Tools

October 20, 2018

Tools. One of the benefits of living as long as I have is that I’ve collected some pretty useful tools over the years. That might not seem very important to some people, but I can say with absolute certainty that without the right tool, some jobs are much more difficult, and others are impossible. Turns out, I have quite an assortment. Thirty years ago, our next door neighbor died. Art had been the front end man at the Chevy garage in town, and left quite a collection of tools behind. In the summertime, he would sit on his front porch and wave at all the cars passing by. Our dog Fritz would keep him company. One day the dog catcher told Art he needed to get his dog’s license renewed. “That’s not my dog!” Art told him. Of course, for all intents and purposes he was. About the only thing Fritz didn’t do at Art’s was sleep. At night. He did a lot of sleeping there during the day. 

When Art took sick toward the end of his life, I visited him in the hospital and talked with him about the Lord. Linda and I often sat and talked with him on his front porch, and had witnessed often to him. But it was in those final days that Art came to know Christ as his Savior. His son is married to a second or third cousin of Linda’s so we’ve known them for years. I offered to organize Art’s tools for the yard sale his son planned. There were some that I wanted to buy, so I started setting them aside till I reached the dollar limit I had set for myself. His son was so thankful that his dad had come to Christ that he gave me the tools I had set aside. I still have them today, even though most everything is now metric, and cars are so complex about all I can do is change the oil and brakes. But when you need a wrench, a pair of pliers just doesn’t cut it.

I have garden tools and carpentry tools, and it’s the latter I’ve been using lately. The chop saw I bought from my sister, the table saw Linda bought me for Christmas a couple years ago, a sawzall for the hard-to-get places, hammers, drills and drivers, screws and nails. Today I put what I hope is the last coat of spackling on the walls of our son’s bathroom. I used a three inch blade to dig the compound out of the bucket, a slotted spreader as a hod, a six inch blade to spread the mud evenly on the wall, and a corner tool for...the corners, of course! 

Without the right tools, none of this would have been possible. I am thankful for inventors, manufacturers, and suppliers for all the tools and equipment that make it possible for me to remodel a bathroom. I pity those who live in apartments where someone is hired to do all the maintenance work. They are missing out on the satisfaction of DIY.

I am thankful also that not only do I have tools, but I can be a tool, a useful instrument in God’s hands. Ephesians 4 says that God gave gifts to the church; then Paul lists a few of them. They aren’t inanimate objects, but people, tools God uses to build people up in faith. 

When my boys were small, they once used a good wood chisel to open a can of paint. When I needed it, the edge looked like a saw with missing teeth. A tool needs to be used properly to avoid hurting the tool, the project, or the user. In the right hands and for the right purposes, the tool does the job for which it was designed. Misuse it, and trouble awaits. My prayer is to be the right tool for the job God has for me, so he can take as much pleasure in this tool as I do in mine.

Grumpy Angels

October 19, 2018

“Have you ever been a grumpy angel?” I didn’t know how to answer, but I needn’t have worried. My friend explained himself, telling how he had recently had a particularly busy day scheduled when he got a call from a veterinary friend needing some immediate help. She was supposed to drive her friend to the airport, but had an emergency call and needed someone to fill in for her. “She’s a friend; I said ‘yes,’ but wasn’t happy about it,” he explained. They arranged for him to meet at the church where he picked up his passenger and headed to Buffalo. Partway there, his passenger said he was an angel from God. “Right then, God turned things around for me, and I received a blessing,” he told me before repeating his question.

“Grumpy angel is my default,” I explained. We had been talking about how busy life has gotten, and I’ve found myself complaining quite a bit to no one in particular. Most of my busyness is the result of choices I’ve made, so it’s my own fault, but when those choices start chipping away at time for prayer and meditation, my inner self starts to get very disheveled and whatever good I may be doing comes from a grumpy heart.

I think that’s still better than acting out that inner grumpiness. Sometimes we have to act holy in order to be holy. People who only act according to their momentary feelings don’t know how to persevere or how to maintain healthy relationships. As my wife often says, “Sometimes you do it just because it’s the right thing to do.” Grumpy or not. The good news is, when we play the part of the grumpy angel, the angel part rubs off on us, often sending the grumpy part packing. 

I’m still busier than I really want to be, but this too, will pass. And when it does, I would rather hang out with the angel part of me than the grump. You would, too. And I’m also thankful for all the grumpy angels who have been a part of my life.

Gusher

October 18, 2018

How we invest is important. My father used to tell the story of a friend of his who invested in Haloid stock back in the forties. It wasn’t much money, but when Haloid became Xerox, dad’s friend made a LOT of money. Dad would say, “If only I knew...” Of course, his friend didn’t know, either, but he made the decision and took the risk. He could have been investing in a dry well, in which case things would have turned out much differently for him.

How we invest in life makes a difference. People throw everything they have into sports, making money, religion, drugs or alcohol, power and fame, all of which are like the proverbial dry well. We’ve all done it; invested in stuff that paid precious little in return. Today I made good investments. Early morning prayer with a group of men who have become like brothers to me, then time with my elderly mother before taking granddaughter Abi out to an early dinner. A two-hour mad dash for home so I could watch granddaughter Jo’s volleyball game was followed by a late dinner with her. Best of all was the time spent listening to their hearts. Linda is usually the girls’ sounding board, but today it was my turn. I can’t say how it was for them, but for me, today’s well was a gusher.

Who Needs Jesus?

October 17, 2018

Who needs Jesus the most? 

He was parking his bicycle as I opened the door. Somehow, he managed to get into line ahead of me, ordering a small coffee which he took to a table in the back where he sat staring out the window. I’ve seen him there before, long dreadlocks flowing from beneath his Jamaican style colorful woven hat over the collar of his tattered Buffalo Bills coat. A few pounds lighter, and I’d think he was Bob Marley resurrected. 

I paid for my breakfast—Tim’s “Two for Four”—bagel, egg, sausage, cheese, and a coffee before picking out a table where I could work as I ate. I couldn’t get him out of my mind any more than I could get him out of sight, so I picked up my Bible and breakfast and walked over to his table.

“Mind if I join you?” He didn’t say no, so I sat down and asked if he had had breakfast. He hadn’t, so I offered him the other bagel. He just sat there saying not a word. When I finished mine, I motioned to the other. “Save it for later,” I said. He thanked me as I left. He appeared to have some mental health issues.

She sat on the other side of the coffee shop working at her MacBook. She was young and pretty, an hourglass figure poured into a tight sweater and pale green tights that had they been tan, it would have been hard to tell if she were wearing any at all. She swayed her way over to pick up her order, and as she turned back toward her table, the young man waiting for his order looked my way with an expression that clearly indicated he’d like to see more of her.

So, who needs Jesus the most? It’s not a trick question, but it is easy to get it wrong. Shabby clothes and mental health issues catch one’s attention, but a lot of broken hearts hide behind good looks and clothes. And that young man’s eyes don’t appear to be leading his heart towards holiness.

There’s another person in the story: me. Each one of us needs Jesus just as much as the other, but in different ways. I doubt if I’ll see the young woman and man next time I stop in for breakfast. “Mr. Marley” is another story. I’ve seen him there before, and probably will again. If so, I’ll offer him another breakfast and try to get him to talk. He no doubt has an interesting story to tell, and I’d like to hear it and maybe have the opportunity to bring Jesus into that story for a better ending. If so, I’ll thank God for the blessing even as I thank him today for the privilege of sharing breakfast with him.

Leaves

October 16, 2018

Riding my bike slowly along the street, I inhaled deeply the pungent aroma of burning leaves. They lay in long rows on either side of the street, smoldering in the afternoon sun while my grandfather tended his side with rake in hand, ever-present fedora on his head, cigarette dangling from his lips. If you looked up and down the street, you would see half a dozen men standing at the curb, leaning on rakes while they watched the leaves burn. My grandfather was small in stature, but big of heart. Long before my time during the Great Depression, he took care of his neighbors who were out of work. As a Linotype operator for the Rochester Democrat and Chronicle, his job was steady and as secure as it could be in those days. 

I suppose it’s necessary that governments have banned the burning of the leaves in the fall. Air quality and all that. According to the ones who make such decisions, burning the leaves is bad for our health, but I wonder how much healthier of spirit we might be if we could once more breathe deeply that satisfying aroma. The pundits keep telling us our air quality is getting worse. If true, maybe we were better off before the bans went into effect. I know that every once in awhile, some renegade touches match to leaves. The breezes carry the telltale sign to my nose; I close my eyes, am carried back to an autumn day more than sixty years ago, and smile as I see my grandfather leaning on his rake, slowly turning the row as the smoke of the leaves mingles with that of his cigarette, and curls lazily around his head. I feel sorry for kids today who have never smelled that peculiar aroma, whose memories will be diminished without them even knowing it. Don’t tell anyone, but maybe tomorrow or the day after, I’ll rake a few leaves into a small pile in the back yard and light it just to inhale that delightful fragrance once more. And with a smile in my heart, I’ll think of my grandfather once more.

Short Notice

October 15, 2018

Short notice. Funerals don’t usually give pastors a great deal of lead time. No one likes to think of the demise of a loved one, so although it’s not uncommon for people to make funeral arrangements well in advance, preachers don’t often get more than a few days’ warning. Today, it was even less; I got the call this morning for a service tomorrow morning for someone I’ve never met. I don’t even know how the funeral home got my name. It’s not like everyone in Dunkirk knows me. Nonetheless, the call came in, and I got the phone number of one of the daughters and made the call.

About half an hour later, I was sitting in a small, smoky kitchen with three grown daughters and a grandson. I don’t like burying complete strangers, so I asked them to tell me about their mother. I won’t put in print the exact words they used to describe her and how she raised them, but suffice it to say she was a hard-ass whom they loved and respected. Through tears and laughter, they told the stories of their mother’s life with all it’s glorious warts. It’s going to be an interesting morning, and I’m looking forward to sharing the Gospel, offering the hope that comes from trusting in Christ. 

The Scripture tells us not to be weary in well-doing, but that is exactly what often happens. I’ve been preaching almost non-stop since February 1, 1970, and I have to admit at times, weariness is the best word to describe how I feel. I retired not because I felt it was time to quit, but because I believed the church would be better served by a younger man. I think I was right. But even though at times I wish I didn’t have to push quite so hard, I am energized when I have the opportunity to be with people whose understanding of Christian faith is at best rudimentary. Two things I already know are that they won’t put on any airs to impress me, and they are people loved by God. God has plopped them into my lap to love in his Name, and that is what I intend to do, thanking him all the way for such an unexpected opportunity to offer them Christ. On short notice.

Investing in Eternity

October 14, 2018

“It’s not ours.” Rick was telling his story in his usual quiet, confident manner. He spoke of the debt he had incurred for stuff he didn’t need, and of how God rescued him and brought him to the place where he could give generously for ministry greater than himself. Realizing that all he had really belonged to God and he was only returning to God what was already his own was the beginning of a transformation that has brought him greater joy than he could have imagined.

Others spoke of how God had met them through the ministry of Park church, with humble testimony of grace and kindness being shown to them through ordinary people who were merely trying to live out the love of Christ, of dreams unleashed because someone simply asked what dream God had given them. I looked around the high school gym where we were gathered to make our commitments to the future ministry of the church. Most of the people gathered weren’t a part of the congregation twenty years ago when we took that first step of faith and committed to fund the building we now occupy. We had said back then that we were giving for people we didn’t even know. Many of those unknown people were sitting and listening tonight. 

It is gratifying to look around and see the fruit of your labor in the people gathered in the Lord’s name. Even more is seeing those people taking up the reins of leadership and carrying the Message to a new generation. I’m no longer in the middle of all that’s happening at Park church; Joe is. It is strangely satisfying to be playing a supportive role. And to listen to testimonies of God’s faithfulness is priceless. 

When Rick reminded us that all we have really belongs to God, I thought of the little drawer on the top left of my dresser in our bedroom. It’s an old piece of furniture that once belonged to my great-grandmother. Underneath that drawer is an envelope containing a gift my mother gave me about a year ago. There were three of them; one for my brother, my sister, and myself. Those envelopes contained our inheritance, a tangible symbol of 95 years of life. Years before, dad had lamented that there wasn’t much to leave to us. I reminded him that we already had all the inheritance we could ever want—the example of faith and faithfulness that has been the foundation of our lives. 

I had put that envelope under that little drawer, unwilling to part with this expression of my mother’s love. Until tonight. Tonight it becomes part of a legacy to future generations, to people my mother will never meet, but into whose lives she invests as she continues to do in mine. So, thank you, Rick, for your testimony that reminded me again that it’s not mine. Thank you, mom, for investing in your kids as you did for so many years. And thank you, Jesus, for your gift of grace that is the foundation of all I hold dear.