Friends for Life

February 28, 2019

Friendships that endure for nearly forty years are a pretty rare phenomenon. First, you have to live long enough; a lot of people don’t get that privilege. It helps if you have similar interests, even more if spouses get along. Proximity is good, too. Long-distance friendships are possible, but distance hinders the formation of lasting bonds. Most of life involves little, day by day events that are difficult to share over the miles, but are the common glue that holds people together. Americans, who love their mobility, to their great loss sacrifice for it these long term friendships. For me, a common commitment to Jesus Christ makes the friendship even closer.

I have friendships that span thousands of miles, but they aren’t really tight. But this morning, I had the privilege of spending time with two friends I’ve known for nearly forty years. Before fixing breakfast for the kids who show up at the church before school, we prayed together as we have been doing weekly for nearly two years. Prior to that, we’ve stood shoulder to shoulder through good times and bad, and forged a bond that is both strong and precious. Most pastors never get this opportunity. I have, and am thankful tonight for my friends Harry and Paul. They encourage me to be my best self by being their best selves.

Ages

February 26, 2019

Snow devils twirl over the ground, miniature tornadoes dancing freely across the field. The cold is not quite as biting as it was Sunday when the wind shrieked its way through the air driving the cold right through to the bone. It’s almost 6 o’clock and the sun is still high on the horizon, peeking from behind a cloud, its rays stabbing through the sky like daggers in the air. It will be another 20 minutes before the darkness wraps its cold fingers around all I can now see. The ice breaking up on the lake shore moans as if in labor straining to bring forth the new life of a spring not quite ready to be born. Spring, like the setting sun, remains on the horizon.

It’s been an easy winter so far. I remember years when the first snow fell in October and the last didn’t leave till April. Those were halcyon days for skiers and snowmobilers. I wouldn’t want to make my living selling those machines today. No matter how mild the winters are, we are usually eager for spring to arrive. I figure winter’s back has been broken when we say goodbye to February. We’re not quite there yet, but almost. 

I visited mom and Abi today, along with my brother and sister in law. Mom is 96, Abi 19. Russ and Judy are roughly my vintage, all of which makes for interesting contrast. One at the tail end of her earthly sojourn looking back, another just starting out and reaching optimistically for the future, and the rest of us tentatively feeling our way into old age, wondering what it brings as we remember times when all things physical were a bit easier. I have been blessed by not having been left with a lot of baggage from a dysfunctional family. Like any family, we have our issues, but they’ve been pretty minor; no unfaithfulness, divorce, or addictions. I trust we haven’t excessively burdened our kids and grandkids, leaving them free to grow in grace and love as God intends. 

The sun took awhile to set. Maybe we’ll be given a long sunset, too. If so, I hope whatever rays of light I have left will bring joy and hope to those who watch. That would make me very thankful.

Together

February 25, 2019

How I ever managed to make it through high school algebra, geometry, and trigonometry I’ll never know. Today I can barely add and subtract, which is at times downright embarrassing, let lone inconvenient. Take music, for example. Though we are often moved by its beauty or whipped into action by its cadences, other than tonality and expressiveness, it is mathematics in one of its purest forms. An octave is a function of the sine curve; for example, high C is one half the wavelength of middle C. Each note has its own frequency. Music has a mathematic and scientific foundation. I can know all this, but it doesn’t really affect me directly.

It’s in the playing of the music where the trouble starts for me. I’m OK with 4/4 time; it’s pretty straightforward—each quarter note is one beat, four beats to a measure. 3/4 time, same thing, only three beats to the measure (think waltz). In 4/4 time, an eighth note gets half a beat, a dotted eighth three quarters of a beat. By this time, I’m in over my head, trying to count out rhythms that have a variety of combinations of quarter, dotted quarter, eighth, dotted eighth, etc. When a few of these carry over from one measure to another, my boat has already begun sinking, and if the composer throws in a cut time, you can look for me at the bottom of the lake. All this to say I am living proof that one doesn’t have to be good at music to appreciate it. But one does have to be good to actually play it in front of an audience. 

I’ve done some pretty odd things in my life, like sitting in front of an audience in a washtub with a shower cap on my head singing “Splish Splash, I Was Taking a Bath,” before jumping up with a towel around my waist and dancing to the song. I’ve broken ribs when I went head over heels off my motorcycle after running into a lilac bush in my back yard. I don’t mind looking foolish in front of others. But I do mind making the others in the band look bad by making a mess of my part. In our New Horizons concert band, our conductor encourages us old folks by telling us that if we can’t play all the notes in front of us, don’t worry; play the notes you can, and your neighbor will pick up the rest. But for me, there is no neighbor. If I don’t get them, they won’t be gotten. 

Am I nervous? You bet I am! I’m working hard, but if you can’t count the beat, it’s pretty hard to play the right note where it’s supposed to be. And if that doesn’t happen, chaos can descend pretty quickly. 

Life is like that. It wouldn’t be so bad if we could just amble along at our own pace, not worrying about anyone else, but we live in communities, in families, in churches and workplaces. If we don’t play our role in the right way, at the right time, others are affected. Our success or failure can spell the difference between someone else’s success or failure. I’m practicing, listening to the music on YouTube, and practicing some more. I hope to be able to do it well enough to allow the others to shine. In life as well as on stage.

Hilltops and Valleys

February 24, 2019

Whenever I crest a hill and can see for miles across valleys spread out before me, I secretly wish I had a home with a view. There is something expansive about a hilltop home that speaks to my soul of dreams and opportunities yet to come. Every so often if I’m not in a hurry, I’ll stop to just soak it all in. There’s something about a view that nourishes my soul.

Then there are those days and nights like we’re experiencing right now. The weatherman said it was coming, and for once, he was telling the truth. Sitting by the fire, I can hear the wind howling in the trees on the crest of the ridge behind our house. We are nestled in a gully, protected on all sides by steep hills perhaps eighty feet high. The winds rage, causing the spruce front of our house to wave and dance, but not with the dervish-like fury that tears off branches and rips roots from the soil. Were we not in this hollow, I’d be quite concerned about those trees, any one of which would be devastating were it to fall and hit the house. Our small grove would be no match for the storm at the top of the hill.

God holds his children in the hollow of his hand. Psalm 91:4 says, “[God] shall cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you shall trust.” If you’ve ever seen a duck or chicken gathering her young to herself, you’ll understand what that means. That mother bird will die to protect her young, whether it means going through the fire or being frozen to death in a winter’s storm. Though God’s people often must endure great trials and suffering, he is more protective of us than that duck or chicken of her young. After all, God is the one who programmed that protectiveness into the bird. He’s the architect of it all. 

So the wind howls in the darkness. I’m grateful to not have to be out in it, to be sheltered in the valley. The storm will pass; I’ll visit the mountaintop again and revel in the view. But in the meantime, having it pass overhead is not such a bad thing.

Two-thirds

February 23, 2019

More than two-thirds of our birthdays we have celebrated together. Today is Linda’s, and I wasn’t sure how to make it special for her, other than her favorite breakfast in bed and a couple small gifts she had mentioned some time ago. Not being what you would call a world traveler, I didn’t think she’d want to go anywhere, so I hadn’t planned anything. Little Nathan’s basketball game in the morning, and a church spaghetti dinner in the evening looked to be the bookend highlights of her day when she said she’d like to go to Erie to try to spend the Christmas and birthday money my mother had sent to her. So off to Erie we went.

As we exited the interstate onto Peach Street, she said she’d like something light to eat, something that wouldn’t spoil her appetite for the spaghetti dinner we expected in the evening. “Tim Horton’s would be nice, but I don’t think they have them down here.” I assured her there was a Tim’s, but unconvinced, she decided to settle on Kristy Kreme, a place we hadn’t patronized in years. It was OK; not quite what she had wanted, but oh well. We pulled back onto Peach Street, drove one block before passing a Tim Hortons. If this was a portent of things to come, it didn’t look good. On to the mall.

A couple hours walking through the Millcreek Mall produced nothing more than a small cosmetic purchase, and I was beginning to think the entire afternoon would be a bust. Did you know malls only cater to people in their twenties? So we went to the Dress Barn. I knew this place had possibilities when I saw on the walls the larger than life sized photos of models who were of a bit more vintage than those in the mall. We hit the mother lode, were on our way out of the store with a few choice items when I spotted a nice skirt and blouse. “I have enough,” she said, but didn’t argue too vehemently when I insisted. 

It was a very good day, topped off with the spaghetti dinner with friends. Two thirds of our lives together, and we aren’t just marking time, barely getting along. It’s better now than ever, and I am thankful tonight for this woman God gave me nearly fifty years ago, who has made my life so much better than I could have ever managed on my own.

Train

February 22, 2019

“When the king of Egypt let the people go, God did not take them by the road that goes up the coast to Philistia, although it was the shortest way. God thought, “I do not want the people to change their minds and return to Egypt when they see that they are going to have to fight.” Instead, he led them in a roundabout way through the desert towards the Red Sea. The Israelites were armed for battle.”  —Exodus 13:17-18 GNB

“When the Israelites saw the king and his army marching against them, they were terrified and cried out to the Lord for help.” —Exodus 14:10

When Israel left Egypt, they weren’t a mere ragtag bunch of former slaves who stumbled out of bondage. The Bible says they were armed for battle, marching out in military formation; they weren’t as helpless as they believed. Somehow they had managed to collect a rather formidable array of weapons, and were organized to protect themselves. They just hadn’t yet been tested in battle; they were green recruits. As newbies, when the experienced army of Pharaoh approached, they were ready to turn tail and run. 

God provides for our protection and success; the armor of God Paul mentions in Ephesians 6 is more than adequate for our defense, and the Holy Spirit is more than adequate empowerment for the work God has given us to do. But equipment doesn’t necessarily include the courage and faith we need to face life’s battles. That comes through training and experience. Any soldier who refuses to train becomes more of a liability than an asset to his unit. Equipment is only equipment. If we don’t know how to use it, it’s just stuff. We must decide to train in spiritual disciplines so we are able to actually benefit from all God has given us. A raw recruit is usually going to succumb to fear, turn tail, and run. Training makes all the difference. If we don’t listen to the Instructor (the Holy Spirit) as he teaches us the training manual (the Bible), if we don’t actually train and practice the disciplines of prayer, worship, study, and witness, when push comes to shove we will like those well-equipped Hebrews, be overcome with fear. Hopefully, we’ll have enough presence of mind to do as they did and call upon the Lord.

I’d rather do that as a trained follower of Christ than as someone unfamiliar with God’s provision. I’m thankful this is possible through the age-old spiritual disciplines we have been given. It’s time to just “do it.”

Beauty

February 21, 2018

As we turned the corner at the top of the hill, we could see the open fields spread out before us in the glorious shining white splendor of the ice-covered snow glistening in the sunlight. The hills on the other side of the valley rose in waves that gradually faded into the horizon, the fields and woodlots in a checkered pattern across our vision. I was accompanying my granddaughter  Izzi as she practiced her driving in preparation for her road test in a few months. Our little corner of the world isn’t particularly prosperous; there were some nice homes at the crests of the hills, but in the valleys poverty ruled over the modest to shabby domiciles. 

Their folks being away for the night, Izzi and Jo came to spend the night with us, regaling us with stories of their latest trip to New York City with our church’s mission team. They worshipped at Brooklyn Tabernacle and Times Square Church, served the homeless as part of the NYSUM (New York School of Urban Ministry) team headquartered there, and prayed for people as they rode the Staten Island ferry. They love working in the city, and love living in the country. These kids are far bolder in sharing their faith than I was at that age, and our son has stretched kids’ faith and courage for nearly fifteen years by leading teams every February. I am thankful tonight for the beauty that surrounds me almost everywhere I look, but even more for the beauty of soul and spirit I see in my grandchildren and their friends who are always eager to serve Christ at home and in the city.

Idolatry

February 20, 2019

Word got to me about 11:00 last night of a fire on Park St in Sinclairville. The person who contacted me had heard it over the scanner and thought it was my son’s house. It was the house across the street; a passer-by saw the flames and had our daughter in law call it in (our son was still in New York City on a mission trip). The call coming from their home, it went out as their place burning. Thankfully, the disabled man living there was safely evacuated, but the house looks to be a complete loss.

People in small communities have a way of taking care of one another. By next morning, word had already spread about needing clothing and other items for the victim of the fire. I drove by this morning and noticed his big plastic nativity still on the front porch, survivors like himself, and I wondered about what in that home was precious to him. What gift handed down from father to son, what memento of grandparents, siblings, or children? Ordinary items that adorn our walls, sit tucked away in drawers, or laid up in boxes in a closet; things that have little intrinsic value but are priceless to the owner—what memories went up in flames last night?

This physical world matters. God created it, pronounced it good, and charges us with taking care of it. The objective reality of it is the foundation for Western civilization, scientific research, and most of the societal blessings we have. But there is an inherent danger lurking in it: idolatry.

The biblical injunction against idolatry has many facets. Our God refuses to be squeezed into human categories, and so condemns depictions of him because they can never begin to approach his majesty. He is always diminished by visual representation. Then there is our tendency to substitute things we can touch and see for the spiritual realities of our faith. We make an image, revere it, and end up becoming like it. If that doesn’t make sense to you, you haven’t seen the pornographic carvings on Hindu temples and witnessed the degradation of women that emanates from them. The same can be said for the pornography that plagues our generation. The things we make can make us. The things we possess can end up possessing us. So I wonder...what possesses me? I live in a modest, but comfortable home. Our home is filled with mementos of family going back four generations or more; pictures, furniture, knick-knacks. I have machinery, instruments, tools—all things that make my life enjoyable and comfortable. So if I lost them in a fire, how much of myself would be lost with them? I don’t know the answer to that question, and hope I never have to find out. 

I am grateful for the spiritual and relational blessings I have. I am also grateful for the tangible blessings, and hope to be able to keep my distance from them just enough so they don’t become my masters. It is an uneasy truce, and the battle lines are finely drawn and constantly patrolled. There is only one God and Lord, and none of the things I own have the right to claim authority over me. It is up to me to make sure I don’t voluntarily offer myself to them, and to instead insist that Jesus Christ is Lord of all. I am grateful tonight that he is Lord. May he always be Lord to me.

More

February 19, 2019

“THAT didn’t go as planned!” I can imagine this might have been Moses’ reaction after his audience with Pharaoh resulted in the latter’s order that these upstart slaves find their own straw to make their bricks. The Israelite leaders with whom he had met prior to going to Pharaoh were literally stinging from the lashes inflicted upon them by their taskmasters, and were as one can imagine, not too happy about this turn of events. The story is found in Exodus, the second book of the Bible, chapter five. “Deliverance? Bah! Humbug!”

Much of modern American Christianity is infatuated with a gospel that is little more than self-help pop psychology dressed in religious garb. We act as if God were in the business of fulfilling our every desire, with the result that we refuse to do some of the more difficult tasks God often assigns his people. When things don’t go our way, we quit. Moses complained, but he didn’t quit. He had encountered the living God on that mountain in Midian, and no matter how difficult the task, he wasn’t about to retreat.

Jeremiah had a similar experience. God gave him the difficult assignment of preaching to people who didn’t want to hear his message, to a king whose response to the Word of God was to throw the messenger in a dungeon. Most of his ministry was spent at odds with the powers of the day. It wasn’t the life he had dreamed of, and his complaint to God was, “You tricked me!” (Jeremiah 20:7) He accused God of a bait and switch scam. 

In a time when prosperity was seen as the evidence of God’s blessing, Job lost everything except his nagging wife who said to him, “Why don’t you just curse God and die?” (Job 2:9). And no less than Jesus himself assured his followers that they would be hated more than any others (Matthew 10). 

We are often tempted to evaluate life by the circumstances in which we presently find ourselves. This is a mistake. A good mystery leaves us in suspense until the last chapter when we are surprised by the twist of plot and surprise ending. Just as Pharaoh’s revengeful response was only the beginning of Israel’s deliverance, so our disappointments and setbacks are only part of the story. There was a time in my life when all I had worked for looked like it was going to go up in smoke. Had I thought those months were the end of the story, I’d have given up right then, but there was more to come, and God performed a miracle. I am thankful tonight that there is more to come in God’s story, and it ultimately is good.

A Scarlet Rope

February 18, 2019

When Joshua sent the spies into Jericho to scope out the city’s weaknesses, they came to the home of a prostitute named Rahab. Some scholars suggest that the word usually translated prostitute or harlot should be translated as “innkeeper,” but the bulk of the evidence indicates she was a woman who made her living selling her body. Why the spies ended up there is anyone’s guess, but perhaps it was because two young men visiting a house of ill repute would around but little suspicion, even if they were foreigners. 

Like many ancient cities, Jericho was protected by seemingly impregnable walls. The unique feature of this city however, was it being surrounded by two walls; inner and outer fortifications connected by homes built in between them, thus connecting the two structures. Rahab’s house was one such connecting habitation. She hid the two spies until things died down a bit, then lowered them down the wall from a window, using a scarlet rope. The color is a significant feature of the story, a small detail that could have been omitted except for the symbolism it suggested to the writer. 

The text doesn’t tell us, but I suspect this particular rope was the sign of her business, much like the red lights that advertise houses of prostitution today. This scarlet rope which was a sign of her profession became the sign of her deliverance as it identified her home so she and her family would be spared in the conquest that came shortly afterwards. Theologically, it points to the blood sacrifices of the Leviticus priesthood, and ultimately to the death of Jesus Christ on the cross as our Sacrifice for sin.

I find it significant that God transformed the sign of Rahab’s sin and shame into the sign of her deliverance. Often in life, we look back on the foolish and sinful choices we’ve made and want to sweep them under the rug, erasing all memory of the shame we feel. God has a different plan. He takes our sins, our mistakes and rebellion, and holds them high, showing the world how he can transform even the worst of human depravity into a beacon of salvation. He did it for Rahab; he did it for me; he can do it for you. Now THAT is something for which to be thankful!

Choices

February 17, 2019

Circumstances sometimes (read: “often”) get in the way of things we’d really like to do, but we all must make choices about what’s really important. Back in January, notices went out for the annual Bass Fest at Fredonia college. Bass Fest is a day long seminar for students featuring well-known professional bassists who host seminars for the students, many of whom compete for prizes. I sent in my money and reserved my place. 

I’m not good enough to even think of competing, but the seminars are informative, and listening to the students and the master teachers is an amazing experience. I would not believe it possible to produce such intricate and melodious music from this huge, unwieldy instrument except having witnessed it first hand. These students are amazingly talented and the instructors...I don’t even have words to describe what they can do with their instruments. They reveal my wretched sawing for what it truly is...a marvel of dissonance.

I missed most of today’s Bass Fest. Sunday mornings are automatically out, but afternoon and evenings usually have a bit more flexibility for me. Today however, Linda and I met son Matt, his wife Jeanine, and grandson Nathan at the Japanese restaurant in Fredonia. All the rest of the family had other engagements, so we decided to go out to eat. When we were done, they went home and I drove over to the college for the seminars. I was able to take in just one before needing to leave to teach bass for our church’s School of the Arts. Unfortunately, none of my students showed up. When I got home, Linda asked if I were going to the closing concert tonight. I declined. As much as I love the music, I love her more, and would rather spend the evening with her. It’s all about choices. 

Someone on the radio the other day made a very pithy statement about choices. He said, “We make our choices, then they make us.” It’s so true. Even the little decisions we make have a way of piling up until they shape our character and even our futures. Would I like to attend tonight’s concert? Of course! But it’s not the most important item on my calendar, and the choices I’ve made over the years have made me, and in doing so, made tonight’s choice a no-brainer.

I’m My Own Hangman

February 16, 2019

It all began innocently enough; a simple question my daughter texted me. “Do you read music?” 

“Yes.”

“I was talking to Nicole Zenns (Our school’s music teacher). They need an upright bass for the musical.” I could almost feel the noose tightening. There was just one odd problem—I was the one holding the other end of the rope.

“I’d have to see the music. I’m absolutely terrible with the bow.” We went back and forth for a few more texts. This morning I volunteered to take Jessie’s kids to musical practice so I could talk with Mrs. Zenns. We had a lovely conversation and I came home with the bass music; as if life isn’t busy enough. 

“So what are you going to give up to do this?” was Linda’s reaction. I don’t like to admit it, but she’s right. I can’t keep adding stuff to my schedule without subtracting something else. I just don’t know what that something could be. It doesn’t help to tell myself that I’m only checking it out; that I haven’t actually committed to doing it yet. The music looks doable for the most part. I just don’t know what the trade off will be.

I always cringe when I hear retired people say, “I’m so busy I don’t know how I found time to work.” It’s easy—we said “No” to a lot of things we might liked to have done, and we were much more efficient in the use of our time. In retirement, the work expands to fill the time we give it, and we get a bit lazy; sleeping in a bit, allowing ourselves to get distracted, actually doing some of the things we’ve wanted to do for years, but couldn’t find the time. Actually, I’m glad to be busy. There are plenty of people I know who would like to be, but cannot. They just sit and wait. To die. 

So, maybe I’ll do the musical; maybe not. Either way, I’m going to go over the music and be thankful for the opportunity and for the ability to say “yes” even if I say “no.”

Next Time

February 15, 2019

One of the perks of growing old is the instant forgiveness you are given when you screw up. Of course, it’s usually other old people who offer that forgiveness because they understand and know that their turn is coming. Again.

I was taking a break from finishing up Sunday’s sermon. I pulled on my Carhartt jacket, fired up the John Deere, and headed for the wood pile. A few minutes later the bucket was filled and I was bringing the wood into the back room and putting it in the rack by the stove when my cell phone rang. It was Harry. “Did you forget about band rehearsal today?”

I sure did! Even having it in my calendar was no match for my fading memory. Rehearsal hadn’t even gotten near to entering my mind. I doubt if it could have even breached the fortress of my forgetfulness with heavy artillery. Fortunately, Harry said he’d meet me there, since he obviously wasn’t going to make himself late by riding with me. By the time I got changed into clothes I was willing to wear in public, got my bass loaded into the car, and started down the road, there was no way I’d make jazz band in time. I waited till it was over and tried to apologize to the conductor. As he handed me the music I had missed, he remarked, “No problem. Next time, don’t worry about interrupting. Just come in.” 

Next time. It’s like he is expecting this sort of behavior from me; I wonder why. But I am grateful for his understanding. He’s younger than me. But it is a band of senior citizens. Maybe when he looks at me he sees his own future, causing him to have an extra helping of compassion. Whatever the reason, I am grateful. When I was a young buck, such forgetfulness would have been cause for reprimand. Now it’s only, “Next time.” Ahh...life is good!

Love Listens

February 14, 2019

Romance looms large in the Bailey household. Nothing says “I love you” quite like forty eight feet of bedroom baseboard, installed. Yep. You heard it right. Linda has been wanting me to finish that baseboard for four years, ever since we moved in. I had a stash, but not quite enough to finish, so I finally gave in and while in town together (her gift to me), we bought enough to do the entire room. Both of us are thankful. She got the baseboard, I got one more project checked off my to do list.

Young love thrives on stuff like cards and candy. That’s all OK, but it can’t hold a candle to the settled contentment of nearly fifty years together. We do the cards, skip the candy, and go straight for the heart by listening to the small hints and offhand remarks that reveal what would please the other. Soft lighting and music, sitting together watching the flames dance in the wood stove can conjure up notions of romance, but without listening, love can die faster than the fire in the stove. 

What is true of human love is true also of divine love. God listens to our hearts even when we can’t figure out our own passions and longings. If we’re wise, we will in turn listen to God’s heart. That’s what love does, and it deepens the more we listen. Listening is an art, a skill that improves with practice, whether it’s a husband and wife listening to each other, or a believer listening to God. Psalm 46:10 is still true today, “Be still, and know that I am God.” I am thankful tonight for the years Linda and I have been given together, learning to listen to each other instead of what our culture says ought to be. In learning to listen to each other, we’ve also learned a bit about listening to God. That’s a good thing.

Ram

February 13, 2019

Four years ago when we moved into our present (and hopefully final) home, one of the first outdoor projects was cleaning out the fish pond across the driveway. Years of sediment had built up till it was nearly full, but many wheelbarrow loads later, I had it emptied out right down to the concrete base. Unfortunately, it no longer held water. I spent a small fortune trying to seal it, finding my best success with some discarded rubber roofing a friend gave me.

For two years, the goldfish I had brought from my office fish tank thrived in that pond, growing to about five or six inches. In the fall, I netted them and put them in tubs in the basement where they did quite well over the winter. The second year, before I could get them down into the basement, I had them in their tubs in the garage, where one evening the door got left open. In the morning, all that was left of my goldfish were the heads and bits of fins, thanks to an accommodating raccoon who I’m sure appreciated the breakfast buffet I had set out for him.

The pond still leaked, and this past year, it just sat, fishless, but I’ve had this notion of diverting water from the creek to the pond, and making an overflow back to the creek. But how to do this without running a wire to a pump? The answer lies in an invention that dates back to the eighteenth century—a hydraulic ram. My brother in law has used one for over twenty years to provide the water for his home. He doesn’t have electric, but he has all the water he needs thanks to this ingenious invention. The only problem is, they are quite expensive, and I wanted to do this on the cheap. Enter YouTube.

I’ve found some videos showing the process for making a hydraulic ram out of PVC pipe, and I’ve been taking notes. I’ve had to repeatedly review the videos; after all, I am a preacher, not an engineer. But I’m getting close, and hope before the weekend to begin, unless Linda determines that baseboard in the upstairs bedroom is a more pressing matter. 

So what does all this have to do with gratitude? Four years ago when I began my gratitude diaries, I pledged to eschew all negative comments and posts on Facebook. The recent news of our governor’s signing a radical abortion law allowing babies to be killed up to birth has been so alarming to me that I’ve written on it and shared others’ posts. I abandoned my own principal that social media only preaches to the choir and convinces no one of anything. It makes you feel as if you are doing something significant when you’re only venting. Over the past few days, I’ve noticed that it’s been harder for me to be thankful. The blessings haven’t diminished, but I’ve been putting my attention in the wrong places. 

In order to get it right, I’ve had to watch the instructional videos for the ram pump numerous times. I’ve written down parts lists, wandered through the plumbing department of Home Depot, and watched the videos again. Life is like that. We make progress, forget, make progress, adjust, and make progress again. I’m going to make that pump, and I’m going to reclaim my joy. I just have to get my eyes focused on God’s “video” once more. As I do, the gratitude won’t be something I’ve had to conjure up by my own effort. It will well up by the power of the Holy Spirit, just like the water from that hydraulic ram uses the power of the creek.

Waiting

February 12, 2019

Hospital waiting rooms are rarely places of joy. Their walls encompass many a tear, countless broken hearts, and thankfully moments of relief after hours of agonized waiting. Today, the waiting room at Kenmore Mercy was a holy place of joy as I sat with a good friend during his wife’s surgery. I hadn’t expected to stay as long as I did; with the weather conditions and the time I left home, I figured she would have been in surgery before I arrived, but they were still waiting when I got there, so we talked for awhile, recounting God’s blessings and praying together. I headed to the lobby so they could have some time together before they took her into the operating room. 

When he came out, we had coffee and talked about ministry, family life, and life in general. It was nothing out of the ordinary, but nonetheless, it was infused with holy moments. We come from quite different backgrounds but have a common bond in our faith in Christ. He’s just getting started in ministry; being on the tail end, I thought I had had my last wag, but God apparently had other plans. 

One of the challenges of ministry is never knowing what difference it makes. It’s possible to work hard, build a congregation, grow a ministry, only to see it evaporate right before your eyes for reasons you can’t figure out. And it’s possible to labor in obscurity without perceivable success only to find out years later that your faithfulness opened up an entirely new world to someone you had forgotten you had even met. It’s all in God’s hands, and we have to learn to leave it there. If our sense of worth rides on our accomplishments, we are on shaky ground indeed. Only in the love and grace of God can we rest secure. I am grateful for the time we shared this afternoon, for conversation that grounded us in the vast love of God, and for simple friendship. No—more than friendship; we are brothers in Christ, and it is very good.

Weary

February 11, 2019

“Let us not grow weary in well-doing, for in due season, we shall reap, if we don’t faint.” 

—Galatians 6:9

Weariness is one of the great plagues of the one who takes his or her faith seriously. We are constantly barraged by problems and issues needing to be addressed. Whether it’s standing up for the unborn or the hungry or homeless, leading a church or Bible study, trying to be a good spouse, parent, employee, or taking one’s place in civic responsibilities, there is so much need constantly staring us in the face that we easily reach compassion overload, even before we’ve lifted a finger to help. It’s nearly impossible to open a day’s mail without coming across someone’s plea for money for their good cause.

I envy those whose energy seems boundless. Mine doesn’t bound; it just seems less. I suspect any ennui I feel is due in part to the minuscule effect my efforts have in comparison with the magnitude of the issues we face. And when what little I can do seems to accomplish nothing, motivation begins to ebb like air out of a leaky tire. Encouragement does little good. People mean well, but I have eyes. I can see whether what I am doing is effective or not. At least, I think I can. And therein lies the rub. My vision always has a horizon beyond which I cannot see. God, on the other hand, has no horizon. 

In the Genesis story of Joseph, I can imagine there were plenty of times Joe’s horizons closed in on him. Sold into slavery by his brothers, slandered by an adulterous woman, imprisoned by an angry husband, forgotten by the man he helped, Joseph spent the better part of his youth with horizons that he could touch by reaching out and feeling the dungeon walls. And when deliverance finally came, he saved his family only to have them become enslaved in future centuries by the very Egyptians who had been their rescuers. But even as the nation was groaning in slavery, God could see beyond their horizon to a forever kingdom that would one day be established.

Scripture tells us that “where there is no vision, the people perish.” (Proverbs 29:18) If we cannot see the purpose of our work, cannot envision its significance, it becomes laborious. Weariness sets in. Which is where Paul’s admonition kicks in. He reminds us that there is a “due season.” It may not be today, but it is coming. And with it, a harvest if we refuse to give up. Psalm 126:6 tells us “he that goes forth and weeps, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.” 

Imagine the scene: The grain is almost gone after a long winter. The sacks in the corner contain the seed needed for spring planting, but the children are hungry now. The farmer can feed his children today and stave off the pangs in their stomachs, or he can hoist the sack on his shoulder and head for the field, their cries echoing in his ears as the tears roll down his cheeks. He knows they don’t understand why he won’t let them touch the food they so desperately need. He knows if he gives in, they will all starve next winter. He throws that precious seed on the ground, hoping, praying that the rains will come. If they don’t... 

He drags himself to the fields, sweat mingling with tears, looking for a harvest he can only see in his mind. Is he weary? You bet, he is, in both body and soul. But he goes out day after day, weeping and weary, looking to the horizon and praying to the God who sees beyond it.

Invisible People

February 10, 2019

“God, open my eyes to see what others cannot.” That’s my prayer tonight. In addition to Mickey Mouse and the world’s first full-length cartoons, Walt Disney had founded Disneyland in 1955. He was a dreamer, and before his death in 1966, through a variety of shell companies had began buying land near Orlando, Florida. Five years after his death, the much larger Disney World opened. Prior to its grand opening, Roy Disney gave a special inside tour to certain dignitaries who were quite impressed with what they saw. One of the guests remarked, “It’s too bad Walt never saw this.”

“Oh, but he did!” Roy responded. He most certainly did. Dreamers see what others cannot.

There was a time when my prayer for open eyes meant wanting to see as did Disney, opportunities where others saw only obstacles. I still want that ability. Where others see despair, I want to see hope. Where they see failure, I want to see possibility. But tonight that prayer takes on a new dimension.

Earlier this evening, Linda and I were watching a British mystery on TV. I don’t usually expect to hear God’s voice in a tv program, but that’s exactly what happened. The mystery had to do with residents of a nursing home who were dying under suspicious circumstances. In a conversation with young woman, the daughter of the police investigator, one of the elderly gentlemen bemoaned growing old. “When you’re old, you become invisible,” he said. “When you’re young, you may be good-looking or ugly, smart, or fat, or sexy. But when you get old, you become invisible.”

I think that’s often true. We older folks have had our time in the limelight, at the forefront of making decisions whether good or bad. When we retire, our wisdom and experience are often passed over by the next generation as they are busy making their mark in the world. Our opinions are passé. 

I’m not complaining. I’m still pretty active, have more people in my life than I can count. But I’ve spent enough time in nursing homes to know the truth of this cinematic observation. Thus my prayer. I don’t want to get to the point where certain people become invisible to me, whether they be the elderly, the poor, or the clerk at Walmart. They are often among the invisible, and it takes special vision to see...to really see them. It sounds strange to my ears, but I’m thankful for this mystery show with its unexpected wisdom that hopefully opens my eyes to the invisible people all around me.

Joy Robber

February 9, 2019

There’s nothing we can do about the situation except pray. Or worry. 

Linda and I were feeling a bit out of sorts with each other today. Though we couldn’t put our finger on it, things just didn’t feel right. It felt to both of us that the other was upset, and we couldn’t figure out why. As we talked, concerns we have about people and circumstances over which we have little control surfaced. It’s never good when external circumstances cause internal strife. 

We talked about worry. Where is the line that separates concern and worry? It occurred to me that we have crossed over into worry when our concern robs us of our joy. I could be wrong, but it makes sense to me. Yesterday I wrote about the tragic and evil alliance with death our culture is forging in its headlong pursuit of unlimited abortion. Our culture has gone mad with absurdity, insisting that objective biological realities take a back seat to subjective feelings, to the point of being enshrined in law. Even speaking in support of objective reality regarding one’s biological identity is now in places punishable by law. 

The problem comes when we get so involved fighting the good fight of faith that we forfeit faith in the process. Whenever we speak or act out of desperation, we are not speaking or acting in faith, but in fear. And fear always strikes its first blow against joy. So tonight in the midst of all sorts of situations that are worrisome, I choose the joy that comes from knowing Christ, and in knowing him, knowing that no matter how hard the storm blows, the One whose breath whipped the waves into a frenzy is also the One who with another breath whispers, “Peace; be still;” and the wind ceases and the waves become calm.

Thankful for Gratitude

February 8, 2019

The habit of gratitude is not as easy as it sounds. You would think that for someone like myself living in the relative comfort, peace, and safety of early twenty-first century rural United States would be overflowing with reasons for gratitude...and you would be correct. The problem isn’t a lack of gratitude fodder, but the ability to see through and beyond everything that comes between the gift and the recipient. A quarter held at arm’s length does nothing to block out the light of the sun, but take that same quarter and place it right in front of the eye, and it inhibits the ability to see anything at all.

We live in a world where we are constantly barraged with negative information. Politics, crime, environmental disasters, health issues are but a few of the things the media throws at us nearly every waking hour. There was once a time when people got the news once a week; they had a full seven days to digest everything before it came around again. They could ponder at leisure the information before them. Often, by the time the news arrived, the entire situation had changed. There was no sense in getting worked up over stuff that had, by the time it was known, become old news. 

Now, we somehow feel that if we aren’t thinking of current events day in and day out, we are somehow being negligent. We aren’t “fully informed,” and so we obviously can’t form the correct opinion. 

For me, the recent passing of a radical anti-life law by our New York State governor has been continually on my mind. I wake up saddened by the callousness and brazenness of our legislature’s culture of death. Though it wouldn’t have changed anything, I might have felt a little better about it had the bill been reluctantly signed into law, but instead it was cheered and celebrated. It is beyond my understanding how otherwise civilized people can celebrate the killing of innocent children. 

Here’s my dilemma: I can’t ignore this evil, but I dare not allow it to consume me. I must choose not only life, but joy and gratitude. Any fool can see the evil; it takes deliberate effort to focus on the good. But if we fail to do so, the evil will engulf us. So tonight, I find joy in having my grandchildren camped out all through our house. I am grateful to have been able to visit my elderly mother this morning and to spend time with our granddaughter Abi this afternoon as we drove home. I am grateful for my wife who makes our house a home, for the warmth of the fire, for Monday’s weather that allowed me to ride my motorcycle, for the gift of music, for the grace, mercy, and forgiveness of Jesus Christ, for friends with whom I prayed this week. The list goes on and on. It is my lifeline in stormy seas. I am thankful tonight for having learned the power of gratitude and for the ability to give thanks, no matter what.