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.