No Sparks!

 September 30, 2020

Last night’s debate went pretty much as everyone thought it would, which is to say, disappointing. That’s politics for you—lots of bluster with more heat than light. I used to think people needed to hear my thoughts on such matters, but usually even I don’t need to hear them. Most people live in their own little echo chambers, hearing people just like them reinforce their own biases, listening to the other side just only enough to be formulating a rebuttal. 

My personal musings have often felt somewhat unimportant in comparison with the great issues of our day, but more and more, I’m becoming convinced that being faithful in the often smaller circle in which we find ourselves has significance far beyond that of the talking heads of the media. Take today, for example. My day began with the reading of Scripture; Deuteronomy in particular. It got me to thinking about how we determine which parts of the OT Law are to be taken literally and which we can leave behind. I read today about the punishment for a woman who intervenes in a physical altercation between her husband and another man. If she grabs the other man’s genitals, she was to have her hand chopped off—shades of Sharia! Yet there are other parts we Christians still observe. I’m still working on that one!

The rest of the day was pretty ordinary; hosting our Dunkirk pastor’s prayer group, moving topsoil, showing grass seed where we took down the cherry tree, then picking up a window for our granddaughter’s bedroom before finishing the wiring. I consider it to be a good day when after wiring a room, we flip the breaker and don’t see sparks. Everything worked just as it is supposed to, and I don’t think I’ll need to worry about burning down their house.

So it was an ordinary day. Tonight I am praying for friends dealing with cancer, for others whose marriages are in jeopardy, for teachers and kids struggling with COVID-induced educational chaos, and for my brothers and sisters in Cuba who are dealing with shortages far beyond what we are experiencing. The world keeps turning, the power brokers keep scheming,  the devil keeps whispering, but God is still God, choosing the least, the forgotten, the humble; and for that, I am thankful tonight.

Promises Kept

 September 29, 2020

Deuteronomy 23:23–“That which has gone from your lips you shall keep and perform.” Psalm 15:4 puts it differently when speaking of the person able to live on God’s holy mountain—“He who swears to his own hurt and does not change.” 

Keeping one’s word is important. I grew up at a time when “a man’s word was his bond,” and a deal made with a handshake was considered inviolable. Today, we prevaricate and look for the slimmest escape clause through which we can wiggle out of our promises; claiming that our words were taken out of context, or that we didn’t really mean what we said. Lawyers get rich on inexact clauses in contracts, but the rest of us are poorer for it. Case in point, our political life is in chaos because of broken promises on both sides of the aisle.

Civil life depends on the kind of stability that can only exist when promises are kept. Jesus told us to let our “yes be yes, and our no be no.” Speaking plainly and honestly, and keeping our promises would prevent a lot of heartache and trouble in this world. What is more, there is no expiration date on integrity. Over fifty years ago, I made a promise to “love, honor, comfort, and keep” Linda. I have to admit, I haven’t always kept that promise as well as I should have. I’ve said hurtful things, put my own feelings and desires ahead of hers; I haven’t perfectly loved her as Christ loves the Church. Thankfully, we have both kept our promises to “keep ourselves only unto each other as long as we both shall live.”

Whether in marriage or life in general, making promises we cannot or will not keep is an offense to God, and a betrayal of our own integrity. Eight years ago, I promised God and myself to refuse to comment on political stuff on Facebook. I’ve slid from that promise and need to focus once more on only that which is positive and uplifting—something that’s in short supply on Facebook. After all, it’s not my responsibility to correct every goofy thing people say or believe, any more than it is their job to correct the goofy things I say and believe. It may be a small matter, but the promise is not. That promise came out of my mouth, and I am bound by my word to keep it. I’m sure many will thank me; those who need a positive word, and those who won’t have to listen to my contrary ramblings. It’s a win-win for which everyone can rejoice.

Vacation Time

 September 28, 2020

The ancient Deuteronomic code specified three times each year when God’s people were to gather together for what were called “holy convocations.” Passover, the Feast of Weeks or Firstfruits, and the Harvest Feast of Tabernacles which was preceded by the Feast of Trumpets and the Day of Atonement. Aside from their religious purpose, these were times when work-weary people took a mass vacation and celebrated together their heritage and faith. Vacations are important, a fact I didn’t realize when I was younger. I never took all the time off allotted to me, and I wonder now how wise it was to do that. 

This week, I’m helping a friend with a remodeling job, wiring my granddaughter’s bedroom in preparation for the drywall, taking a trip to Rochester to give my brother a break from caring for our mother, and still need to spread some topsoil and seed the side yard where we took down a tree. I’ve been asked to remove some bees from a barn, but that will have to wait till next week. The back entry to the house needs to be torn down, and Linda appreciates it if I take time to give her some attention. 

It’s easy even in these COVID-restricted times to get so many things going that I lose sight of what it means to actually live in the presence of God. I find it easy to read my Bible perfunctorily, seeing the words, but not really paying attention. God promises strength for each day, but requires us to not take on more than he intends for each of those twenty-four hours. Being stressed out is the price we pay for biting off more than we can chew. After so many years, it’s hard to slow down, even when I’m tired. But if I keep going, it can cost me my soul. There is a bright spot in all this: when I visit mom, she sleeps a lot. I guess she’s making up for those busy years in her life. I don’t want to wait till I’m 98 to take a break, so when I visit, I slow down. Putting the brakes on takes determination, but I’m not a quitter, so that’s what I’ll do. It’s not quite the same as the ancient Hebraic feasts, but the effect is much the same—time to pause, reflect, and reorient my life to the rhythms of God himself.

 September 27, 2020

Wayne and I had flown to Portland, Oregon to learn about lay led small group ministry, but flew home with so much more. Dale Galloway was the pastor who had developed a robust lay pastor ministry where small group leaders actually functioned as pastors to those in their group. We adapted his model and the ministry here began to take wing. 

Unexpected in all our learning that week in 1993 was the impact of contemporary worship. Space limitations had forced us into running two services, but they were identical; opening prayer, three hymns spaced out between announcements, pastoral prayer, and the sermon. Everything was done by the book, with organ and choir, replete with robes. The 8:30 service was attended by a handful of people, just enough refugees from 11:00 to ease the pressure on that hour. Our technology wasn’t sophisticated; an overhead projector with someone placing the clear plastic sheets with lyrics to praise choruses popular at the time. With Wayne on electric bass and me on guitar, we jumped in both feet, not realizing we would instantly be in over our heads.

Amazingly, that service took off, and within a year, it was 11:00 that was struggling, and not very happy about it. We didn’t give up, and bit by bit, we added others to the lineup; Pete on drums, Jeff on lead guitar, and a fledgling Nate Bailey, tentatively strumming guitar in the background. Did I mention we didn’t give up?

Fast forward twenty five years. As worship leader, Nate usually is at the center mic, acoustic guitar in hand, leading the congregation with utter abandon. We have two worship teams in Sinclairville and one in Cassadaga, and a host of young people coming through the ranks in our School of the Arts. And today Todd, who usually plays lead guitar, was worship leader, with Jess on keyboards, Leslie on bass, Joel on drums and Bri on vocals. Nate was in the background playing slide guitar, adding riffs, enhancing the music. It was absolutely glorious (and can be heard on YouTube and Facebook)! That cross-country flight those years ago was a seed planted that grew and flourished, and has come back to bless me and others time and time again. God is good...so very good!

#blessedatpark 

Simplicity

 September 26, 2020

He had only a Bible school education; three years at Practical Bible Institute. He started out bi-vocational, working at Kodak while pastoring the fledgling congregation he and a handful of young men and women founded on the west side of the city; hence the name: Westside Baptist Church. We weren’t charter members, but also weren’t far from it when my mother decided we needed to start going to church. Though the church has grown and changed much since then, I can still point to the place in front of the kitchen where I received Christ. The sanctuary where I walked the aisle to publicly profess my new faith is now the gymnasium, but to me, it is still holy ground.

Shortly after I left that church to go to college, there was a change in pastors. The community was growing, was becoming a bit more sophisticated. A pastor with only a Bible school education wouldn’t do; a seminary-trained pastor was needed. Or so they thought. The man who got the job was a good man, more sophisticated perhaps, but things were never quite the same, and when the new pastor received a call to a larger and even more sophisticated church, he jumped at the chance. The church has had a string of pastors since then, none of whom I ever met.

Pastor Ellis (no one ever thought of calling him by his first name) took on a quaint meeting house congregation in a more rural setting, and eventually retired. I had the opportunity years later to visit him in his retirement community in Florida where I told him how much his ministry meant to me. When I think of what it means to be a faithful pastor, I still think of him. And today when I read one of the day’s Psalms, his face came into focus in my mind. It was just a phrase, but it captures his ministry, and hopefully, mine. I had the privilege of going to seminary, but when I think theologically or ministerially, I go further back to my roots at Westside Baptist. The phrase that caught my attention was this: “The LORD preserves the simple; I was brought low, and He saved me.” (Psalm 116:6) 

I’ll leave the philosophy and critical theory to others. I’m no deep systematic theologian; my mind works much more simply. As John Newton was wont to say, “I was a great sinner, but Jesus is a great Savior.” I am thankful tonight that I came to Christ under the ministry of a simple Bible-school educated preacher, and that simplicity hasn’t left me in the sixty years since. The Lord truly does preserve the simple and saves those brought low in humble repentance. 

Honey

 

September 25, 2020

It’s been twenty years since I’ve last smelled that sweet pungency which greeted me as I entered the driveway today. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it. The bees are making honey, and I’m a bit closer to heaven tonight. This morning I brought home a colony I took out of a barn. Being so long since I last did this, I made a few mistakes along the way, and I’m not sure I managed to save the queen. I fear not, in which case, this colony probably won’t make it. They haven’t made any queen cells, and the colony is too disrupted to start any this late in the game. It’s too bad; I hate to see a colony die, especially if I’m responsible for it. 

We’ll see. I may get lucky, but even if not, the other colonies are doing fine, and the honey flow is on. In the meantime, I understand the richness of the Biblical description of the Promised Land as a land “flowing with milk and honey.” Even with all the sweeteners available to us today, nothing quite matches the delicacy of honey fresh from the comb. The processed stuff you can buy at Walmart or even Wegmans is to the real thing like a Big Mac compared to filet mignon. 

A few facts about honey. Its sugar content is so high, it cannot spoil. I have honeycomb in my freezer that I took from my hives twenty years ago. It is almost as fresh as that which I cut from the barn yesterday. It is antibacterial. Again, the sugar content prevents bacteria from growing. Slather it on a burn or a cut to speed up the healing process. Just don’t sleep in a tent where there are bears nearby. Local honey can help alleviate pollen allergies. Some of the pollen the bees collect gets into the honeycomb, acting as a sort of inoculation against the allergens. The last trivia concerns the bees themselves. Honeybee stings have been proven to help alleviate the symptoms of arthritis and even MS. The honeybee is a marvelous creature; just one more reason to praise the wisdom and glory of the God who created them. Tonight, I am thankful for my bees. They are worth every single sting, and tonight’s airborne aroma is heavenly.

Take Heed

 September 24, 2020

Lately I’ve been reading Deuteronomy again. It takes a little more determination than the Gospels or Paul’s letters, but it’s still foundational for both Judaism and Christianity. In the 4th chapter, three times we are commanded to “take heed to yourselves” (vv. 9, 15, & 23), in other words, “pay attention to what is going on inside you.” Too often, we are keenly aware of what is happening all around us, what other people are saying and doing, but are dreadfully ignorant of our own hearts. It’s easy to imagine the problem is someone else, when in fact, our own attitudes and behaviors are our own worst enemies. 

For seven years now, I’ve been working on my attitudes and responses regarding others. Facebook doesn’t help at all; anyone who has an opinion, no matter how crazy or ill-informed, can post it for all to see. Sometimes, they word things quite cleverly, and often I wonder where they are getting their information. I’m sure they wonder the same about me. All these opinions put forth where everyone can see them become fodder for counter-posts and columns of people we don’t even know telling us either how correct or crazy we are. We become quite aware of them, but less so about our own biases. 

The Scripture has plenty to say about our need to be aware of others when it comes to matters of the heart. Do I notice when someone is broken-hearted or discouraged? Can I see through the anger to the injury that caused it? Can I sympathize with the fear another feels? 

Years ago, I had a running conversation with a self-proclaimed agnostic who responded to my posts with an unusual amount of vitriol. He stated that anyone who taught religion to their children ought to be arrested for child abuse. I probed the issue with him, asking how he could be such an authority on child rearing, knowing he had no children of his own. He almost exploded with anger, revealing how he had been physically and sexually abused as a child. I already knew that he had been an ardent believer until his grandfather developed what turned out to be a terminal illness. He prayed and begged God for his grandfather’s life, to no avail. His anger was an understandable, albeit unhelpful, response to his life experiences. These are things we fail to see when people say and do things that rub us the wrong way. 

I cannot see others correctly if I haven’t first “taken heed to myself.” Jesus’ spin on this was, “Take the log out of your own eye before you try to remove the splinter in your brother’s eye” (Matthew 7:2-5). Moses said it first: “Take heed to yourselves.” I’m working on it. The more I know my own heart, the better positioned I’ll be to know another’s.

Pappy

 September 23, 2020

I’ve bragged up small town life quite a bit lately, but I’m not done yet. I have a pair of brand new snow tires for which I have no use, so I offered them to my granddaughters, both of whom accepted, which means I need to come up with a couple more tires. They of course, are most appreciative, and I am most willing to make sure they are safe this winter. All of which leads me to tonight’s story.

When Linda and I first moved to Sinclairville nearly forty years ago, “Pappy” Okerlund was the village mechanic. He was a crusty old fella, but when we brought Linda’s car in for some work just before winter, he told her she couldn’t be driving on those old tires. We told him we didn’t have the money for new ones, but he responded, “I don’t care. She’s not driving on those. You pay me when you can.” He put four brand new snow tires on her car even though we had no money to pay him. A crusty exterior can often hide a tender heart. Pappy wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know he was a softie inside, and we kept his secret till the day he died. 

Seven years ago, life took a strange turn of events. Pappy and his wife had both died when Linda was talking with their daughter one day. “What are your plans for their house?” she asked. Darla wasn’t sure. After all, it was the home she and her brother and sister grew up in. Six months later, Linda got a call. “Are you still interested in it?” We were, and today we are living in Pappy’s old home, remodeled. I like to think Pappy’s generosity and kindness stayed behind to bless all who enter here. At the very least, it has come full circle.

Living Here

 September 22, 2020

Thirty eight years ago, I wasn’t impressed. This place wasn’t quaint like some New England villages; the poverty of the area was palpably visible. It hasn’t improved much since that first encounter. The hotel burned in the late eighties, the two village garages are gone, as is the Masonic lodge, the corner diner, the Agway and the Agway mill. But first impressions can be deceiving. 

Sinclairville is as idyllic a place to live and raise a family as can be found most anywhere. It’s not perfect, but the people we have come to know and grown to love here make this little village a place to envy. It is home to our children and their many friends, it’s where we worship, live, and (for the most part) love one another. Most of it still isn’t much to look at, but it is a great place to live in.

Today Linda and I finished splitting and stacking the firewood from the cherry tree we had cut down. We have so much wood, we don’t have space to stack it, so we decided to give some away. We took two pickup truck loads to a young couple whose own supply is depleted. Two more, and we are a little closer to getting the backyard ready for next year’s wedding reception. 

On the second trip to son Nathan with logs his wife Deb wants to use for the wedding, “adopted” daughter Nicole helped load the loveseat we had given them years ago into the truck. They needed the room, and we had a place for it, so back it came. I returned the splitter I borrowed from pastor Joe, and after dinner went to son Matt’s to see how the remodeling project is coming along. While I was there, son Nate stopped by to see if Matt could repair a warped part for his wood stove. He had already helped install a window in the room. Matt and I finished the window, and I went downstairs to find neighbor Bob who had come over to see the progress. Bob is doing major remodeling on his house, so we talked about it for awhile before I came home.

About fifteen minutes later, daughter Jessie stopped by for a visit. In the course of a single day, the intertwined network of family and friends repeatedly criss-crossed my field of vision, giving and receiving help and support. In these days of COVID when people are feeling isolated, living in this small village is a gift of the highest order for which I am thankful tonight.

Rest

 September 21, 2020

Three times in the Biblical book of Hebrews, Psalm 95:7-8 is quoted: “Today, if you will hear his voice, do not harden your heart” (Hebrews 3:7, 15, 4:7). Three times also, the 11th verse of this Psalm is quoted: “They shall never enter my rest” (Hebrews 3:11, 4:3, 5). Restlessness is thus thrice linked to a hard heart, an unsettling connection for me. I’ve found myself often unsettled and restless due to all the COVID restrictions being pressed upon us by our government. What was originally billed as “two weeks to flatten the curve” has morphed into six months of restrictions that seem to vary with circumstance. I chafe against these restrictions and against the insinuation by some that such chafing is an indication of a lack of compassion. But I must bow to the conviction of Scripture that when my heart is restless, it is because it is hardened against the voice of God.

I have to decide whether or not to believe in God’s sovereignty. Refusal is a sign of a hardness taking root within me. If God is in control, external circumstances are irrelevant. If I truly believe God is in control, those circumstances have no ability to shake or move me. My heart will rest unfailingly in his unfailing grace. 

Last night I listened to the lyrics of an old hymn, “Abide with me.” The second verse speaks to the changing nature of the world in which we find ourselves.

“Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day,

Earth’s joys grow dim, it’s glories pass away,

Change and decay in all around I see,

O Thou who changes not, abide with me.”

“Change and decay” pretty well describe what we are seeing all around us. If I am restless in the midst of it, it’s because I’ve pinned my hopes to those glories which are passing away. Rest is found only by abiding in the One who is above and over all we see here, and only a heart responsive to his tender mercies will find that rest. I am thankful tonight for the Holy Spirit who pursues my often wandering heart through the Scriptures, tenderizes it in the love of Christ, and grants it rest in the presence of the Father.

Hunger Pangs

 September 20, 2020

Ninety-eight years ago today, she made her entrance into this wonderfully amazing world. It was a world bright with promise—the Roaring Twenties. Hers was not the society of the Great Gadsby, but the Great War was over, her father was home from his time in the Navy, and life was good. Seven years later on October 28, it would all come crashing down. The Great Depression was underway, and this seven-year old was caught in its throes. By then, she had a younger sister, and her parents would often go to bed hungry so she and her sister could have something to eat. Finally, unable to feed them both, she was sent to her grandparents’ farm where at least there would be food.

A seven year old child cannot understand her parents’ anguished choice, necessitated by forces beyond their control, and though well fed, the hunger in her soul brought pangs that would never completely be satisfied. Years later, she tearfully recalled those years and the feelings of abandonment she felt. 

Life improved, she found love, married, raised a family, and has left a heritage of faith and faithfulness that continues to bless. Ninety-eight years is a lot of living; she has seen how prosperity and comfort can vanish almost overnight. Things taken for granted can be taken from us, but though as St. John said, “this world is fading away,” (1 John 2:17), we have an anchor for the soul in Jesus Christ, who is “the same, yesterday, today, and forever.” (Hebrews 13:8). 

We are seeing the life we knew suddenly and violently taken from us. That which seemed so solid and secure is indeed, fading away. I for one, have too often clung to it with a loyalty it doesn’t deserve, and need to learn the lesson my mother had to learn as a little girl. This too, will pass, but the Word of the Lord is forever. Thank you, mom, for teaching me that, not only by your words, but by your very life.

Serendipity

 September 19, 2020

Our eldest granddaughter has a job requiring strict COVID protocol, which means the only way we can see her is outside, maintaining the required distances. She has today off, and decided to pay us a visit, which was wonderful for us; perhaps less so for her, as we put her right to work. About three or four cord of wood later, the job was done, with her help. She stacked, and even learned to drive the tractor. Again tonight, my arms are so sore and tired I can barely type, but my heart is full,ad I am thankful to have shared this time together. The ice cream reward was just because we could. 

Yesterday while I was visiting my mother, the grandsons popped in for a visit with Linda, followed by three of the granddaughters. They talked for awhile, then left, but these serendipitous visits are like springs in the desert for us. Living close by and having the grandkids want to visit is priceless!

Fixed

 September 18, 2020

When my day is pretty ordinary, I revert to the gratitude calendar I started out with seven years ago. Today’s suggestions are, something fixed, folded, and freckled. I’ll take them in reverse order.

Freckled is a bit difficult. I don’t know too many freckled people, so the only freckles I can come up with are the freckly spots on the bottoms of my beehives. They’re speckled with bits of wax, but so far, not with mites, for which I am grateful. Hive mites are one of the banes of apiarists; they attach both to adult bees and their larvae, causing deformity of the emerging bees, which weakens and can eventually kill the colony. So having a bottom board freckled with only wax is something for which I give thanks tonight.

As for folded, yesterday when I arrived at my mother’s, I relieved my sister who was caring for her the previous day. We got to talking about Options Care Center, the pro-life pregnancy center of which my daughter is the executive director. My 98 year old mother gives regularly to this ministry, and had already given for the Walk for Life. Her previous gift didn’t deter her one bit as she insisted I take another contribution. My sister also wrote a check, both of which I folded into my wallet to bring me that much closer to my goal of raising $500. I’m getting close!

So what is fixed? My thoughts went immediately to Hebrews 12:1-2. “Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.”

Usually, when I think of “fixed,” it refers to something broken that has been repaired, but here, it’s a steady focus on the Source and Foundation of our faith. You would think this would be easy, almost second nature, but I’ve found it’s more difficult than it seems. It’s much easier to get fixated on other things; on politics, sports, hobbies, a job, family, or the internet. I have to check myself regularly. What is my default mode? Do I reach for my phone every time I have a minute unoccupied by anything else? I find it’s easy to check the news before I read my Bible. When I do, I’m fixated on the wrong thing. It is a continual battle to fix my gaze upon Jesus Christ before anything else. He is the only reliable source of stability in life, so I keep working at it. I am thankful that he fixed his eyes on the cross for me. The least I can do is fix my eyes on him.

Depression

 September 17, 2020

A friend wrote to me today, confiding some of the struggles with depression he has been facing. His words took me back nearly eight years to the breakthrough God gave me over the same demons. In the intervening years, I haven’t gotten it perfect, but what I learned in that encounter literally changed my life. I’ve shared it before, but it bears repeating, as I see Christians struggling with depression and the feelings of defeat it brings. As I said, I haven’t done it perfectly, but I’ve worked hard to focus on that for which I am thankful, and it has made a world of difference. For those times I’ve relapsed, I beg forgiveness. I’m still a work in progress. Here’s what I wrote to my friend. Maybe it will encourage you, too.

You indeed are a dear friend, and I will certainly pray for you. We all feel weak at times, and in fact, we are weak in and of ourselves. If we were not weak, we wouldn’t need the strength of Christ. I have often felt that my weaknesses disqualified me from being a pastor, until I cast myself on the mercies of God, who helps the weak and heals the broken-hearted. Once, when I had stumbled over the same sin again, as I had done many times before, I said, “God, if I were you, I would be so done with me.” He answered that prayer immediately when he said, “Aren’t you glad I’m not you?”

For most of my life, even as a pastor, I fought mild depression. I called it melancholy because it wasn’t so bad I needed medication or hospitalization, but it felt like there was constantly a cloud over my head. It came to a head in December of 2012 during the presidential election here in the states. I got caught up with it, thinking about it all the time. On December 28, the Lord asked me, “Jim, where is your joy?” I had to admit, I didn’t know. That very day, he led me to a website where I found a calendar called “Joy Dare.” 

The woman who put this together had struggled with depression, and to combat it, developed this calendar. Each day there were three different things for which to give thanks. I began following the calendar and writing about those three things each day. That began the nightly musings I now post on Facebook. I had been posting political comments, but decided I would only post positive and uplifting things. It was a struggle. I was surprised to discover how hard it was to speak only words of kindness and gratitude. I had this misguided notion that if I didn’t comment on everything I thought was wrong, I was somehow neglecting my duty to correct the world. It took awhile to realize I wasn’t changing anyone’s mind, but by writing about the things for which I was thankful, I was actually helping people. It turns out, I was helping myself, too. About a year after I began this discipline of finding three things each day for which to give thanks, I woke up one morning and realized that cloud had disappeared! I no longer felt the weight I had carried for so long. I think it was because all those years I had unknowingly been disobedient to the Word of God which commanded me to “give thanks in everything.” (1 Thessalonians 5:18). When I finally started obeying those simple words, everything changed.

So here is my prayer for you: “Father of all mercy and grace, who heals all our diseases and forgives all our sins, look with gentle kindness upon your servant. Turn his thoughts away from himself and how he feels, and turn them toward the Cross. Remind him that salvation is never found in our own righteousness, for we shall always fall short. Shower upon him grace and mercy, forgiveness and peace, through our Lord Jesus Christ, and by the power of the Holy Spirit. Cover him with your wings of love, in Jesus’ mighty Name. Amen.”

Work

 September 16, 2020

It’s been a busy day. Prayer with some pastors this morning followed by splitting wood for about four hours, dinner and a meeting at church. There is more wood to be done, remodeling our granddaughter’s bedroom, tearing off the cellar entry in preparation for some construction, a Saturday class on church security, and tending to my bees. Retirement isn’t all about sipping iced tea while rocking on the porch.

Tomorrow I’ll visit my mother. She’ll be 98 on Sunday. She’s tired, can’t see to read, has trouble hearing, and can barely get around. So most days she just sits, interspersed with taking naps. About four years ago her doctor told her she needed heart surgery to repair a leaky valve. “What if I don’t have it?” she asked. 

“You’ll probably not last the year,” was the good doctor’s response.

“And if I have the surgery?”

“I can pretty much assure you of five or six years.”

“I can’t see to read, can’t hear, can’t get around; why would I want five or six years of that?”

She didn’t get the surgery, but she did get the years. Unfortunately, she also got the slow decline of her mobility. So she sits. And sleeps. And prays. I prefer the busyness, and am grateful to not be at a point in my life where sitting is all that’s left to me. The genetics are not favorable in that regard. My dad lived to be 92, mom is 98, my dad’s mother lived to be 100. So I’ll take the activity while I am able, even when my hands and arms ache at the end of the day. At the very beginning, God placed Adam in a garden and gave him the job of taking care of it. Work is good, and I am grateful tonight to be able to do more than just sit. 

Pray for mom. She is ready to see Jesus face to face, and prays that her day will come soon. Us kids told her that her problem was that we were outnumbering her with our prayers to keep her around, but lately that’s changed. Jesus said, “If two of you agree on earth concerning anything they ask, it will be done for them by my Father in heaven, for where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there in the midst of them.” (Matthew 18:19-20) We have begun agreeing with mom. It’s time for her to be able to walk and dance in the presence of her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. And when that time comes, we will continue to be thankful for her legacy, and that she will once more be able to be busy about the Lord’s work in heaven, as we are here on earth.

Pain

 September 15, 2020

I can barely type tonight. The entire day was spent cutting and splitting firewood from the cherry tree we had taken down a couple weeks ago. I’ve had trouble with my hands for some time now; a sharp pain that shoots from my thumbs to my wrists when I touch my thumb to little finger, or turn a doorknob. A day holding a chainsaw and maneuvering chunks of wood to the splitter took a bit of a toll.

I’m not complaining. Actually, I’m quite grateful for the pain. It’s manageable, and tells me when it’s time to quit. It’s not the inescapable pain of cancer or torture; that pain that never ends. To be unable to feel pain would be a terrible thing. Hanson’s disease attacks the nerves, making them unable to send pain messages to the brain. The traditional name for it is leprosy; people used to believe that it rotted the tissue, causing digits to fall off and sores to develop all over the body. In reality, those so afflicted are unable to tell if something they are holding is hot; they cannot tell if they have cut themselves other than by seeing it. The inability to feel pain is a curse. So I type...just a little. I’ll rest tonight and be back at it tomorrow. And when it hurts, I’ll thank God for pain. It’s his way of telling me enough is enough.

It’s the same with spiritual and emotional pain. We think we are doing children a favor by shielding them from the painful consequences of bad choices, but not facing consequences breeds a young adult with no ability to connect action with result. Any parent wants to spare their child unnecessary pain; Linda and I often softened the blow when our kids were growing up, but we didn’t eliminate the consequences of youthful foolishness. Some lessons can only be learned through pain. God uses it to bring us to our senses when we’ve lost our way. If he always spared us from the consequences of our sins, we would never repent and find grace. So I am thankful for the pain in my hands, and for the pain I’ve felt in my heart. It has often prompted corrective action that kept me from a worse fate.

Amazing

 September 14, 2020

Linda’s friend commented to her this morning about how amazing she thought it was that we are cutting, splitting, and stacking wood at 71 and 72. We hadn’t given it any thought; her dad was splitting wood into his early 90s, which means we’ve got nearly twenty years to go. No, it doesn’t amaze us that we can do it; it amazes us that we can still move at the end of it. There was a time we could have done it all day long without breaking a sweat; today, four hours was enough. I need to get it done so I can return the equipment I borrowed. I don’t want to be the cause of a logjam in pastor Joe’s own work. 

There is something quite satisfying about doing wood, or any manual labor. I’m juggling wood, remodeling my granddaughter’s bedroom, tending my bees, and doing some demolition for the anticipated laundry room addition, hopefully before the snow flies. I was coming home this morning from trying to remove some bees from a friend’s barn. It was a valiant, but unsuccessful effort; I couldn’t get to the queen, and without her, there’s no way to capture the rest of the colony. I am somewhat saddened that we weren’t able to rescue them, but on the way home, I met a funeral procession, and riding in the passenger seat of the hearse was our pastor Joe. “That used to be me,” I thought. I’m quite content that it was him. The most difficult part of pastoring for me was knowing that I could never say the job was done. Sermons were done each week, but a new one had to be started Monday morning. The sermon may have been done, but the preaching never was, and it’s impossible to finish teaching, preaching, counseling, consoling, or correcting, put the matter on a shelf, and walk away. People always need more.

So tonight, though my muscles ache and my joints are a bit creaky, I am content, and thankful to be busily retired. I hope it stays that way till they plant me on the hill overlooking our house... with a periscope, of course, so what’s left of me can keep an eye on the place.

Anaphylactic Shock

 September 13, 2020

For as long as I can remember, dad had an epi pen nearby wherever he went. I don’t recall the incident behind it all; just that he was allergic to bee stings. As far as I know, he never had to use it, so I’ve not given it much thought, even when after twenty years, I’ve started keeping bees again. 

They’re fascinating little creatures; a colony can consist of up to 100,000 bees, though most fall far short of that. The colony is considered by some to be a single organism, in that it operates as one, rather than as separate bees. The queen is the lifeblood of the hive; queenless, the colony is restless and aggressive, and will die unless she is replaced. Linda likes to remind me that the workers are all female, and that the drones’ sole purpose is to mate with a virgin queen. I remind her that only the female worker bees can sting you. I guess we’re even. 

A friend called this afternoon regarding a swarm that has taken up residence inside the wall of his barn. I went over to check it out, but most of the colony had gotten inside; the only way of getting them out is to remove the siding and hope we can capture the queen. If we can, the rest of the bees will follow peaceably. I’ll check again tomorrow, but I’m not confident we can get them without major surgery on the barn. Barring that, the colony will have to be killed, which I hate to see. We need all the pollinators we can get.

When I got home, I needed to tend my own colonies, one of which gives signs of overcrowding. I’ve been wanting to do so for a few days, but other chores kept getting in the way. So I suited up and started digging into the hive, moving a couple frames of brood from the brood chamber to a second box above it and replacing those frames with foundation (frames with a starter sheet of wax embossed in a honeycomb pattern). Hopefully, they’ll build new comb, giving the queen room to lay her eggs.

I wouldn’t like someone tearing into my house and rearranging things without my permission, and these little critters weren’t too happy to have me disrupting their nursery. Despite my being suited up, I received four or five stings on my left arm. A single honeybee sting burns at first, before it turns to itching. Four or five in the space of about two square inches on my forearm doesn’t itch; it aches. Tender to the touch and a bit swollen, it’s a reminder that the reward of sweet honey has a price. I’m willing to pay it, not just for the honey, but for the fascination of watching these little ladies work their magic. I’m just thankful that dad’s allergies aren’t part of my genetic heritage. If they were, I wouldn’t be writing tonight.

 September 12, 2020

“Out there,” nothing much has changed. The Dems excoriate the Republicans, and the Republicans troll the Dems. Those entrusted with the powers of government are more interested in fixing blame than fixing problems. The west coast burns again till we wonder if there can be anything left. One can agonize over these to no avail. We can do our best to make our part of the world a better place, but much of what is happening all around us seems impervious to human solution. So I pray. 

There are those who scoff at such talk. “We’ve heard enough about thoughts and prayers,” they have said. “We need action!” So they burn down cities, harass those who disagree with them, and post vicious memes and comments on social media. But I still pray. To those who believe in a mechanistic world, prayer is a fool’s occupation, but if there is any truth to my Christian faith, prayer reaches to the very heart of life, to the heart of God whose ways are not mine, and who operates on a different schedule. People prayed for thirty years for the Berlin Wall to come down, wondering if those prayers were doing any good. Then along came Pope John Paul and Lesh Walesa, and spiritual cracks began to be seen until November 9, 1989 when it came crashing down.

Tonight I pray for my country, for its representatives, and for the countless and nameless ones who through their own or others’ choices, have experienced life much differently than I. I pray tonight because it’s about all I can do; Linda and I split and stacked about two cords of wood today, which used up today’s supply of energy. That energy will come back to us when the snow flies, but for now, I just pray.

9-11

 September 11, 2020

It’s the anniversary. Everyone knows it. Nine-eleven has seared its way into our consciousness, even as the national unity we felt the next day has eroded into internecine division and strife. Many see our country as the nexus of evil, irredeemably racist, oppressor of human rights, an example of everything that’s wrong in this world. Those who talk this way have apparently never traveled far from our shores. I’ve spent considerable time in countries where the government promised equality...and delivered. Everyone is poor and oppressed, except the ruling elite. 

Tonight is “Meema-Beepa” night. The grandkids started trickling in about 4:30, the last one arriving at 9:00. We had Linda’s mac & cheese, hot dogs, cottage cheese and peas. After “High-Low” where we went around the table naming the high point of the day, and the low point if there was one, the kids headed outside while Linda and I loaded the dishwasher. That being done, we joined them. I trimmed some low hanging branches from a tree and built a campfire. As it got dark, the s’mores made their appearance. I went inside to get some work done when Linda came into the room and said, “Come outside; you have to hear this.” As I walked down the terrace towards the campfire, I could hear the singing. The girls and Nathan were singing gospel songs in three and four part harmony. 

The unity we felt nineteen years ago has all but evaporated, but I still have hope as long as I can hear teenagers singing praises in the night. We are blessed and very grateful to be living far from the violence raging in many of our cities, and to have grandchildren who raise their voices in  praise to God instead of raising them in angry shouting and cursing. It is a good day, and I am thankful tonight.

Not a Bother

 September 10, 2020

She was quietly weeping as I came down the stairs to check on her following her mid-day nap. “I’m such a bother,” she sobbed. “You come all this way to see me, and all I do is sleep.” I sat and listened. It must be hard not to feel that way when your world has contracted to a couple rooms, a hospital bed, and a recliner. Mom can’t see to read, has trouble hearing even with aids, and can barely shuffle from her bed to her chair and back. She’s old and tired.

My words of affirmation probably rang a bit hollow as I told her we were here because we love her. I read to her the words of A.A. Milne:

It occurred to Pooh and Piglet that they hadn't heard from Eeyore for several days, so they put on their hats and coats and trotted across the Hundred Acre Wood to Eeyore's stick house. Inside the house was Eeyore.

"Hello Eeyore," said Pooh. 

"Hello Pooh. Hello Piglet "said Eeyore, in a Glum Sounding Voice. 

"We just thought we'd check in on you," said Piglet, "because we hadn't heard from you, and so we wanted to know if you were okay."

Eeyore was silent for a moment. "Am I okay?" he asked, eventually. "Well, I don't know, to be honest. Are any of us really okay? That's what I ask myself. All I can tell you, Pooh and Piglet, is that right now I feel really rather Sad, and Alone, and Not Much Fun To Be Around At All. 

Which is why I haven't bothered you. Because you wouldn't want to waste your time hanging out with someone who is Sad, and Alone, and Not Much Fun To Be Around At All, would you now."

Pooh looked and Piglet, and Piglet looked at Pooh, and they both sat down, one on either side of Eeyore in his stick house.

Eeyore looked at them in surprise. "What are you doing?"

"We're sitting here with you," said Pooh, "because we are your friends. And true friends don't care if someone is feeling Sad, or Alone, or Not Much Fun To Be Around At All. True friends are there for you anyway. And so here we are." 

"Oh," said Eeyore. "Oh." And the three of them sat there in silence, and while Pooh and Piglet said nothing at all; somehow, almost imperceptibly, Eeyore started to feel a very tiny little bit better. 

Because Pooh and Piglet were There.

No more; no less. 

Earlier when she wasn’t looking, I took a photo. The woman whose world has shrunk sat with eyes tightly closed, praying. Bother? Not even close. It’s those prayers that often stood between me and disaster, that unknowingly bolstered a sagging spirit, stiffened resistance to sin, sowed the seeds of wisdom, patience, and compassion in my soul. 

We talked, and before long, dimmed eyes were brighter, laughter chuckled up from deep within, and I sat with one more reason to give thanks tonight.

Gold

 September 9, 2020

“Make new friends but keep the old; One is silver, the other gold.” So goes an old poem. More than forty years ago, we became friends with Howie and Sue. We were fresh out of seminary, at our first full time appointment, and walked for the first time into the parsonage that would be our home for the next four years. Howie was a builder, and was remodeling the kitchen. As Linda walked through the door, he turned around, stepped down from his ladder and said, “Darn! I thought they said they were sending Farrah Faucett!” And so it began. 

He and I had a running contest to see whose garage was the messiest, and it was a rare day when he didn’t have some comment for Linda, or she for him. For some reason, he once challenged me to grow a beard contest. The best he could do was a few stray hairs on his chin, but that challenge was the origin of the whiskers I’ve had ever since. It was one of those rare friendships where both the women and the men were best friends. When Linda got super glue in her contact lenses, it was Sue (a nurse) who came racing over, prying her eye open and flushing out the contact. Fortunately, the glue only got on the contact itself.

The church we pastored then had a treasurer who acted as if every cent they paid me were coming out of his own pocket. His wife once actually told me that they were the poorest people in town and didn’t believe we should earn more than them. So when the church refused to give me a raise to meet the conference minimum, Howie and Sue started writing personal checks to us. I contacted the District Superintendent about it, worried about how it would look and whether it was permitted. “You can’t stop someone from doing with their money what they want to do,” I was told. We somewhat reluctantly accepted their monthly gift about which they never said anything.

Life has taken us in different directions, and our opportunities to get together have been rare, but they were in Buffalo for some medical appointments, and we arranged to get together for dinner. It has been eight years since we did this last. How is it that with some people, a mere month or two, and you don’t even miss them, but with others, you pick right up where you left off eight years ago? We talked for hours, laughing, reminiscing, catching up, and praying. Soon they will be back in Florida; we can’t know if we’ll ever see them again. None of us are getting any younger. But our mutual faith in Christ that has brought all of us through some very difficult times and woven the bonds of love between us is our hope and confidence. We are nearer the finish line than the starting blocks, and though our steps are a bit slower, we’re still running the race set before us, with joy and everlasting hope. It’s hard parting tonight, but it is made easier knowing that our dearest golden friends share our same destination in Christ, our Lord.

Ordinary

 September 8, 2020

The larger part of the Christian liturgical calendar is devoted to what is called “ordinary time.” The special seasons of Advent, Epiphany, Lent, Eastertide, and Pentecost run approximately from late November to mid-June. The rest of the year is ordinary time.

I think it’s fitting. We love special seasons, celebrations, those moments that break up the monotony of day-to-day living, but the reality is, for most of us, life is largely ordinary. We celebrate birthdays and anniversaries, mourn at funerals; perhaps we look forward to the beginning of baseball, basketball, hockey, football, racing, but day by day, the bulk of our lives are spent doing ordinary things—going to work, cleaning the house, mowing the lawn, doing the dishes, raising children. Even if we go out to eat every Friday night, the regularity of these activities renders them pretty ordinary.

Ordinary gets a bad reputation. We shun Lake Wobegon, “where every woman is beautiful, and every child is above average.” We are told we must exceptional, but deep inside, most of us know we are unique, just like everyone else. If very few rise to the pinnacle of their respective fields, why do we fret about being ordinary unless it means for us that we live lives unnoticed and unappreciated. This is not to say we shouldn’t work hard and strive to be the best we can be, but rather to not overlook those days when nothing seems to happen, when it feels like we’re spinning our wheels, when illness or circumstances have conspired to seemingly put you on the shelf for a time. God is at work in ordinary time, too.

Doing Life Together

 September 7, 2020

Yesterday I wrote about the blessings of living in a small, rural village. Today I experienced it all over again. Our kitchen cabinet doors were installed with screws not adequate for the work, so I went down to the village Superette/hardware for some longer ones. On the way out, I ran into Tommy, who plows the church parking lot in the winter. When he asked if we wanted him again this year, I told him to call our pastor, but that I would also talk with him. Small town casual talk that’s part of the glue that holds the community together.

Later at our annual Labor Day bash at my son’s house, I put out the word that I was looking for someone with a bigger chain saw than mine to chunk up the tree we had taken down last week. Linda and I had cleaned up the brush this morning, and were ready for the next step. Three young men volunteered on the spot to help. I told them I’d let them know when we were ready, but before we even got home, pastor Joe was in our yard, chainsaw in hand. An hour later, it was all done. 

Joe often speaks of Park church as family, where in his words, “we do life together.” At times, it can sound a bit jingoistic, but tonight he personally breathed life into his words. I neglected to get photos, but am no less grateful for this man who walks his talk in very real and practical ways. Our village may be small, but the hearts are not. As the Scripture says, “The lines have been drawn for me in pleasant places.” (Psalm 16:6)

I Wonder

 September 6, 2020

I often wonder how city apartment dwellers spend their time. Yesterday, most of the day was spent helping my son wire the bedroom he is remodeling for his daughter, with a memorial service for one of the matriarchs of our church in the middle of the day. Today, worship in Sinclaiville at 8:30 followed by preaching at 9:45 in Cassadaga morphed into a quick lunch before heading back to Cassadaga for a memorial funeral service. Linda and I were able to catch a favorite TV show before going to her sister’s for our annual Labor Day weekend corn roast.

We have a tree down beside the house that needs the brush to be cleaned up and the logs sawed up. I have to finish pointing the rock chimney where the old mortar is crumbling, and the stonework in our entryway need to be sealed. My motorcycle blew a fuel line last week, so that needs replacing, along with much-needed general maintenance. The lawn needs mowing, I have a variety of indoor projects, and before long we’ll be canning applesauce and grape juice. 

Through the winter I’ll plow the driveway, bring in firewood, and tackle the indoor work. But I still wonder...when one lives in an apartment where the maintenance is done for you, where there are no big chores to be done, when one doesn’t own a vehicle that needs to be maintained, what do people do with all their time?

I’ve talked with urbanites who cannot imagine living where the only stores in town is a small grocery/deli/hardware and a Dollar General, where at night you can hear the howl of coyotes, and you have to drive for an hour or more to see a real play. For me, I cannot imagine living where instead of the creek laughing over the shale in my backyard, I hear the constant honking of traffic; instead of the whine of a chainsaw from the villager who cuts firewood for a living there is the chatter of gangs shooting at each other. Tonight we listened to the peepers singing in the trees as we sat around a campfire. We live a blessed life, surrounded by family and friends, bathed in the grace and mercy shown us in Jesus Christ, and I am deeply grateful that God placed me here in this sleepy small village so many years ago. 

A Good Heritage

 September 4, 2020

Our daughter Jessie is the executive director of Options Care Center, the local pro-life pregnancy center. This year, due to COVID, their annual Walk for Life is online and digital, which means that people can sign up online to support the walk, and those participating will walk individually or perhaps as family groups, taking photos and submitting their tally of miles and dollars raised. 

Yesterday, she announced that at the Center’s last board meeting, the president of the board challenged her to a fundraising contest—Board vs. Director and volunteers. The gauntlet having been thrown down, Jessie accepted the challenge, and I am signed up as a sub team leader under her. So I am inviting you to join me by giving what you can, either as a fixed sum, or at a per mile rate.

As an incentive, I present my mother. She is a monthly supporter of Options Care Center, and when today we told her about the fundraising challenge, she jumped (well...almost jumped. She’s just shy of 98, and struggles to get out of her chair) at the opportunity to join in. I’ve attached a couple photos and a video of her giving her support to this worthy cause. And I am so thankful tonight to have been raised by a mother who cherishes life and taught my brother, sister, and myself to do the same. There is no substitute for a good heritage. I was given a head start in life that many do not know. Some would politicize this, calling it white privilege. I think of it as God’s grace, a gift I cannot repay, but which I can and do my best to pay forward. 

Yellow

 September 3, 2020

My nightly musings began in 2013 when I decided to focus on gratitude instead of politics. It took a year of deliberately doing so, but the following February, I woke up one morning to discover the cloud of melancholy that had dogged me for so much of my life was gone. Cloudy days still come, but usually because I have momentarily lost that focus. 

Tonight I want to revisit my gratitude journal. The listing for today is: “three things yellow.”

1.  Sunflowers. Our granddaughter came to visit today, and showed us photos of her in a field of sunflowers. She picked some for a bouquet, but with her smile and personality, she is the centerpiece of the centerpiece. 

2. Yellow pads. The newer generation is almost entirely digital. When I meet with the other pastors to outline sermons, they are pecking away at their laptops, able to instantly share with each other the edits they have made. I come with a pencil and a yellow pad. Pencil because I am constantly erasing things and re-writing. A legal size yellow pad gives me plenty of room to write, often at crazy angles, with circles and arrows that help me put my various ideas into a logical sequence. I can’t do that with a computer. I like yellow pads!

3. For dinner this evening, Linda prepared for us one of her favorite dishes: yellow summer squash, sliced, dipped in flour and fried in a pan. It is an incredible delight! 

None of these are life-changing or momentous in the grand scale of things. But most of life is made up of such small matters. People who were once close drift apart over the years when one moves and they are no longer able to share the day-to-day small incidents that pepper our lives from daily. Like grains of sand, they are tiny, but enough of them together make a beach upon which the waves break, and people find refuge from the rigors of life.

Finding Rest

 September 2, 2020

My pastor friend and fellow Cuba lover Tim Burden recently read from Matthew 11:28-29—slowly, so every word could sink in. Jesus said, “Come to Me...and find rest.” Our rest-less souls will never find rest in CNN, Fox, ABC, NBC, CBS or Facebook, and yet that is where we spend so much of our time and attention.

The devil has done a good job convincing us that we need to daily—if not hourly—keep up with what is going on in the world around us; in particular, all the craziness of politics. We believe the lie that if we miss the latest headlines, we are shirking our responsibility. We take on spiritual and emotional burdens we were never meant to carry. It makes us rest-less, and the more we watch, the more unsettled we become. Jesus has the answer: “Come to Me!” Turn off the media, shut out the distractions, and spend time with Jesus. Read the Bible slowly, prayerfully. Take time to be still...and listen. Only at Jesus’ feet will we ever find the rest for which our weary souls long. 

“Lord, slow me down. May I enter into my sanctuary, my quiet place where just the two of us can meet, face to face. I choose to ignore the clamoring of the news, the urgency of the immediate, in order to focus on the important and necessary. I know if my soul only splashes through the shallows of public discourse, I risk forfeiting the depths of your Spirit, and will end up a hollow man, filled with the emptiness of the world’s vanity. Forgive me for dancing to the devil’s tunes. Free me to live, truly live, in the vast ocean depths of your mercy and grace through Jesus Christ, the Lord. Amen.”

Blood Stains

 

September 1, 2020

For those involved in service and ministry, it’s easy to get so focused on the problems, needs, and sins of others, to the neglect of one’s own. Leviticus 8 tells of the consecration of Aaron and his sons as priests. Beautiful and expensive garments had been custom tailored for them to wear while serving. It was the best of the best—the Armani and Gucci of the day...plus!

During the consecration ceremony, something odd happened. These expensive clothes were deliberately spattered with the blood of the sacrifice, permanently staining them. Any portrayals of the high priest that I’ve ever seen omit what might have been their most notable feature—blood stains, a reminder that they didn’t serve by virtue of their own righteousness.

Every time Aaron donned the holy robes, he would see those bloodstains and know he was entering the presence of a holy God with the evidence of his unworthiness all over him. He would enter, as we should, with fear and trembling, and come out in humble gratitude to have been spared the judgment those bloody garments represented. As Christians, we are clothed in the righteousness of Christ, imparted to us through his blood shed on the cross. May we be aware every day of the price paid so we could enter the holy place of prayer.  “Let us draw near to God with a sincere heart and with the full assurance that faith brings, having our hearts sprinkled to cleanse us from a guilty conscience and having our bodies washed with pure water.” —Hebrews 10:22 NIV