Rain

July 6, 2019

If you close your eyes and just listen, you’d be hard pressed to tell whether it is raining or just the creek running. Of course, if you stepped outside, you’d know, but in the middle of the night, the sound is all that’s there, steady and constant. We’ve gotten so used to it that we often have to deliberately focus our attention before we notice it. But it’s always there, a bit softer in the winter when the creek is half-hidden beneath the snow and ice, louder and sometimes furious in the summer after a sudden downpour. 

God’s mercy and grace is like that; constant, always there, flowing like the creek behind our house. It’s the steady backdrop to our lives, so much so that we often are unaware of it. Only in time of storm, when we bend like the trees to the wind, do we realize the grace flowing, rushing in a torrent through our lives. One of the reasons I write every day is to remind myself of that grace, flowing like a river. The day by day ordinariness of life often drowns out the sound of the grace. The eyes of our hearts are closed and we can’t tell the difference between the stormy rains that pour down and the streams of mercy that flow. We have to actually get up, go to the window, and look. So I write. Writing is the window through which I peer to see if it’s a storm or simply daily grace.

Tile

July 5, 2019

I was going to write tonight about an article I read about people who had led fulfilling and successful lives until their fifties, at which time it is typical for creativity and energy to peak and begin falling off. The gist of the article was the difficulty many successful people have adjusting to life in a slower lane. I have lots of thoughts about that, but I’ve spent the entire day on my hands and knees laying tile for my friend, and what I’ve discovered is, a day of hard manual labor makes my brain fuzzy, so although this article got me to thinking, I’m not up to thinking well. 

The good news is, it looks like we’ll actually be able to finish tomorrow. We got more accomplished today than any of us thought we would. The bad news is, while I get to be done, my friend Ken still has a lot of work to do before they move in at the end of the month. Maybe I can help with some of the other stuff, too. It’s what friends do. We were able to move into our house because Ken and others tore down lath and plaster, shoveled cellulose insulation into bags, and did basic demolition weekend after weekend. Then he and my friend Harry wired the whole house. I don’t even know how many Saturdays they spent here. I could tile for two weeks straight and not even be close to what I owe him.

In the end, it’s not about trying to even the score. That would be no more than a business arrangement where one party agrees to exchange labor for labor, skill for skill. This isn’t about business; it’s about friendship. It’s the brotherhood we have experienced in Christ that goes deeper than the labor. I am thankful tonight for this friendship, and for the many other friendships that bring far more blessing to me than I could ever offer to another. Somehow, Jesus evens it all out and draws more out of each of us so no matter how much we give, the blessings come back multiplied.

Grandpa Bohrer

July 4, 2019

Almost anyone with even a modicum of patriotism can do a better job than I writing about this day. I am not a veteran, but I am the son and brother of veterans, and am indebted to them and countless others for the freedom I enjoy. Today I varnished the bannister, had lunch and went shopping with my wife, came home to write and watch a little television, courtesy of those who served, fought, and died for this freedom.

The fourth day of July became a special day in the midst of great conflict, of oppression met by violent resistance. The freedoms we enjoy and others envy came at great cost. The signers of the Declaration of Independence pledged their honor, their fortunes, and their lives for the cause of which we are the beneficiaries. Their honor they maintained; many lost their fortunes, and some their lives for this great experiment in self-government. 

One hundred forty-six years ago, this nation was in the middle of a great conflict testing “whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated can long survive.” On this very day in 1863, Ulysses Grant gave president Lincoln the 4th of July gift he had so earnestly desired. Vicksburg, the backbone of the Mississippi, surrendered. On this same day on the eastern front, George Meade handed Robert E. Lee his first major defeat of the war. The Rebellion was effectively over, though it took another two years to end hostilities.

My great-great-grandfather served in the New York militia in that conflict. An immigrant from Bavaria, he enlisted to preserve his adopted home and country. Every so often we hear of some politician introducing a bill to force white people to pay reparations for slavery, as if that will somehow magically improve our race relations. I am puzzled as to why the descendent of someone who fought for freedom should have to pay anything to the descendent of a slave his ancestor helped set free. I am proud of my grandfather Bohrer; his musket hangs over our fireplace, his discharge papers I keep in a file. They are visible reminders of the self-sacrifice that made this country great, and a reminder to me to not shrink from standing for freedom and truth, no matter what the cost.

Extra Parts

July 3, 2019

I hope they over-engineered it. Our dryer has been making odd noises for a few weeks—squeaks and squawks that hadn’t been discernible before. Then suddenly, the noises disappeared, but shortly afterward, Linda noticed that her clothes weren’t getting dry. Yesterday I pulled the back off it and discovered the problem; the belt had broken. The dealer had to order one, and today I picked it up and got down to work.

There’s something strangely exhilarating about diving into a project when you know absolutely nothing about it. It doesn’t take too long however, for the exhilaration to turn into frustration. When I took the back off, I couldn’t figure out how to get the belt around the drum without completely disassembling the dryer. Enter the wonders of the internet and YouTube. I typed in Electrolux dryer belt replacement, and almost instantly a video popped up. I watched, and immediately learned that replacing the belt requires the removal of the front of the dryer, not the back. By the time I was done, I had it almost completely dismantled. No problem, but our unit was somewhat different than the one in the video—problem. 

I experimented, removing parts until finally the drum was exposed. I slipped the new belt on, went around back and hooked up the idler arm that had come loose, grunted a few times and got the belt wound around the pulleys. A few tugs on the drum and all was well. So taking the back off actually helped me. The only thing left was reassembly. This is where I hope it was over-engineered. I tried to pay close attention to every detail in the dismantling, but had three screws left over when I was done. Tomorrow will tell how important those three screws are. I hope not too important, because I have no clue whatsoever where they belong. So far, everything seems to be working fine. I just hope it doesn’t shake itself apart when Linda starts it up in the morning.

I saved the expense of a service call and learned a few things along the way—not a bad day at all. I didn’t get frustrated or angry, didn’t send any tools flying across the basement to be later retrieved with chagrin. But I am glad when God put me back together, he didn’t have any leftover parts. 

Contentment

July 2, 2019

What will I do when I’m 96? Yesterday I visited my mother, who at that age can do little more than shuffle from her chair to the bathroom and back before she is completely tired out. As she has said, she can’t see to read, has a hard time hearing, can’t get around, so why is she still here, she’d like to know. I told her it was because God was listening to our prayers instead of hers. She didn’t see the humor in my remark. The last time I visited her, she said she needed to look at her situation differently. Instead of complaining to the Lord for keeping her around so long, she needed to start thanking him that nothing hurt and she still has her mind. I thought that was a great idea. But still, all she can do is sit, sleep, and pray. 

By contrast, today after breakfast and time in the Scriptures, I stained the bannister, tore apart the dryer (it has a broken belt), worked on Sunday’s sermon, removed the grinder from my apple press and glued up an oak board to replace the damaged parts, trimmed branches from the ash tree that were overhanging the garage and brushing on the roof, checked on swimmers at Sunnyside, and had a wonderful conversation with Linda and our granddaughter Abi. It was a full and fulfilling day.

I caught a little news, but decided to leave most of it alone. A long conversation yesterday with my friend Rell reminded me of my favorite Psalm: 

“LORD, my heart is not haughty,

Nor my eyes lofty.

Neither do I concern myself with great matters,

Nor with things too profound for me.

Surely I have calmed and quieted my soul

Like a weaned child with its mother,

Like a weaned child is my soul within me.” —Psalm 131

Great and momentous events are happening all around us, and the older I get, the more I realize there are too many “great matters” for this small brain. All I can do is trust and pray. The hard part for me is following the beginning of verse 2–“Surely I have calmed and quieted my soul.” We often ask God to do that, but here it says that calmness and quiet is our job. How do we do this in the middle of the storms that not only rage around us, but also within us? The mystics and contemplatives have wrestled with this for generations, and I am beginning to think that in our exaltation of the Protestant work ethic, we have lost the ability to simply “be” in the Presence of the One who alone can calm the troubled sea.

As I reflect on my life and what I have/haven’t accomplished, I recognize that in my nearly 70 years on this planet, I haven’t done much to change the world. I haven’t even changed the world within me as much as I would like. I haven’t been nearly as successful in evangelism as I wish, which is of great concern to me in light of the Great Commission. What will I say when I stand before the Judge of all the world and he asks, “What did you do with all I gave you?” At times, that is a very sobering thought. But like the story of the young man throwing back into the ocean starfish that had washed up on the beach after a storm, “I may not be able to make a difference for all of them,” as he chucked another into the waves, “but I made a difference for that one.”

Spending time with my friends, some of whom have left us too soon, has heightened my awareness of the fragility of life and the privilege we have of sharing it together. As Ecclesiastes says, “Live joyfully with the wife whom you love all the days of your...life.” I have been given the opportunity to do just that. Maybe it’s the best way I can serve our Lord. If not the best, surely it is a good way, and one most pleasant to me, excepting the times my heart breaks for the pain she suffers, too often because of my stupidity. 

I’ll never be a world-class preacher or evangelist. My music will never make national airwaves, and my hunting ability...well, let’s not talk about that. But tonight I quiet my soul as I turn my mind to the Scriptures and the grace of Christ to which they direct me. I am not 96, but I am blessed, content, and very thankful. 

Dangling

July 1, 2019

Every hospital has one. They call it the waiting room, but a writer acquaintance says it’s more like dangling. I think she’s on to something there—the “dangling” room, where people dangle midway between hope and despair, faith and fear, dangling as they wait for the surgeon to fulfill their dreams or confirm their fears. 

Dangling rooms are usually pretty quiet. Conversations are muted, laughter is rare; when it occurs, it’s often nervous laughter, so when the genuine article appears, it shines like a beacon in the night. The light shone today.

I sat with a dear friend today as his wife underwent surgery at Roswell Park Cancer Hospital. My first experiences with Roswell nearly fifty years ago were depressing. Halls were ill-lit, rooms were pretty barren; it had the aura of a place where people went to die. Today, it is bright, cheery, staffed by top-notch people who exude life and offer hope. Nevertheless, dangling is still not fun.

So we talked. Some of it was serious, some silly. After all, the Bible says laughter—“a merry heart does good like medicine.” (Proverbs 17:22) Like me, my friend is a writer. We parted with a good laugh, courtesy of the hospital itself. On the wall of the restroom I visited before leaving was a poster with the following message:

BEFORE YOU GO...

YOU MAY NEED 

A URINE SAMPLE

PLEASE CHECK WITH THE FRONT DESK

THANK YOU

I wish I had the chutzpah to actually have followed through with those instructions. I wondered why I would need a sample to take home, if they keep a stash at the front desk for our convenience, and what I am to do with it once they give it to me. Grammar isn’t the old woman who sits on the front porch, and judicious choice of words matters. Maybe next time I visit, I’ll check at the desk before I leave. I may get ushered out, but it would make the dangling worth it.

We 

Jonah

June 30, 2019

Even people who’ve never darkened the door of a church know the story of Jonah and the whale. Apparently getting eaten by a fish and puked up on shore makes for a good bedtime tale. What’s usually missing however, is the point of the story.

Jonah was commissioned by God himself to preach judgment upon the city of Nineveh, capital of Assyria. While few people relish the thought of proclaiming hellfire and damnation on others, it was a particularly odious task for the Jewish Jonah. In more modern times, it would be akin to God ordering a Jew to head to Berlin in 1941 with a message of judgment on the Nazi party, not exactly a cushy calling. So he did what anyone in his right mind would do—he boarded a slow boat going in the opposite direction, and the rest is as they say, history.

What we usually miss is the rest of the story, so I’ll play a little Paul Harvey here. 

Jonah was swallowed by the fish, spit out on dry land, and reluctantly marched his way to Nineveh. He preached, and the entire city from the king to the pauper repented, which didn’t set too well with Jonah. “I knew this would happen!” he complained to God. “You are gracious, merciful, slow to anger and of great kindness.” This is the only time I can recall a preacher being angry when the people he preached to actually listened and repented. Jonah was a bit odd that way. Maybe those three days and nights inside the fish messed with his head. He was so upset at the success of his mission that he wanted to die.

He still held out hope that maybe God was just pulling his leg with all this repentance, so he went and camped out on a hillside to see if fire and brimstone might after all rain down on the city. He even built himself a little shelter to keep the sun off his neck. Here’s where the story gets interesting.

The text says God “prepared” a vine that grew up to provide shade for Jonah. That made him happy. But the next morning, God prepared a worm that chewed the vine, making it wither. That made Jonah mad. Later that day, God prepared a hot east wind that made the sun seem even hotter, to the point that Jonah was about to faint. He was so distraught he wanted to die, which was right where God wanted him. He didn’t know it at the time, but he was in God’s crosshairs.

You see, there were four things God prepared: the fish, the vine, the worm, and the wind. Only one of the four was even the least bit pleasing to Jonah. Three out of four were rather unpleasant experiences, yet it was God who was behind them. Too often when trouble comes our way, we chalk it up to the activity of the devil, when in reality, the irritations, interruptions, and inconveniences of life are tools in God’s hands to prepare one more thing—our hearts. 

The story isn’t about a man who got swallowed by a fish; it’s about you and me, and God’s relentless pursuit of us even when we are running away from him. He prepared these experiences because Jonah needed converting as much as the people of Nineveh. And even today, God pursues people through tragedy, failure, brokenness, and discouragement. He refuses to give up, even when like Jonah in the belly of the fish, his own Son was crucified and buried for three days and nights so we could be delivered from our incessant self-centeredness that keeps us from caring for others as much as we care for our own comfort and well-being. If when facing trials and troubles you ever doubt God’s love for you, just remember Jonah. And Jesus.