Glue

March 31, 2019

Sometimes old school is better. Some twenty years ago, my son Matthew and I started building the wooden kayak that now hangs in my garage. We laid it out, wire-stitched the panels together, and epoxied it inside and out. Other than a few scrapes and scratches from an assortment of rocks and sand, it’s in as good shape as it was the day we finished it. That build taught me the wonder of epoxy, and I’ve used it to repair old furniture along with countless other projects. 

A couple years ago, I bought a 1936 King Moretone string bass. It’s a beautiful old instrument with stunning curly maple sides and back that project the sound far better than my much more recent Shen bass. Cosmetically, the Shen is nearly perfect; there are no cracks and only minor faults in the finish. The King however, has had its share of bumps and bruises along the way. When I first bought it, I took it to a specialist in Buffalo to check it all over to make sure everything was in tip top shape, but over time, changes in humidity and temperature take their toll. The lamination of tips of three of the bouts on the backside have broken off and disappeared, and along the edges it’s possible in places to slide a knife blade between the layers. When I play a high C, it buzzes like static on an old radio. Something needed to be done.

A local instrument repairman and music shop owner told me that the lamination repair was something I could do myself, but I balked at the prospect. I wanted anything done to it to be done right, and wasn’t sure I was up to it. But a few weeks ago, having decided it was time to take the plunge, I ordered some hide glue and some glue syringes, and started watching YouTube videos. I wish I had watched them first; I would have boiled up my own hide glue. Maybe next time. This evening, it was time to dive in. I soaked the glue pearls for a half hour, then heated the resulting gelatin in an improvised double boiler, and got to work with glue and clamps. Turns out, the stuff is easy to work with, lots of fun, and I can say I did it myself. The laminations are once again tight, and the buzzing is almost gone. Almost. 

The good news is, if I don’t like the finished product, unlike epoxy or PVA glue, a little heat liquifies it so the job can be redone. Old in this case is definitely better. 

It all makes me ponder. Our souls are like that old bass. Life tends to delaminate us, separate the various parts of our lives, so that the music we make is dissonant and harsh. But like the glue, with a little trouble and trial to heat things up, and the water of the Word flowing into our hearts, God reconstitutes us so we can play his melodies clearly and beautifully. THAT makes me very thankful tonight!

Rain and Glue

March 30, 2019

The rain has swollen the creek behind our house till I can hear it rushing its way around the bend, while there is a steady ping, ping, pinging of the roof runoff hitting the chimney support just outside my window. Tomorrow the precipitation may turn to snow, but if it does, it’ll be short-lived. March is almost gone, and with it, most of the snow and ice except for that hiding in the shadows underneath the overhanging rocks on the far side of the creek. Winter gives up its grip reluctantly while Spring is a rather timid creature.

We used to call them weathermen, but political correctness and equal opportunity requires us today to say meteorologist. Whatever the term, even with satellite imagery and computerized up-to-the-minute information, their prognostications are notably unreliable. All that technology does however, make for regular warnings almost apocalyptic in scope. I suppose in our litigatious society, even meteorologists need to be cautious.

I was hoping to ride the bike to church tomorrow, but unless the predictions are completely wacko, the truck might be the better choice. I’m a bit concerned with the growl I heard yesterday from somewhere beneath the chassis. I had intended to crawl underneath today to check the universal joint, but didn’t quite make it. Whatever tenderized my stomach this afternoon also sapped my energy, which is decidedly displeasing to me. I guess crawling under the truck will have to wait till tomorrow.

I’m home alone like the movie, except there are no goofy bad guys trying to get in, and the house isn’t booby trapped (yet). I watched a few YouTube videos on making hide glue. A couple of places on my old bass have delaminated, and I wanted to glue it back together the way it originally was done. Early this week I’ll be able to cook some up and get the job done. It’s a great old instrument, but the high C buzzes; hopefully a little glue judiciously applied will solve the problem. If only the creaking of my joints were as easily fixed.

So other than making a batch of chili, touching up tomorrow’s sermon, booking a flight to Cuba to visit friends there, and learning a few of the ins and outs of hot hide glue making, it’s been a pretty slow day. Even the fire is slowly dying down to embers, a fitting close to a dying day. Lord willing, tomorrow I will rise early to greet the light and the Lord God who brings it. Busy or slow, that day too will be a gift from God to be treasured and invested for his glory. Rain or snow, the weather will soon catch up to the almanac and spring will warm the ground and fill the air. In the meantime, I give thanks for this slow, rainy day, a warm fire, uneaten chili, a growl truck, and hot hide glue.

Long Haul Love

March 29, 2019

She quietly came up behind him, leaned in close putting her arms around his neck, and kissed the top of his head. It was a small gesture, but spoke eloquently of the love they have shared for more than fifty years, and prompted a conversation about long-term love. It’s a pretty rare commodity these days; attend a graduation at a small high school and you’ll read in the program that less than half of the kids graduating come from intact homes with both birth parents present. It’s sad not only for the kids, but for the adults whose lives have been turned upside down by whatever problems they decided they couldn’t overcome. 

She told me that she was twenty-four and he thirty-three when they married; prior conversations with them revealed the obvious: like everyone else, they had problems to face, obstacles to overcome, but they did so, and in doing it discovered something deeper than mutual attraction. Each of them became better persons for being married to each other. Linda and I have often talked about our marriage; if one of us were to die, would the other remarry? There was a time when that might have happened, but at this stage in our lives we don’t have enough time to make as many memories as we have together. Where would we find someone who fits us the way we fit each other? It amazes us how things that once would have been issues aren’t even bumps in the road any more. We don’t have anything to prove to each other, and neither of us see the value in controlling the other. Power struggles are a thing of the past. 

There is a reason old couples tend to connect with other old couples. We know the ropes—which ones bind people together, which ones trip you up, and which ones you can hang yourself from. People who have been married nearly their entire lives have a lot in common; they’ve learned patience, forgiveness, gratitude. They know how to laugh and when to cry. Life is a bit easier when you have someone to carry half the load while doubling the joy. Tonight I’m thankful for Clark and Marilyn, for the conversation we had this morning, and the reminder to reflect upon and be thankful for my own marriage. It’s a good life we’ve had, and a good life we expect to have, no matter what comes. 

God’s Will

March 28, 2019

When so much in life interests me, it’s easy to get off track from what God has called me to do, which is why sometimes it’s a relief when I can walk away from an open door. For the past week, I’ve been wrestling with a ministry/business opportunity that presented itself to me. My imagination was ranging all over the landscape as to the possibilities this venture would present. On the other hand, exactly where this would take me or how I would manage it was unclear, as was where I would find the energy and time to pull it off. I thought about it, prayed about it, talked it over with Linda, and decided yesterday to take action, so I had a conversation with a knowledgeable individual who gave me the information I needed for my decision, information I had been lacking. I was actually relieved to discover that the opportunity was beyond the parameters I had decided upon. 

People often talk about walking through doors God opens, but not every open door is one we should take. This door is still open; the opportunity remains, but I’ve chosen to walk away. Every road we take means there are hundreds of others we cannot travel. Years ago I chose to be a United Methodist pastor, which meant the early dreams I had of being a missionary in Alaska would never materialize. I chose to marry Linda (and fortunately for me, she also chose me), which meant every other woman on earth was off limits, not only because it would be morally wrong, but also because I value my body parts remaining where they are. 

Some people would look at situations like this in terms of whether or not it is God’s will, which turns every decision we make into a cosmic decision; if we get it wrong, we end up “outside of God’s will.” The problem with that kind of thinking is that it takes us down impossible roads. If marrying a certain person is a matter of God’s will, what happens if we get it wrong? Not only have I missed it for myself, but I’ve also ruined it for my partner and for the people we should have married, ad infinitum. It becomes a never-ending line of dominoes resulting in no one being able to be in God’s will. 

I believe God’s will is moral, ethical, and spiritual; that the Bible is crystal clear on those matters. In everything else God graciously gives us freedom to choose. Psalm 37:4 says, “Delight yourself in the LORD, and he shall give you the desires of your heart.” It doesn’t say he gives us the desires of his heart, but of ours. Put God first, and we have freedom. We don’t need to be fretting about whether this or that decision is God’s will. I love the way Luke states the matter in Acts 15:28–“It seemed good to the Holy Spirit and to us...” I’ve heard too many people declare certain courses of action with absolute divine certainty when it really was a matter of their own choice and preference.

So I walked away from the opportunity, and tonight I keenly feel the freedom of the Holy Spirit to do so, just as I would have felt had I chosen otherwise. I am thankful tonight that God’s will is not determined by majority vote or personal preference, and that God gives us freedom to think, to plan, and to decide. Sometimes it’s good to walk away.

A Chip Off the Old Block

March 27, 2019

At 85, Caleb told his buddy Joshua, “I am eighty-five years old, and yet I am as strong today as on the day Moses sent me (45 years previously) just as my strength was then, so now is my strength...” (Joshua 14:10-11). After I retired, someone once told me that I was a Caleb; that I had new mountains to conquer. There’s just one problem: I’m not yet 85, but neither is my strength what it was at 45. Any mountains I conquer these days either better in reality be small hills, or I’m going to need a little extra time to get to the top.

Linda and I were cutting brush this afternoon. I’m glad to say she petered out before I did, but I wasn’t altogether unhappy to call it a day...after only an hour. How lame is that? There are so many things I’d like to accomplish...and so little time and energy available to me. I have dreams bigger than I could ever hope to fulfill, so one of the challenges at this time in my life is figuring out which of those dreams are realistic and which are only wishes and pipe dreams. 

It’s a good problem to have. Better that than looking around and saying, “Is this all there is?” I’ve known too many people whose dreams died somewhere along the way, leaving them mere shells of the vibrant souls they once were. Sometimes that’s unavoidable; tragedy strikes and life is suddenly turned upside down. Youthful dreams became nightmares. The real tragedies however, are played out in middle age when people settle for mediocre, for ‘good enough,’ or they just get tired of trying. I remember too well those years when it looked like my dream for the church would die in discord and discontent, those years when it took every bit of strength I had to just put one foot ahead of the other, to hold on when everything seemed to be breaking loose. I understand falling to the temptation to quit, but I know too that while success is not guaranteed, quitting is a sure and straight path to failure.

Lord willing, tomorrow I’ll get up. I’ll put my feet on the floor, stretch some aching muscles, and get going. Some of my plans will meet success, others failure. But I’ll chip away at it until I can chip no more...because I am a chip off the old Block, the Stone the builders rejected, Jesus Christ who instead of giving up, “for the joy that was set before him, endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the Father.” (Hebrews 12:2)

Principle and Pride

March 26, 2019

When a politician or a preacher says, “It’s not the money; it’s the principle of the thing,” you can be sure it’s the money. So said a wag to me some years ago. We humans have an enormous capacity for self-deception, imputing the best of motives to ourselves, and the worst of motives to others. Occasionally that kind of assessment may be correct, but I suspect only rarely. When Martin Luther stood before the Diet of Worms defending his teaching on the authority of Scripture to the clerics gathered to declare him heretic, he finally declared, “Here I stand; I can do no other.” That was principle. On the other side were the priests and scholars whose standard of living depended on the selling of indulgences. That was the money.

It’s not always so clear. Whenever I am tempted to take a hard stand on an issue, I have to ask myself whether it’s principle or pride (In my experience, the issue is rarely money). I would like to be able to say that I stand on the principle of a matter, but I’m suspicious that it is often my pride that makes me take a stand. I don’t like to lose, and like most people, if I take a stand it’s because I think I’m right. That could be principle, but it could also be pride. 

God has ways of cutting through all that, but we have to be listening. Years ago, Linda and I had a rather heated disagreement one morning before I left for work. On the drive to my office, God began nagging me: “Which is more important—for you to be right, or for your relationship to be right?” Of course, I thought I was right, but if I insisted on having my way, even if I were right, I would be wrong. I could have insisted on “the principle of the thing,” but in reality it would have been the pride. God put the laces to me that morning!

The difference between pride and principle is not always easy to ferret out. It requires one to humbly and prayerfully allow the Holy Spirit through the Scriptures to challenge and correct...or confirm. Such challenge, correction, and/or confirmation usually requires some time to simmer before we’re ready to hear it. At least, that’s how it works for me. And if God confirms one’s position, it is not celebrated with a victory dance, but received with a gracious heart. 

I’ve taken today to withdraw, pray, think, and listen. My heart is more at rest than yesterday, but I’m sure there is more God wants to teach me. I’m waiting, and while waiting, thanking God for his patience with this old heart that can be a bit slow on the uptake.

Breathing Space

March 25, 2019

Sometimes I think prayer is given to us not only to talk to God, but to put a bit of space between ourselves and our circumstances. We live in a world that elevates personal experience and personal feelings above all else as the final arbiter of truth, when in fact our feelings are the smoothest of liars. People who know me would probably not describe me as emotionally driven, but there are times when circumstances are like arrows to my heart, and were I to respond immediately to the situation, it would get ugly in a hurry. 

I’ve often said that prayer doesn’t come easily to me; at least the kind of prayer where words flow. But prayer is my way of giving me enough breathing space to think things through so I don’t end up saying things I’ll later regret. There are times when I want to jump into things prematurely; my emotions are goading me like cattle prods and it takes every ounce of strength to retreat. I can safely rant and rave before God without worry that my words will be misunderstood or that I will cause more harm than good. 

Tonight I pray. I’ve been praying about this situation for some time, and although the circumstances aren’t budging, maybe God is changing me. I hope so. One thing I know for sure: I am thankful tonight for the privilege of prayer. Perhaps the answer I seek isn’t as important as my seeking the One in whom all answers, both revealed and hidden, reside.

Love it or Leave it

March 24, 2019

Doing what you love is not always peaches and cream. If you love it, you want to do your best at it, put your time into it, sacrifice lesser loves for it. All the competing loves that tug at your heart, making you wonder “What if I took this other road?” have to be forcibly relegated to a lower place on the priority list, where they really don’t want to be. We have only so much time and energy to invest in life; no one can accomplish everything needing to be done. 

I attended a seminar featuring one of the premier jazz bassists alive today. During a question and answer time, one of the students asked him about playing electric as well as upright bass. This man is an amazing musician, more accomplished than most of us can ever hope to be, but he told this student that he realized years before that he needed to choose between the two, that even though both instruments are basses, occupying the same place on the musical scale, each has technique peculiar to itself, and he couldn’t be excellent in both. He chose the upright, but to do so, he had to abandon any thought of mastering the electric at the level he wanted to play.

I don’t understand people who get bored. I have more things I’d like to do than I could manage in a hundred lifetimes. There isn’t enough time left in this life to even scratch the surface of all that interests me, which means I have to make some decisions. I’d love to travel; I’d love to go into business for myself; I’d love to become a good musician; I’d love to read all the books I have stored in boxes...the list goes on and on. Every Sunday evening, this heavy feeling of dread starts to worm its way into my heart; it takes quite a bit of energy for me to corral my thoughts (2 Corinthians 10:5-6) and come to terms with my choices. Because every Sunday morning when it comes time to preach, I discover all over again how much I love what I do. I love digging deep into the Scriptures, sorting through and arranging my thoughts into what I hope will be a coherent and easy to follow outline that is both interesting and compelling. I always feel unable and unworthy to do what I do, and pray God will do something with it to transform my people’s lives, strengthening and encouraging them to live out the Gospel on a daily basis. The fact is, I love what I am doing, and the other stuff is once more on the back burner. 

There are times I’d like God to let me off the hook, to take a break, to give my mind a rest, but that’s probably not best for me. So once more I make the choice, and tomorrow I’ll get back at it, grateful that somehow God seems to continue honoring these feeble efforts. It’s a new week!

Jenny

March 23, 2019

Auctions are bittersweet affairs. Total strangers pawing through the remnants of someone’s life looking for bargains amongst things that were once treasured. We passed by Jenny’s house on the way back home from a pancake breakfast in Forestville. One of Sinclairville’s more colorful citizens, Jenny had lived across the road from my son in what had once been the corner store. Over the years, she and her sister had operated a chocolate-making business, a bridal and flower shop, beauty parlor, ceramics business, and general store. Their parents had bought the place decades ago, and when they had both died, Jenny and her sister Babe ran the operation. I’d only been inside a few times in more than thirty years, the first being when their father died and they held the funeral in the house.

Slowly over the course of the years, the businesses slowed till they simply shut down. Babe died some twenty years ago, and Jenny lived there by herself till recently when it was necessary for her to go to a home for care. There is a niece, but no other living relatives as far as I know. 

Jenny was pretty crusty. I like to think of her as ‘local color.’ She once called the authorities on our son when he had a campfire in his backyard, so he moved it further back on his 12 acres. Nate was determined to turn her into a friend, and he, his wife Deb, and their girls would call on Jen, taking soup and other treats when she was sick. Gradually over the years, Jenny warmed to them, welcoming them into her home, having coffee with Nate, receiving the girls, offering to give them different items. One Easter, Nate took her an Easter basket of canned goods, including a ham. As Jenny pulled it out of the bag, she exclaimed, “A ham! You brought me a ham? The only Jew in Sinclairville, and you brought me a ham?”

Nate wheeled around to grab the pan on the stove and replied with a similarly loud voice, “Jenny, you’re frying bacon, and you want to complain about a ham?” They had a good laugh, and Jenny remained a good friend. But today, most of her life was on display, auctioned off to a crowd of people, most of whom we’d never seen before. It’s sad, really. I would guess Jenny to be in her eighties; more than half of which was spent in that huge house with endless rooms and basement containing thousands of ceramic molds, a couple kilns, assorted equipment for the clay and the chocolate. I watched bridal gowns that had hung on the racks for years being carted off, treasures bought at a bargain. Life sold to the highest bidders. 

Jesus told us to not store up treasures on earth where moth and rust corrupt and thieves break in and steal, but to lay up treasures in heaven where nothing on earth can diminish them. Most of us at one time or another fall prey to the lure of this world’s stuff, but someday, all the things we value here we will leave behind, hopefully to family, but quite possibly to strangers who will see those same items not as connections to our past, but merely as things to resell or use for a life quite different than ours. I am thankful tonight for Jenny...crusty old Jenny, who gave to this community for years, and who leaves behind not just her stuff, but a legacy for me, my son and daughter in law, and their girls who learned from their dad how to be a friend to someone who may seem difficult on the outside, but whose heart beats for companionship and love just like their own. 

Before going home, Nate asked me to help him with something. He had bought the kitchen table where he and Jenny had shared cups of coffee over the years. It turns out Jenny had given something to Nate too. No, not the table; he bought that. But it was more than a table. We carried to his home memories, treasures Jenny gave that can never be taken away.

Practice

March 22, 2019

I’ve often said you can’t get by trying what takes training to accomplish. I could try my hardest, grunting and groaning, but there’s no way I could bench press 300 lbs. I’d be hard pressed to do 200. Why? Because I haven’t trained. Trying doesn’t have the power to add muscle. People who do such feats have trained diligently, often for years, to be able to accomplish what they do. 

Of course, there is a measure of natural ability that plays into this. Take music, for example. I watched Jim, the pianist for the pit band, seemingly effortlessly running his fingers up and down the keyboard with melodies, arpeggios, and scales that simply amazed me. Linda works hard at playing the piano, and does quite well at it, but she would be the first to acknowledge that she will never attain Jim’s level of expertise, any more than I will be a great bassist, able to do the runs, melodies, and arpeggios that my bass instructor at the college handles with aplomb. 

But as anyone who has attempted it will tell you, talented musicians are a dime a dozen. I know people who have worked hard to break into the music scene in New York and Nashville, only to come home broke and wiser. Still, there is no substitute for practice. 

I went to jazz band rehearsal today, like I have dozens of times before. Opening the music folder, I pulled out and looked at the numbers listed on the board. “This is EASY!” was the only response that came to mind. Music that had once challenged me is now safely under my belt; the pieces I worked on for the school musical make everything else easy. I don’t have tons of talent, but I have put in my time, and it shows.

No matter what the endeavor, the principle holds true. Spiritual power, godly ability doesn’t just happen because we pray for it. It comes when we’ve been willing to put in the sweat equity necessary to develop spiritual muscles and muscle memory. I am grateful for this life principle; it gives me great hope for the future. When I repeatedly stumble over the same issue, I remember the music. Parts that once were such a challenge that I didn’t think I’d ever get it right, now flow from my fingers. I expect someday the same will be said about my soul.

Defeat

March 21, 2019

Normally, I’m not one to give up. United Methodist pastors are required to annually submit a bio with a self-evaluation; for years I would write, “I’m a passable preacher, a terrible administrator, but there’s one quality I possess: I don’t give up.” Well, today I had to give up. Quit. 

When we bought Linda’s Ford Fusion, knowing the trade-in wouldn’t be much, we gave the old Camry to Alex and Abi, our oldest granddaughters. It had nearly 200,000 miles on it, but it’s still running strong three years later. Lately, the brakes have been a bit mushy and have a grinding sound, so son Matt and I said we’d do the job this week. He was planning on Saturday, but I had time today, so I put it in the garage and jacked it up. As usual, it’s when the work begins that the trouble starts, the trouble in this case being that no matter what we did, the old rotors wouldn’t come off. We beat it with a four pound sledge, tried driving steel woodsplitting wedges between it and the backing, but they wouldn’t budge. The only solution would be heat, but neither Matt nor myself possess acetylene. 

So we had to quit. I put new pads in the calipers and mounted them back on the old rotors. Tomorrow I’ll call the garage and take it in. Fortunately, though Alex can’t afford it, we can, and her safety is worth more than the dollars we’ll spend getting an actual mechanic to do the job. Sometimes you just have to know when it’s useless to keep fighting. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, surrender is a better option than defeat. It’s taken a lifetime, but thankfully I’m beginning to understand this. Now if I can only figure out when it’s time to give up preaching. The only problem with that is, preaching hasn’t beaten me yet. Maybe someday.

Suit and Tie

March 20, 2019

Talking with him was like stepping back in time. I had answered a Craigslist ad for some folding wooden chairs that were being sold by a church in the Buffalo area. This little elderly gentleman neatly dressed in sport jacket and tie met us at the door. He was early for their Wednesday evening service, and took great delight in telling us all about their very conservative form of worship. Parts of what he told us seemed a bit strange; I’m not sure I’d fit in there, but his demeanor and dress impressed me. It was as if he had stepped out the front door of my home church in 1960. 

On the one hand, I’m glad no one has to feel they can’t come to church because they don’t have a suit and tie, but there are times I miss the unspoken dress code that said coming into the presence of God is so important that it deserves our best attire. Were we given an audience with the queen of England, protocol would demand we don’t show up in old jeans and t-shirt. Why would we come into the presence of our holy and living God dressed as if we were going to a summer picnic? 

We aren’t going to be turning back the clock anytime soon, and I’m not sure we should, but I do at times miss those days when people put on their Sunday best. I’m thankful tonight for this gentleman who unknowingly took me back to a simpler, gentler time, and to the personal roots of my faith when it was all new and fresh to me. It was a good day.

Deceived

March 19, 2019

Sometimes I feel like the prophet Jeremiah whose plaintive lament echoes within my mind, “LORD, you tricked me, and I was fooled. You are stronger than I am, so you won. I have become a joke; everyone makes fun of me all day long.” —Jeremiah 20:7 NCV

Jeremiah tells us he was chosen by God before he was even born, and was faithful in bearing God’s message to his people. But nobody wanted to hear it; he was rejected, ridiculed, jailed, beaten, and kidnapped. He has been called “the weeping prophet” for his continual lamentations for Israel. His was not an easy life; if modern televangelists gave a Jeremiah message, their ministries would fold like a cheap suit. 

My friend and I talked today about what everyday life is like for him. He has chosen to remain faithful in the face of tremendous challenges that would take out lesser men. He doesn’t complain and says he would do it all over again if offered the opportunity. But we wondered together about where is the power of the Gospel to change people, the power of Christ to heal body and mind in circumstances that seem intractable. Neither of us could come up with an answer; it’s a question I’ve asked many times over the years when in spite of faithful prayers, circumstances only worsen and people’s hearts harden. 

I’ll be preaching on faith this Sunday, and have had to take a hard look at what it is...and isn’t. Hebrews 11:1 gives us the biblical definition of faith as “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” It’s that choice to look beyond what we see all around us and believe that there is a greater destiny than what is immediately apparent. We choose to look deeper and higher and farther than those who see only what this world offers, believing that as St. Paul said, “the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory to be revealed in us.” (Romans 8:18). 

Better Stones

March. 18,  2019

We talked as we leaned against the old station wagon parked by the side of the road, tracing the gravel on the side of the road with the toes of our boots. “You know,” he said, “God could raise better servants than us from the stones beneath our feet.” He added, “But isn’t it amazing that he chose us?” Earl Higley was a tall, lanky dairy farmer who had heard God’s call into ministry. I met him one summer while working at Miracle Mountain Ranch in Spring Creek, PA, and he was now itching to start a Christian camp in the hills of western Kentucky. He knew God wasn’t looking for ability as much as availability, which for most of us is a good thing. Earl was available, and that made all the difference.

I suspect we often miss out on God’s blessing because they come wrapped in difficulties we imagine are too daunting. Those blessings aren’t found lying around on the surface of life waiting to be picked up like children pick up stones or leaves they find interesting. The real valuables of life have to be mined, cut, and polished, if the glory of the gem is to be revealed. Even then, sometimes the beauty is only in the eye of the beholder. 

I’ve talked about my musical journey with the pit band. When I first saw the music, I thought, “This doesn’t look too hard.” Then I examined it closely, the jazzy syncopation, the numerous key changes, notes that danced across the page with reckless abandon, and I realized I was in over my head. The problem was, by the time I realized it, it was too late. I tried to enlist some bass students from the college, but no one came to my rescue, so there was no alternative but to give it my best, which I did. There’s no doubt in my mind that there are plenty of people who could have done a better job than me, but it came down to a matter of availability over ability. “Yes” trumps “I could do this” every time. And along the way, I received blessings I would have missed had I succeeded in my attempts to wiggle out of it. I met some great people, improved my playing, and received more encouragement than I can tell you. God could have raised a better player from the stones beneath my feet, but when asked, I said yes, and that yes made all the difference.

Eliza

March 17, 2019

Corned beef and cabbage, green beer, shamrocks, wearing of the green, and a big parade in New York City—it doesn’t take a superabundance of brains to figure out what day it is. We celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in honor of the man who supposedly drove the snakes out of Ireland, but who in reality was responsible for its conversion from paganism to Christianity in the fifth century. 

Patrick himself was not Irish, but British, or perhaps more accurately, Scottish, although the distinctions are a bit blurry that far back. As a teenager, he was captured by coastal raiders and enslaved for a number of years during which he was converted. Escaping back to his homeland, he soon had a vision through which he was convinced of a divine calling on his life to return to Ireland as a missionary, which he did. There is far more to his story, but it is not the reason for my gratitude tonight. 

On this day thirteen years ago, a little Leprechaun popped into our family. Eliza has brought laughter, wonder, creativity, gentle compassion, a love for all things musical and athletic, and most things academic. She is the daughter, granddaughter, and sister anyone would be proud to claim, but it is a privilege given to only a select few, of which I happen to be one. My life would be much poorer were she not in it, and I am thankful tonight that God gave her to us. Happy birthday, Lizey, our newest teenager!

Going For It

March 16, 2019

My life has been taken over by sheet music. Last week, it was rehearsal every day, with performances on the weekend. This week hasn’t been quite as pressing, but the music is constantly in my head even if it hasn’t managed to work its way flawlessly to my fingers. Tonight is the final performance, and to be honest, I’m going to miss it much more than my wife who has become a music widow from it all. 

I’ve written on the challenges this music has presented and of my limited capacity to actually play the music, but it’s not been as a complaint; it’s a recognition of the scope of my bass abilities, none of which has provoked scorn by those much more accomplished than myself. The encouragement has been nonstop, and even the admiration that as an amateur I would even attempt to jump in. Our pianist, a piano professor at Fredonia college, told me that this is by far the most difficult music of the fifty or so musicals he has accompanied. I am grateful for his unassuming cues when I’ve lost my place. 

Our cellist plays for the Erie symphony, and seemed surprised last night when I told her I was a retired pastor. Turns out, her pastor and I went to college together, and when I mentioned one of the songs which should be easy for its profusion of whole notes, she confessed her own difficulty with that piece, saying, “It has no pulse.” 

All this is to say I’ll miss it when it’s over. I’ve made some good friends and acquaintances, have learned a lot, and improved my abilities. Taking on a challenge and stretching oneself is not only good for my brain and fingers; it’s good for the soul. I grew up in a pretty conservative household. It took me years to understand the value of risk taking and even of failure. John Maxwell used to speak of this in a little ditty he quoted at his leadership seminars:

There was a very cautious man

Who never laughed or played

He never risked, he never tried,

He never sang or prayed.

And when one day he passed away,

His insurance was denied,

For since he never really lived,

They claimed he never died.

I decided years ago I would not be that man. I’m no daredevil; I have no repressed urge to do things to end my life prematurely, but I have chosen to live the days I’ve been given as fully as possible. I expect heaven to be an utterly spectacular place because where I am planted now is amazing, and am thankful for every opportunity I am given, even if it means ditching any thoughts of lazily sitting on the back deck sipping iced tea in the summer breezes. As soon as it warms up, I’ll strap my bass to the sidecar and head north. It might even be time to take in a few more lessons.

Going For It

March 15, 2019

Looking back, it seems like a slam-dunk. We know how the Biblical stories turn out, which makes it easy to imagine that we would have been heroes of faith instead of the uncertain, wishy-washy characters we read about. “Why in the world would the Israelites have wanted to return to slavery in Egypt,” we wonder? “Why wasn’t David out with his troops instead of casting a lustful eye Bathsheba’s way?” “Why didn’t Jonah obey God and preach to Nineveh at the first, saving himself the ignominy of getting swallowed alive?” 

We look at the heroes of the faith and imagine ourselves to be cut from the same cloth. Problem is, we are. Most of the people populating the biblical narrative are a pretty sorry lot. The best of them had clay feet; the worst of them were corrupt through and through. Abraham lied about his wife, allowing her to be carted off to a king’s harem to save his own skin. David had one of his most faithful soldiers murdered to cover up his having raped the man’s wife. 

Occasionally, there slips into the story the odd line revealing character that shines like the glint of gold in the sunlight. In the story of Caleb (Joshua 14), the man accosts his old ally Joshua to claim the inheritance he had been promised forty five years previously. He is as eager to accept a challenge at 85 as he was at 40. Talk about faith! He is ready to go, but there are no guarantees of success. Towards the end of his speech he reveals the uncertainty of his endeavor: “It may be that the Lord will be with me, and I shall drive them out just as the Lord said." We know of his ultimate success, but at the time, he didn’t. 

My father used to tell the story of a friend who invested in Haloid stock back in the forties. Haloid became Xerox, splitting multiple times and making dad’s friend a wealthy man. “If I had only known back then...” was dad’s lament. The problem is, his friend didn’t know either, but chose to look beyond the uncertainty to the possible reward. 

Caleb had inherited a promise, but it was up to him to cash in on it, and there was a great deal of uncertainty involved. The only thing he was sure of was that he had a promise and was going to do everything in his power to bring it to fruition. 

None of us are guaranteed success in life, but the only way to be sure to fail is to fail trying. Those who see the opportunities through the obstacles are my heroes. They are imperfect; they make mistakes; they may wait a lifetime before their opportunity comes, and even then it may not pan out. But they go for it! 

I’ve tried a lot of things in my life. Some have worked out, others have not. I am grateful for the opportunities I’ve been given. I have more years behind me than ahead of me, but I plan to make the most of whatever time and opportunities I have left. Unlike Caleb, my strength isn’t what it was 45 years ago, and I may not conquer that mountain. But then again, I may. It’s called faith, and it’s the only way to really live.

Caleb

March 14, 2019

Once you’re in over your head, it doesn’t matter how deep it gets. Sometimes I think it would be nice to just be able to put life in neutral and coast for awhile. The problem with that is either you’re going downhill or slowing down, which may be ok when riding a bicycle, but isn’t a good plan for life. During a mission trip to Cuba in 2012, one of our partners down there prayed over me and reminded me of Caleb.

Caleb was one of only two spies who brought back a good report to Moses regarding the Promised Land. All the others saw only the obstacles. Caleb and Joshua saw the opportunities, and it made all the difference. Focusing on the problems truncates our vision. Focusing on the opportunities takes the problems into account, but looks beyond them to the end reward. The one gets mired, the other may get delayed, but won’t let the obstacles win.

Caleb and Joshua had to endure forty years of wandering because of the others’ lack of faith, but when the time came to enter the land, old as they were, Caleb reminded Joshua of the promise made a lifetime earlier and said, 

“Look, the Lord has kept me alive, just as he said, these forty-five years since the time that the Lord spoke this word to Moses, while Israel walked in the wilderness. And now, behold, I am this day eighty-five years old. I am still as strong today as I was in the day that Moses sent me; my strength now is as my strength was then, for war and for going and coming. So now give me this hill country of which the Lord spoke on that day, for you heard on that day how the Anakim were there, with great fortified cities. It may be that the Lord will be with me, and I shall drive them out just as the Lord said."”

Joshua 14:10-12 ESV

In 2012 I was anticipating my retirement, but Yamile said to me, “You are a Caleb. You have a mountain to conquer and a church to plant.” In the years since then, instead of planting a church, God planted me in Dunkirk where I was soon in over my head. It is a small city congregation, and I know next to nothing about growing a church, especially in the city. Over my head.

I’ve been playing string bass for the New Horizons jazz band, and recently for the Cassadaga Valley school musical. The latter’s music is very challenging—beyond my skill level. I’m in over my head.

Just this afternoon, I had a conversation with my friend Joel, the fellow who got me started in Cuba. Arriving yesterday from Havana, he told me of a need in Cuba for which I think I may be qualified, but then I remember the times I thought I knew what I was doing and messed it up. Whatever is next for me in Cuba, I know I’ll be in over my head. But none of this matters. Once you’re in over your head, it doesn’t matter how deep it gets. Like Nemo, you just keep swimming. It’s better than coasting. I think I’d rather climb the hill than coast down it. The view is better from the top. Just call me Caleb.

Availability

March 13, 2019

On one of our mission trips, we spent an entire morning looking all over the city for two small screws to fasten an electric box to a wall. Back home, we could have bought a bucket of them at Home Depot, but in this country they were nowhere to be found. This was but one introduction to the glories of Socialism where everything is in short supply and everyone is equally poor. 

This afternoon was a perfect day to change the oil in my truck. It was overdue, but the cold combined with the slop adhering to the undercarriage of my vehicle had discouraged me from attempting it earlier. A couple days of warmer weather and dry roads meant that the time had come, so I crawled underneath (the clearance of 4wd is a godsend!), drained the oil, removed the old filter, and tried to screw the new one on. It wouldn’t go. I checked the threaded hole against the old filter; it was smaller! No wonder it wouldn’t fit! A search for the receipt was in vain, so I figured I’d just have to swallow the price of a new filter. What really irked me was having to waste an hour driving to Fredonia for a new filter.

Half an hour later, I stood in Auto Zone reading the oil filter chart, which informed me I had the correct filter after all. I even took the offending one into the store for comparison. They were the same; what could possibly be going on? Oh well—my hour was wasted, but there was no sense in fretting about it, so I headed home and checked the numbers on the old filter. They were identical to the one I had originally purchased. Crawling back underneath the truck, I tried again. No luck. Finally, I managed to get both hands up where the filter mounted to the engine block only to discover that I had been trying to screw the filter onto some protrusion on the block. Once I got it in the right place...voila! It screwed in as nicely as you please.

There was a time when this entire episode would have had me fuming, but I cannot forget our mission trip. I made a foolish mistake and wasted an afternoon, but if I had really picked up the wrong filter, I could have remedied my error with a shopping cart of the correct ones. In other countries, it wouldn’t have mattered; the right filters would just not have been available at any price. I am thankful tonight that we live in a country where Capitalism and enterprise has made available nearly everything I need to function well materially. 

God has made available everything we need for life and godliness (2 Peter 1:3) if we will only take advantage of it. It would be a sin to make use of our abundant material resources while failing to tap into our unlimited spiritual resources. I am thankful for both, and hope to be as faithful in the latter as in the former.