thankful today. I do this because there might not be a tomorrow to do it. 

I am thankful to live where I do, in rural upstate New York. Yes, the taxes are burdensome, but we don’t have hurricanes, only an occasional tornado, and haven’t had a wildfire within memory. The snow can be deep in the winter, but if you plan ahead, it won’t knock down your house. Jobs are scarce, the economy is dicey, but the traffic is much more agreeable than what I drove through today in Toronto. Our kids and grandkids actually have yards and fields to play in, and most of the people I know are pretty decent folk. 

Last night, a friend in Canada opened his home to me, fed me late at night, kept my coffee cup full, and regaled me with stories till it was time to hit the hay.


Today when I was driving, a kindly attendant at a convenience store gave me directions to the road I needed. Middle-aged, sandy haired, with a puffy nose and ample belly, he proved that angels come in all sizes and shapes. The sun was shining, the road home was easy, and going through customs was a breeze. And now I’m home again, after a two-day jaunt almost to Montreal. My bed is warm. Linda is by my side. It is never out of style to give thanks, and tonight I do it knowing there are people tonight for whom gratitude will be a genuine statement of faith.

Solitude


September 10, 2017

When Linda asked if I didn’t want someone to go with me, I declined the offer. I knew that somebody wouldn’t be her, and she’s the only one with whom I’d want to spend eight continuous hours in the cab of a truck. I understand her concern; it would be a long trip, and she was worried there’d be no one to keep up conversation if I got sleepy. Her worry was needless. I didn’t have any lunch, so my usual afternoon grogginess didn’t kick in. I listened to the radio for about ten minutes before it wore thin with all the mindless chatter. Most of those eight hours I simply prayed. It was wonderful. As easily distracted as I am, my prayer times at home are often broken up by something I remembered I have to do, an email that comes in, a Facebook message to answer, or just plain sleepiness and a wandering mind. All of which tends to make my prayer times spotty, a confession I’d just as soon not have to make.


It’s my own fault. The old liturgy of repentance confesses that “we have done things we ought not to have done, and left undone things we ought to have done.” When it comes to prayer, that confession fits me to a T. So an uninterrupted eight hours was a gift. If my mind wandered from interceding for someone, I had plenty of time to bring it back. There was time for praise, for thanksgiving, for reflection upon Scripture, for petition for myself and intercession for others. Eight hours by myself was a gift. Driving requires enough attentiveness to keep me awake, but not so much that I can’t be thinking about other things. If I’m splitting wood or working on the house, I can’t multi-task. Only when I’m driving. So tonight, I’m grateful for the hours I had with just me and the Lord in my truck. It renewed my spirit as nothing else can do.

Saturday, September 9, 2017

Exceptional Maturity

September 9, 2017

Last night as we went around the table with our highs and lows of the day, Madeline’s high was serving the winning goal for her school volleyball team. This was a big deal! Of her many qualities, the most endearing is Madeline’s tender heart. She’s great with little kids, is thoughtful and kind. Sports is another matter. She isn’t particularly enamored with softball or soccer, likes her jujitsu, but really took to volleyball. It’s her first season, which is what made today’s incident so significant.

Today was History Days in Sinclairville, an annual small town celebration including a small town parade with requisite fire trucks, tractors, Cub Scouts and Brownies. The village common was filled with vendors selling everything from crafts to taffy, candy apples, and Italian sausages, and a couple of western bands. There were also a couple bounce houses for the kids, one of which was a bungee run. This particular amusement consists of three lanes with a long bungee cord attached to the bounce house on one end, and to the kid on the other end. Each participant runs as fast and far as they can before the bungee cord yanks them off their feet and pulls them back down the lane. It’s all enclosed in inflated lanes so no one can get hurt. Theoretically. 


I had just finished cleaning my truck when I got the call to come to the village commons. Madeline was hurt. It was the bungee run. When she reached the end and the bungee yanked her back, she landed on her left elbow, causing a compression fracture of her humerus. So much for volleyball. But it’s her attitude that impresses me. “I think God let me serve the winning goal yesterday because he knew this was going to happen today,” was her line of thinking. She’s sad she won’t be able to play volleyball, but has a perspective that puts many adults to shame. She’s seeing the blessing in the buffeting, and in the process, is teaching this old preacher a lesson or two, not the least of which is to be thankful for such a mature twelve-year old granddaughter.

Friday, September 8, 2017

Fossils

September 8, 2017

It must be the curse of old age. Or perhaps the blessing of it. In our writer’s group this morning, the retirees outnumbered the young almost two to one, and the conversation turned to current events, from the hurricanes battering the South to political correctness gone amok as free speech is shouted down and history is rewritten by our domestic versions of ISIS that seek to destroy statues and monuments they deem offensive. We are remnants of another world, fossils that tell a tale of a life long gone, but unfortunately, it is a world moderns are more eager to bury than to excavate and preserve. 

It is tempting for us fossils to get discouraged, to live in the past, but only if one sees no door open to the future. Those of us around the table today were mostly men and women of faith; Christian, Jewish, and Native American. Our faith traditions ground us in history while at the same time pointing us to a bright future. Ancient and modern pagan religions are cyclical, following the turning of the seasons, but without a defined goal. Judeo-Christian faith is linear, beginning with Creation and ending with the New Creation God himself ushers in at the end of the present age. We put little stock in the future of this present world, even as we work for its good. Our hopes are pinned on the world to come. 

Some have asserted that such a viewpoint is an escapism that devalues this life and the people who live in it, but an eternal perspective elevates the importance of this world in our story of redemption: God so values that which he created that he gave his Son to make possible this world’s redemption and renewal. And if God values this world and the people in it, so should we. So we work to make this world a better place even while we realize that our efforts are really geared to the world to come.


Yes, we oldtimers can be pessimistic, but we can also be optimistic in our vision of what lies ahead. Where we get cranky is in our impatience with those who would waste our time; we don’t have enough of it left to allow others to decide for us how we use it. We understand as younger people cannot, how precious and fragile is this gift of life, and want to make the most of every day we’re given. Tonight I am grateful to have made it this far, and to have done so in the company of some very special people whom I have the privilege of calling my friends.

Thursday, September 7, 2017

A Blessed Day

September 7, 2017

The original plan was to split and stack firewood, but by the time their supper was over and his father brought him over, the sky was darkening and the thunder announcing the storm to come. So instead of working, Nathan and I ate ice cream and watched clips from the old slapstick movie “The Great Race,” while we played cards. Knowing that cash is involved, he’ll want to come again to work, which of course, was the original plan. In the meantime, it was a good end to an odd day. 

It began with a phone call that told us the woman buying our house didn’t come to sign the papers, which discomfited a series of plans and complicated insurance and utility matters. Everything was supposed to be wrapped up a week ago. The whole deal is beginning to look questionable, but time will tell. On the other hand, Linda and I had a good morning splitting wood and going to lunch after a few errands in Dunkirk. We keep reminding ourselves that as irritating as the real estate debacle is, at least we have a house to sell. There are plenty of people in Houston, and soon to be Florida, who would gladly trade problems with us. 


So tonight I give thanks for a dry home, for wood that will make it a warm home this winter, and for time invested with my grandson. I am blessed far beyond what I deserve!

Wednesday, September 6, 2017

Something to Say

September 6, 2017

Back when I was teaching aspiring preachers, I was often heard to say, “There is a big difference between having to say something and having something to say.” Politicians and preachers are notorious for having to say something, but not having something to say. The latter is a rare commodity; it requires times of solitude, times of listening…to one’s own heart as well as to the hearts of common people, and of course, the heart of God. Most of us, pastors included, have crammed so much into our days that we can’t slow down enough to hear the rhythms of God’s heartbeat. Added to the busyness, we have so many distractions with media such as television, internet, emails, tweets, and texts that silent listening is all but lost in the shuffle.

I was reminded of this when I was reviewing a series of sermons I preached some years ago. I wouldn’t change a thing about the truth I was proclaiming, but the intervening years have taught me much about how truth needs to be presented. What I said back then was, and is true, but it was pretty cerebral. I had to stretch to make it touch down anywhere where it might have actually been helpful for someone. I suspect that particular sermon was the result of Sunday’s coming, and I needed to say something. 

Hopefully, I’m a little wiser these days, although the discipline of writing a nightly blog has the potential to negate my point. I force myself to say something even when I might not have much to say. Even in retirement, my days are pretty full, and it’s easy to rush through them without stopping to quiet my soul and listen to God. I think it was Charles Spurgeon who told his preaching students to “talk to God about men before you talk to men about God.” Good advice even today!


Moses had much to say, but it took 40 years in the desert, 40 days on the mountain, and 40 years leading God’s wandering people to hear God’s message. Without these extended times of listening, he would have had nothing of value to say. The fact that so much of the Bible are his words is testimony to the importance of listening. I’m back in the preaching saddle, and Sunday’s coming. If I don’t take time to quiet my soul in silence, the only proper thing to do on Sunday would be silence. God’s people don’t need a lecture; they need a word from the Lord. They don’t need good advice; they need Good News. I am thankful for the reminder to take time to listen in the form of a deficient sermon. It might just turn having to say something into having something to say.

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

Pain

September 5, 2017

Nobody knew in ancient times what caused it. All they knew was that this dreaded disease ended life as they knew it for those infected. Sufferers were stigmatized, ostracized, segregated from healthy society, often forced into colonies in deserted areas or on remote islands. In ancient Jewish law, a person so afflicted was separated from others, and if passing by a healthy person, had to cover their upper lip like Dracula’s cape, and cry out, “Unclean! Unclean!” Leprosy was a terrible disease that included deformity and often the slow loss of extremities. It was believed that the flesh simply rotted away, but modern medicine tells a different story.

Today it’s known as Hanson’s Disease; caused by a bacterium and spread airborne through the coughing and sneezing of the infected person. It attacks the nerves, killing their capacity to transmit the feeling of pain. The loss of fingers, toes, and even entire hands and feet isn’t due to the disease itself, but is a result of the sufferer not being able to tell when they are being burned or cut. Someone with this disease untreated can pick up a red hot iron and not feel anything. It isn’t until they see the blood flow or smell the burning flesh that the sufferer knows of the injury. Infection often sets in, causing the deformity and loss of extremities.

No one likes to suffer pain. We do all we can to alleviate it, both for ourselves, and for others. But pain serves a purpose. It’s a warning that all is not well. Without pain, we would always be injuring ourselves, with tragic consequences. 


I was reminded of this when I cut my finger today. It was such a slight injury that I didn’t even notice it when it first happened. I noticed it when I cut a tomato for a sandwich this evening. The acid made me sit up and take notice. I’ll notice it again tomorrow when I have to use that finger to press down the strings on my bass. But it’s still no big deal. But were I unable to feel pain, even playing the bass could become problematic. It’s pain that tells me my fingers have had enough for one day. Tonight I am thankful for the pain that protects us from ourselves.