Melancholy and Joy

August 14, 2018

“What if melancholy were as much a gift from God as is joy?” A pastor friend and I were talking about why we are in ministry. We both have struggled with melancholy, and I was commenting on how at times I wished I could feel the joy that just seems to pour out of some people. “But melancholy keeps us anchored to God; sometimes those who are always happy are also pretty flighty,” he said (or words to that effect). 

A Jewish friend joined us. He’s a pretty upbeat, laid back fellow, but doesn’t consider himself religious, so I asked him how he would describe joy. He thought for a minute before deciding on the word “contentment.” 

“I think some of the people who are happy all the time just don’t ever think,” he added. I shared with him my story of melancholy and how I began to win that battle when I started giving thanks for everything.

“I have to choose every day to be thankful,” I said.

“I understand. You have to look for the good. The bad finds you,” was his response. 

This world can be a sad and tragic place. It doesn’t take any brains to see the evil all around us, and it can overwhelm all but the most innocent of people if we aren’t careful. Set your mind on things above,” St. Paul reminded us. The important word here is “Set.” For many of us, our minds gravitate to all that is wrong in life, as surely as water flows downhill. We have to drive a stake into the ground and plant our minds on that which uplifts, because apart from that grounding, our minds will follow the path of least resistance. So again tonight, I choose thankfulness; for conversations with friends that sharpen my own thinking and resolve, and even for the melancholy I fought for so many years. I think it may indeed have been God’s gift to me, to keep me seeking him and helping me avoid flitting from one experiential high to another, seeking an elusive experience of God rather than God himself.

Goodbye, Mr. Melancholy!

August 13, 2018

The melancholy came back for a visit this morning. It had been my traveling companion for most of my adult life until a few years ago, God convicted me of the sin of ingratitude and I made a commitment to focus on (as St. Paul put it) “whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable, anything excellent or praiseworthy.” (Philippians 4:8). It was a spiritual detox that took a full year to cleanse my soul from the negativity that was dragging me down. And as in the physical realm it takes continual diligence and watchfulness to maintain health regained, it has been a continual fight to maintain my joy. Like an addict, I have to be more careful about negativity than others because if I allow myself, I’ll go right back to where I was, perhaps even worse. Jesus’ story of the man who was cleansed of a demon but who by not allowing God to fill that place the demon called home ended up seven times worse off is true to life, even for those who cannot stomach the concept of angels and demons (Matthew 12:43-46).

Constant prayer is the cost of continual freedom, but it’s never an easy battle. For those who imagine prayer to be like the old hymn where “He walks with me and talks with me” in a pleasant garden, I would like to remind you that for Jesus, it was a battleground where he sweat great drops of blood in his struggle with the devil. This morning, the battle was enjoined. I read my Bible, prayed, and went to work. The melancholy followed me all the way to Dunkirk and sat down with me at my desk.

But midway through the morning, Debbie poked her head into the office and asked if I would like to talk with a man who had come to the Willow Mission for some food. I followed her to the waiting area where Lynn was sitting and talking with him. Lynn stood up and went into the office area while I greeted and talked briefly with him. “I just prayed to receive Christ,” he told me. At those words, Mr. Melancholy took off running! I am so proud of Lynn and Debbie! They understand that it’s more than feeding people’s bodies; it’s all about giving them the Bread of Life.

Later, Gabriel stopped by and introduced me to a homeless young man he had befriended. He had been traveling with the carnival and stayed behind when the county fair ended, but had no place to stay. Gabe is a young Puerto Rican man who pops in regularly with a smile on his face and a “Praise God!” on his lips. I haven’t managed to get him to church, but we’re working on it. Meanwhile, God is bringing needy people to us, and I can say wholeheartedly, “It’s been a very good day!”

Passing the Baton

August 12, 2018

All we could see was the back of his head as he drove down the street and off to college nearly thirty years ago. Linda and I stood side by side, clutching each other’s hand for the strength we didn’t have. There were lumps in our throats and tears in our eyes as our eldest son stretched his wings and headed off into the future that awaited him. 

This all came flooding back this afternoon as once more we watched the back of his head as he drove down the road, this time on her dad’s beloved 1948 8N tractor. All the years she was growing up, it was his baby, tended with loving care, garaged and covered each night, flawlessly maintained, and regularly used. He loved the soft low growl of the engine, and would sometimes just sit and listen to it purr. Linda loves to tell the story of the time he let her drive while he maneuvered the horse-drawn cultivator behind. As they turned to cultivate the next row of corn, she mistakenly shifted into fourth instead of first gear. Singing at the top of her lungs, she couldn’t hear his hollering as he bounded down the row, his short little legs pumping like you see in an old time cartoon. Huffing and puffing at the end of the row, he asked if she was trying to kill him.

Nobody, but NOBODY was allowed to touch his tractor! I was thoroughly surprised the day he needed help tearing down the old barn across the road. He was laid up with a bad back, but the barn needed to come down, and he actually let me drive it, hooking the chains to the back wall and pulling it to the ground. It was the only time I ever drove it. He on the other hand, plowed snow in the winter, cut hay with the sickle bar in the summer, hooked a large circular saw to the belt-driven pulley in the fall to cut firewood, and pulled the grandkids all over the farm in his homemade wagon. 

Linda was the tomboy of the six sisters, and had hoped that someday she would inherit the tractor. It’s the only thing she really wanted. The day came, a couple years after he died. Out of the blue, her mother said to her, “Your dad wanted you to have it. You better get it out of the garage.” Linda didn’t need a second invite. We brought it home, and except for plowing in the winter, our little 2 1/2 acres doesn’t offer much of a workout for the old girl, and the old six volt system rendered it pretty unreliable for starting on cold winter mornings. So most of the time, it just sat.

Last week we had a friend install a 12 volt system on it, and after giving the grandkids turns driving it around the yard this afternoon, we said our goodbyes with that same lump in our throats watching the back of Nathan’s head as he drove it down the road to its new home in his barn. Thankfully, we didn’t have to sell it. It’s only a tractor; steel and rubber, motor, gears, and wheels, but it’s more than that. It’s one of the last tangible connections to a life well-lived and to the man whose love and integrity shaped my wife into the woman of character and beauty she is today. Maybe that old tractor can be to the next generation a point of connection where love of family and of Christ is cultivated in young hearts and minds for eternal purposes. If so, it will be ample proof that ordinary material things can be more than they are, just as ordinary people touched with love can be more than they are.

Saturday Scared

August 11, 2018

For three years, Saturday nights were wonderfully relaxing. Whether the day was busy or quiet (What’s that, I wonder?), Saturday evenings provided time to unwind with family, friends, or just the two of us. That all vanished last summer when I agreed to take on another preaching assignment. 

Today was invested in the bathroom remodel at our son’s. A trip to the lumberyard garnered needed supplies, and we finished cutting the holes through plates and assorted wall bracing needed for the shower drain. I built the shower stand, fit it in place, made adjustments, till we’re almost ready for the actual install—after we run new Pex lines through the entire house. Like Ezekiel’s bones—head bone connected to the neck bone; neck bone connected to the back bone—it’s amazing how one job leads to another and another. But...we’re making progress.

And now I rest. Except I can’t. No, I’m not agitated, upset, or insomniac. It’s just that Sunday’s coming. Quickly. And though I’ve had more than forty years’ experience, I get nervous. If leading worship were merely a matter of slapping together a few songs and prayers and giving a lecture, I could do that with half a brain tied behind my back. It’s more than that. My job tomorrow is leading God’s people in worship, helping usher them into the Presence of the Almighty God who made everything. I will hold in my hands the Word of Life, and do my best to present it clearly. Like I said, it’s not just a lecture. Connecting the Gospel to the hurts and hopes of God’s people is a humbling task. I have to listen to the Holy Spirit, but also listen to the people so I don’t end up offering up a meal they can’t digest. I wouldn’t even attempt it apart from grace. 

I get nervous on Saturday nights; if God hadn’t promised to bless his Word and cause it to grow inside the hearts of his people, I would be terrified. As it is, I am thankful for that grace that makes an impossible task possible through the power of the Holy Spirit. The time will come again when I can relax on a Saturday night. But not tonight.

Slow Progress

August 10, 2018

Sometimes progress is measured in inches. Before remodeling the downstairs bathroom for my son, it is necessary to install an upstairs shower if every friend they have is not to get tired of the family “borrowing” their facilities. Were I a professional, the remodeling might take but a few days, but being the amateur that I am, I fully expect it will be a month-long process. Before each step, I have to stop and think about it so I don’t end up making costly and unfixable mistakes. It’s an old house with all sorts of surprises waiting inside the walls. Tear off the sheetrock, and you discover wires that go nowhere, wood that is right in the path where the plumbing needs to go—for no discernible reason.

My plan for today had been to drill a hole in the upstairs wall plate down through the first floor header and through the first floor wall plate into the basement. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? Silly me! Four hours later, with the downstairs wall removed so I can see where the drill bit is coming out, the good news is that I didn’t have to snake the shower drain through floor joists; the bad news is that the wall plate on the first floor sits right over the 12” main support beam for the house. No way are we going to drill through that! But a little creative engineering solved the problem, and tomorrow is a new day. I might even be able to set the shower base! 

Sometimes progress is measured in inches. Sometimes it seems like you’re going backwards. But when everything is a mess and there are broken pieces to the life you once knew lying all around your feet like so much trash, you really are moving ahead. The mess you see doesn’t look at all like the future you envision, but it’s a necessary part of getting there. I haven’t even started on the real project, but we are going to get there. It will take time, patience, and a willingness to ask questions of people who know more than I do, and to learn new skills along the way. Life is like that, too, and I am thankful tonight for life lessons learned the hard way in a bathroom remodel.

August 9, 2018

It’s not quite the same, but it’ll do. Stretching for five miles along the Havana harbor, the seawall named the Malecon not only protects the waterfront, it is a favorite gathering place for old friends and young lovers. Dunkirk’s seawall is only a mile long, but in the evening lights, the same mellow glow reflects off the lake as the ocean. Last May when I was in Havana, the mystique of the Malecon tugged at my heart. 

It had been quite awhile since I had written any songs, but seeing that seawall again, a Latin rhythm began to pulse inside me. That evening, lyrics started to flow. When melody and lyrics come together, it is like a gift from God. This one was for Linda. 

Tonight, Linda and I enjoyed coffee and ice cream together, courtesy of Dunkirk’s Tim Horton’s. Then hand in hand, we walked our own Malecon, talking as only lovers do, about things both consequential and innocuous. It’s not quite Cuba, but she is by my side, which makes it better. Someday, we’ll walk the genuine article. That will be best of all!

Have a Nice Day

August 8, 2018

“Have a nice day!” Most of the time, those four words tacked onto the end of a commercial transaction by the checkout girl (or guy) we assume are merely polite, but insincere words drilled into them by the management. Maybe so, but it’s still nice to hear them. A short conversation while depositing some money into our checking account at the credit union this morning concluded with those familiar words that got me to thinking. I’m sure that often there’s no more sincerity to them than when someone says, “How ‘ya doing?” as they pass you on the sidewalk. If you actually stopped and told them, they’d be shocked, and maybe even a bit nonplussed.

Sincere or not, these small exchanges are the lubrication that keeps the gears of civility meshing instead of grinding. I’ve had Christians, people I considered brothers and sisters, people I prayed with, curse me to my face, telling me how they desired my pastoral demise and all but telling me where to go. I much prefer the innocuous, “Have a nice day,” and am thankful tonight for the ones I heard today at the credit union, the coffee shop, and the builders’ supply house. Yeah, I really do like hearing it, even if it’s only perfunctory. It’s still a blessing, not a curse.