Gift #3

December 11, 2018

Every year, Linda and I try to get one special gift for each other. It usually works out, but not always. This year, I’m stumped. Last summer, the Dunkirk church discarded a broken pew. It had sat unused in the back of the sanctuary due to a crack running the length of the seat that tended to pinch anyone who sat on it, not exactly the kind of greeting people expect or want. I had planned on burning it, but Linda thought it would make a nice bench just inside the door of our new bedroom, so I had cut it to the right length before discovering that the back had warped from being outside.

So I visited a friend who runs an antique store. “Ron, do you have any old church pews hanging around?” I asked. 

Ron peered out from beneath the rabbit fur hat he was wearing. “I think there’s one out front. We’ll have to walk through the snow to get to it.” Sure enough, he had one sitting on his front walk covered with a tarp. “I’ll take it,” I said, and handed over the money. 

Only later did I measure the depth of the space, discovering in the process that I would need another two or three inches for the door to clear the armrest and the front edge of the seat. In other words, this wasn’t going to work. I called him up. “Ron, the church pew isn’t going to work. I don’t want my money back, but how ‘bout I give you $25 for your trouble, and you hold onto the rest of it as payment against a future purchase?” He agreed, and I was back in the search for that special gift.

A couple years ago when my sister broke up housekeeping to move into an apartment, among other things that would have been left behind was a curious little cabinet. Made of oak, it had four drawers that each had about 20 2 inch holes drilled partway through the bottoms, as if they were designed to hold some sort of small bottles. I brought it home and put it at the back of my garage where it has sat ever since, not knowing quite what to do with it, but hey, it’s oak!

The other day, I measured it up and thought, “This will fit perfectly in that spot. It’s not a bench, but would make a nice flower stand as we enter the bedroom.” I brought it into the entry room, turned up the heat, retrieved my pipe clamps, mixed up the epoxy, and glued the sides back in place where they had come apart. I had just finished adjusting the drawers when Linda took notice. 

“The drawers stick,” she said.

“No problem. A little paraffin on the rails, and they’ll be fine.” Next thing I know, she’s out in the entry room rubbing paraffin on the rails before hauling the whole thing into the kitchen where she proceeded to wipe it down and wax it. Turns out, it didn’t need the refinishing job I had planned on giving it.

“This will go nicely in the girls’ room. I can put the copier paper in a drawer where I can reach it, instead of on the top shelf in the closet.” Linda was in her usual state of excitement when she sees one of her ideas coming together. 

So, special gift #2 is residing in the girls’ room instead of in the entry to our bedroom. Back to the drawing board. Tonight I am thankful that I still have a couple weeks till Christmas. Maybe gift #3 will be a charm. Or it could be “three strikes and you’re out.” Time will tell.

Fellow Travelers

December 10, 2018

Acts 27 tells the story of St. Paul being taken to Rome under guard as a prisoner of the Empire. He travels by ship, which encounters a violent storm, a Northeaster, that drives the ship for two weeks, helpless before its fury. The sailors use every trick in their book to save the ship, throwing tackle and cargo overboard, hoisting sails and letting down the sea anchors, all to no avail. In the middle of the storm, Paul has a dream which he relates to the crew and passengers. “Last night an angel of the God to whom I belong and whom I serve stood beside me and said, ‘Do not be afraid, Paul. You must stand trial before Caesar; and God has graciously given you the lives of all who sail with you.’”

(Acts 27:23-24 NIV). 

In one of his letters to the church in Corinth, Paul reminds the people that the events recorded in the Scriptures were given not only for the instruction of the people in the stories, but also for ours, which means this story is not mere history, but is in the Bible to teach us something about life. There are many lessons to be learned here, but the one that speaks to me today is the last phrase of Paul’s assurance to the crew and passengers on that ship. The ship will be destroyed, Paul told them, but “God has graciously given you the lives of all who sail with you.” 

God’s people are not promised easy, trouble-free lives. We can expect to suffer loss; we are assured of persecution (“They hated me; they will hate you, too. The servant is not above the Master” —John 13:16). Heartache, sickness, poverty, and betrayal are promises from God we prefer to ignore. But the promise contained in Paul’s short speech to his fellow travelers is also for us. If like Paul, we belong to God and are serving him, he has already given us the lives of those who travel with us. Children, grandchildren, spouses...when we are doing God’s work, we are assured of God’s presence, power, and protection, not only for ourselves, but also for those who sail with us. Bad things may happen, we may shed many a tear, but God will prevail. For that, I lay down my worries and fears and give thanks tonight.

The hunt

December 9, 2018

It must be broken. That’s the only explanation I can find for missing that deer this afternoon. It couldn’t have been the shooter. A little backstory is in order. 

Years ago, I deer hunted regularly, not particularly successfully, but regularly nonetheless. I quit after a couple unsuccessful years when I’d be out in the woods where it was supposed to be peaceful as I communed with God. Problem was, I’d be thinking of all the things I needed to get done as the fall programming was kicking into high gear, with reports and Christmas planning to be done. I’d sit there for an hour getting more agitated by the minute till I said, “Nuts! I’ve got stuff to do!” I’d trudge through the snow back to my truck, and that would be the end of my hunting for that year. Turns out, for years to come.

Until last Christmas. Son Matt had bought a .38/.357 lever action carbine earlier in the year and let me shoot it one afternoon. “This is really neat!” I told him. It was a fun shooter, and like the old timers out West, it was designed to take pistol calibre ammunition. Traditionally, it would have been .44 or .45, but that’s pretty expensive stuff to shoot. .38 is relatively cheap, and since I already have a .38 S&W snub, this carbine really caught my attention. So that is what I unwrapped last Christmas Eve when the kids give us their gifts. 

Today is the last day of regular deer season. The bathroom remodel which is finally done has prevented me from getting out earlier as I had hoped, but tomorrow muzzleloader season starts, so I have another week or so to try to bring home some venison. But today, I spooked two and actually got off a couple shots. I missed, of course, but I did get to shoot. If you aren’t into this sort of stuff, this won’t make any sense to you, but I want to say, that carbine is sweet! And the fact that I actually got to shoot, let alone see a couple deer, makes it a successful hunt for me. With no reports hanging over my head, I enjoyed the afternoon, the peace and quiet in the woods, where the only sounds I could hear were the singing brook in the gully below me, and the ringing in my ears.

I am thankful tonight to live where though quite restricted, the right to bear arms still exists, and where all around me are places where I can hike and hunt, whether or not I bring anything home. Sometimes it’s actually nicer the way today worked out. I’ve often said that hunting is no fun when you don’t get anything, and too much work when you do. I didn’t get anything other than an enjoyable afternoon capped off with edifying conversation with my sister and brother in law at the conclusion of the hunt. It’s been a good day, and no, it’s not broken. It shoots better than I do.

Perspective

December 8, 2018

Short and long term perspective can be quite different. I’m sitting in the back room by the fire, feeling quite cozy, grateful for that warmth that greeted me earlier when I came in from outside. The fire itself had died down, but a few pieces of kindling and a little work with the bellows, and it sprang back to life. The thermometer on the wall by the stove reads about 85; it’ll probably rise another ten degrees before it starts the slow overnight cool. I like sitting by the stove on a cold winter’s night.

But the other day I was thinking about what I’ve accomplished in life, and realize that anything worthwhile hasn’t come from sitting by the fire. It’s taken getting out into the cold, rising often before I really wanted to and keeping at it long after the weariness had set in. When I started writing about gratitude, Ann Voskamp, my inspiration in this adventure, talked about what she called “hard eucharistos,” those circumstances and events in our lives that are difficult and challenging; those times when it is too painful to go on, when the darkness is closing in and we’ve lost our way. 

As much as I enjoy sitting by the fire, it is only possible because someone cut and split the wood when it was cold. And in about an hour, I’ll bank the fire, don my Carhartts, and trek downtown where as a village trustee, I’ll join the mayor, the village clerk, and the other trustees, serving hot chocolate, coffee, and cookies to the families gathered in the village commons so their little kids can sit on Santa’s lap, pet his reindeer, and receive a small bag of candy. We’ll stamp our feet to get the blood flowing to the toes, hold our coffee in slowly numbing fingers, and give a little of ourselves away for the good of our community. Not exactly long term, but a bit more than where I am now.

If allowed, my grandkids will stay glued to their smartphones and video games for hours on end. When they stay overnight, Linda and I will often round the kids up, telling them that it’s time to actually DO something together. Board or card games follow, along with laughter and conversation. I tell them the same thing my father used to tell me: “You’ll never look back in twenty years and say, “Remember that great time we had watching TV?”” As tempting as that might be tonight, I’d rather look back on tonight and remember the faces of the little kids waiting in line for Santa, or the smiles of my friends on the village board as we stand together in the cold. It’s not because I’m a nice guy that I’ll be there. It’s because of the perspective of that hard eucharistos which isn’t really that hard, but for which I am thankful tonight.

77

December 7, 2018

We sat side by side on the couch in our living room watching an old black and white movie, “The Fighting Sullivans,” a true story of five brothers who perished when their ship the Juneau was sunk during the WWII Battle of Guadalcanal. My father was a young man serving in the Army Air Corps when this actually happened. Now in his seventies, he and I watched in silence. 

Suddenly I heard a snorting beside me and glanced over to see my father vainly trying to stifle the emotions welling up inside him. Tears were streaming down his face as he remembered childhood friends who had enlisted with him but who didn’t survive the war. 

A few years later, I was sitting in the back of an antique fire truck with the owner of our local Agway store. We were in the parade making our way to the cemetery for the annual Veteran’s Day service. He was a bomber squad member who was shot down over Europe and spent time as a POW in Nazi Germany. “Bob,” I said, “Our Vietnam vets talk a lot about PTSD; I’ve never heard much from you WWII guys.”

“It never leaves you,” Bob began. “There are still nights when my wife wakes me up because I’ve been thrashing around in my sleep. I’ll be in a cold sweat.” 

Both these incidents took place more than fifty years after the end of World War II. Those of us who have never been in harm’s way cannot fathom what the utter violence of war does to the human soul. In a conversation with a close friend who is a Vietnam vet, I mentioned having some guilt and regret that I never served in the military. “Don’t ever wish this on yourself,” he advised me. “Be thankful you never had to see what I’ve seen.” I am, and am also thankful for those who have seen, and have served. Many made the ultimate sacrifice, but in some ways I wonder if they were the lucky ones. Those who survived have often borne lifelong scars that they carry to their graves. On this 77th anniversary of the attack upon Pearl Harbor, I am grateful for those who answered their country’s call so the rest of us could enjoy the life we’ve been given at such great cost.

Front Wheel Drive

December 6, 2018

It was quite a bit different back then. Our first front-wheel drive car was a Buick Century, a rather forgettable vehicle except for the first time I took it out in the winter and promptly did a 380 turning onto Sylvester St., narrowly avoiding putting it in the ditch. That was in the 80s; every vehicle I drove prior to that was rear wheel drive only. 

It’s a wonder we made it through some of the winters. Hills were always a challenge, especially if you had to stop at a light and try to get started again. The trick was often a matter of spinning the tires till you melted through the snow pack to the blacktop beneath. Of course, that only was good for a couple feet, after which the preferred means of propulsion was fish-tailing it up the hill, hoping you wouldn’t sideswipe the car next to you. 

When Linda and I were first married, we lived in a little hamlet called Alma, nestled in the confluence of two valleys. The hills around Alma were steep; summer was fine, but careful planning was required if in the winter it was necessary to get to the top of one of them. I’ll never forget one time, riding shotgun with my friend Al who decided we needed to climb the hill behind his house instead of taking the more sensible long way around. A running start in his big, heavy Pontiac got us about halfway up the hill when around a bend appeared a slow moving Chevy creeping along. I don’t know how they were making any progress at all, but we knew if we slowed down we’d have to back all the way down the hill and try again. 

When it came to driving, Al was not one to back down. Come to think of it, when it came to anything, Al was not one to back down. He cranked the wheel, hit the gas, and as we passed that car, I could see the old man driving, eyes like saucers. It was easy to see his eyes because I was looking straight out the windshield at him. We were actually going sideways up that hill kicking up a rooster tail of snow, Al laughing maniacally the entire rest of the way.

Those days are pretty well gone. Everything is front or four wheel drive, which takes a lot of the excitement out of winter sports driving. People still find themselves in ditches, usually because they haven’t adjusted to winter conditions. The old man who used to live in our home was for years our village mechanic. He used to say, “The only difference between regular and four wheel drive is when you get stuck, you’re REALLY stuck. And with four wheel drive, you’ll try to go places where you get really stuck.” Well, maybe so, but I’ve only been really stuck once, when I was just getting ready to switch to four wheel drive, but waited just a fraction of a second too long and found myself sailing out into a field, finally stopping about fifty yards from the road.

Tonight we had to navigate some pretty nasty winter weather. I’ve driven worse, but this was bad enough, and I was and am thankful for front wheel drive. It made our trip uneventful, which is how I like them these days.

Peterson

December 5, 2018

“So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him. Don’t become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking. Instead, fix your attention on God. You’ll be changed from the inside out. Readily recognize what he wants from you, and quickly respond to it. Unlike the culture around you, always dragging you down to its level of immaturity, God brings the best out of you, develops well-formed maturity in you.”

“I’m speaking to you out of deep gratitude for all that God has given me, and especially as I have responsibilities in relation to you. Living then, as every one of you does, in pure grace, it’s important that you not misinterpret yourselves as people who are bringing this goodness to God. No, God brings it all to you. The only accurate way to understand ourselves is by what God is and by what he does for us, not by what we are and what we do for him.” —Romans 12:1-3 MSG

This past October, the Church lost one of its often unsung heroes. Eugene Peterson passed away at 85, having pastored for 29 years the same Presbyterian congregation he founded in 1969, retiring in 1991. He is best known for his translation of the Bible known as “The Message,” but also wrote a number of solid and worthy books on the practice of pastoral ministry. 

In one of them, he wrote that too many pastors don’t really believe their own theology. We say we believe in Original Sin, but when Christians act like the sinners they are, we get angry. “It’s impossible to minister out of anger,” he mused. “If we actually believed our theology,” he surmised, “we wouldn’t be surprised when Christians behave like sinners, and would be pleasantly surprised when they actually acted like Christians.” 

Those words breathed life into my soul at a time when we were dealing with a lot of angry people, many of whom were acting in decidedly unchristian ways. His wisdom helped me navigate some very turbulent waters back then, and although I usually prefer more time-proven and literally translated versions, his Message cuts through some of the religious jargon we tend to throw around willy-nilly. Romans 12:1 he translates as, “Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering.” It’s hard to get much plainer or poignant than this. 

Verse 3 reads, “The only accurate way to understand ourselves is by what God is and by what he does for us, not by what we are and what we do for him.” We have tried psychology, we’ve defined ourselves politically, sexually, racially, none of which has been particularly effective at helping us live meaningful and grace-filled lives. We are more at odds with one another than ever before, more out of touch with our own inner selves, and as a result, more depressed, more addictive, more isolated than ever before. I’ve told people for years, “Don’t let anyone tell you who you are. That’s God’s job alone.” If we truly understood who we are in light of the love of God and the gift of Jesus Christ, many of our problems would resolve themselves. 

Tonight I am thankful for God’s gift to the Church of Eugene Peterson; his wisdom and scholarship, and his heart for pastors and the Church they serve. Never having met me, he blessed me greatly, and hopefully through me, many others as well.