I Reid

Why Christmas?

2011-12-15T22:11:00.003-06:00

Quite a few people have walked into my office today, most of them letting the smile precede them, some of them are whistling a happy Christmas carol. Some of them even knock. As they sit down on the sofa, there is an expectation that I will ask them what brings their smile to my office, and I gladly oblige because if there is any one time of year that seeks fulfillment of joy, it is the advent season. So much expectation - so little time.

Why can't advent be prolonged for four months? Why only four weeks? There are many places on the web that I could find the answer to these questions; many of them claim that the original understanding for advent, or "coming", was more in preparation for Epiphany, rather than Christmas. Little do many know that in the early church there were three main church holidays: Easter (of course), Pentecost (that would be right) and Epiphany (the coming of the light). What? The first three are 'churchy' holidays. What about Christmas? 'Christ' right in the word unless you are my neighbor who continually (to get my goat, I think) calls the whole season x-mas almost as if it were a holiday for Wolverine, Magneto and Storm.

Why didn't the early church celebrate Christmas? Most likely, I think, because they didn't actually know when he was born. Let's face it: Jesus was born as (traditionally understood) part of a poor Jewish family. Birthdays were not considered that important in those days - most people didn't really even know how old they were. They probably would have known what season they were born, but an actual date? Probably not. So how was December 25 chosen as the date of the birth of the Savior? The most obvious guess is metaphorical. December 21 is the date commonly given as the solstice, when the earth begins to swing back the other direction. For those who live north of the equator, the daylight hours would be getting longer after December 21. The young church (already almost two hundred years old at this point) chose the winter solstice because it was a quaint understanding that the light was coming back into the world. What was interesting to me, as I pored through some research on Christmas, was that after the winter solstice, it usually takes the human eye four days to begin to see the change in length of daylight hours i.e. four days after December 21. Literally, we could see a change in the light coming back on December 25. (in the northern hemisphere, that is).

The most common understanding of the date chosen, though, was that it was a religious takeover of a pagan festival. This was common practice in the early church to commandeer the best dates during the year such as Eastertime and Christmastime to help people remember to be especially 'religious' at these times. For the new Christians who were pagan or non-practicing something or other, Christmas was the corporate church takeover of the pagan holiday dies natalis solis invicti or in English, "birth of the invisible sun god.' Imagine that, the metaphor of Christ, the light of the world being born at Christmas - it fits, doesn't it? Christmas which literally means, "Christ Mass" - was an attempt to separate the people from the pagan mindset to celebrate Christ at the darkest time of year.

But Christmas, in the early church, was never intended to become one of the 'Big 3.' Easter carries with it God's saving grace in the world, Pentecost is the greatest gift of the Holy Spirit, the comforter and Epiphany, the celebration of the light of the world and his baptism: Light and Water, symbols of life. But Christmas, why has Christmas become Number 1? I think for multiple reasons:

1. People like babies. According to Taladegha Nights: the Legend of Ricky Bobby - it's easiest to pray to a 8 pound 6 ounce baby Jesus. If somehow we can keep Jesus little, keep him bound up in all of our best pictures of Christmas as a 'fleece diapered child of God,' Christmas is more palatable for the general public. People don't want to think about what Jesus did in his life, his death and resurrection. (My sarcasm ball and socket is flexing wildly.) I would guess that many people agree with Ricky Bobby.

2. Christmas is all about receiving. I've heard it over and over again, Jesus said it, "It is more blessed to give than to receive.' But more and more what I hear across the radio waves: "The one who has more presents has more love." Usually, the bigger the present, the more you are loved. Businesses have to sell, I guess, but how many of us really need to be told that, in no uncertain terms, 'your wife will really love you if you put a bow on a brand new Mercedes this Christmas (I should write 'holiday' to fit in with the advertising. Wouldn't want to send mixed messages at this blessed time of year.) Ask and ye shall receive. Write your list to the portly, red outfitted, chimneyphile - ask and ye shall receive it - unless, of course, you've been bad.

3. Everyone likes what Christmas represents: trees, lights, presents, family together, stuffing your bellies full of food and drink and then waddling to the sofa that night after opening presents to fall asleep and not go to Christmas Day services at church. Oops, maybe next year. The glam of Christmas is wonderful, don't get me wrong - but where is the 'silent night' of Christmas. Where is the reflection? Where is God's whisper to us that he loves us forever and ever? Why do we wonder that we can't hear God's voice now?

4. Lastly, Christmas became bigger and bigger once lent and Easter became darker and darker. As western culture developed, as the Church became older, the message of Easter stressed sacrifice and the cross, crucifixion, death, blood and gore... This is what people want to avoid, if they can. It used to be that sex was the great taboo - no one would talk about it. But now, death is the great taboo. We don't talk about it; we avoid it at all costs. We fill our lives with things that speak of eternal youth. As the church tries to exercise the beauty of discipline and sacrifice, more and more people want to call a halt to it. Sacrifice means death; the death of a selfish part of life. Discipline means restrictions on what I want to do. We want happiness and things that make us generally content, not things that remind us of death. But how, as Christians, can we separate Christmas from Easter? It is because of Easter that we have the freedom to celebrate the light and life that came into the world.

It is time to go home. Those who have visited me have left the comfy sofas. There Christmas carol whistles still hang in the air somewhere, but now I am alone for a little bit in silence. It's a good thing during advent: to sit in silence and prepare for what God might have for us at Christmas.

Just a few rumblings for advent - a time of preparation. Prepare for the coming again of the light. Have a very merry Christmas.

Reid

The Blessing

2011-11-07T21:06:00.002-06:00

During the late hours of Sunday evening this last week, I prepared diligently for Monday's chapel service. For most chapels there is scripture, music, message, prayer and blessing. When it is my turn to give the message, I usually spend most of my time on the words I will speak to the four hundred students at Faith College. I must admit, rarely do I spend a lot of time thinking about the words of the music - I pick songs by necessity which, priority wise, go like this: songs the chapel band can play, songs the chapel band likes, songs that don't make me cover my ears and want to rock back and forth. I spend even less time, unfortunately, on the words I will say for the prayer and blessing and usually I simply hope that God will give me the right words at the right time: that's biblical, right?

As I looked through some understanding of the assigned scripture for me I was left with the daunting task to try and explain the Spirit to this group of thirteen to eighteen-year-olds. Many of them have not had a large amount of understanding with things Christian, much less spiritual, so I was left with the conundrum: do I try to explain, or do I try to help them experience. I went for experience.

Rob Bell is a popular Christian speaker probably most well known in Christian circles for his Nooma videos. The irony is that the word pneuma in Greek means 'spirit', 'wind' or 'breath.' I found one of the videos entitled 'Breath,' and Rob spoke eloquently and at length about breath and how life is breath. We need breath, obviously, but it was pointed out that most of us never quite get the large breaths that we need. Our bodies are designed to take roughly six breaths per minute. Our lungs have the capacity to hold enough oxygen to supply ninety-nine percent of the fuel that we need to energize our bodies (which would help us lessen our need to eat so much). We only use approximately twelve percent of our lungs and thus we stunt our ability to move in this world. If we could only breathe - and breathe deeper. If we could only fill our lungs; if we could only...

I invited the kids to breathe deeply, to experience the fullness of life coursing through their lungs. In and out they breathed silently (for the most part.) Then I invited them to think about Rob's other understanding in the video, Breath. He said that some theologians, who have contemplated the name of God - YHWH - would say that God's very name, not only unpronounceable because of its holiness, is simply the very breath of creation - the Spirit that hovered over the waters preparing to make the earth as it is. The letters in Hebrew, yod, heth, vav, heth, are full of air and breath. Some would say that it is God's name that keeps us alive; as we breathe in and out, it is God keeping us alive.

I noticed at this point that some of the students were really studying their breath deeply (some of them so deeply that their eyes were closed - the Spirit must have been speaking to them on a very different plane, I'm sure), so, I decided to wrap up the message and commend God's breath to them, God's new life to them.

Then, as is normal for chapel, we extended our time into prayer. Normally I would have one of the students come up to lead us in prayer, but because we were already past time (beautiful, isn't it - chapels determined by time - just like Sunday morning worship) I decided that I would lead the prayers for the day. The words came easily, I thought, and as I opened my eyes after the prayer, I invited one of the kids up to do the blessing. This young man, Luke, had been wanting to share the blessing with the rest of the students for quite a while. He was standing off to the side, smiling, excited - like a child who is about ready to deliver his Show and Tell. He moved quickly toward me (he had told me earlier in the day that he had been working on his blessing). I handed him the microphone and as soon as it hit his hand, this young ninth grader froze. It was as if he had been hit by a taser gun. His face locked into a grimace, his wide eyes imploringly searched mine and then he whispered, "I don't know what to say. Will you help me?"

I had just done such a nice job with the prayer I said out loud, "No problem, Luke," and so I said the words and he repeated them. After raising his hand to the congregation of his peers, as if casting his blessing far and wide over them, he repeated the words I spoke to him:

"Almighty God who hovered over the waters," Luke spoke these words clearly and surely, "will bless you this day and forever more." He was really getting into it now.

And that certainly was my demise...

"We implore you, God, to bless each one of us today with your life and..."

Here it comes, that moment which we wish we could take it back, the moment we replay in our minds hoping that we didn't actually say it...

"And we ask that you give us huge breaths today."

Luke looked at me after he said it aware that the snickering had started in the back. I looked up at the principal and she was trying desperately to not laugh. At first, I didn't get it, but if you read my statement above out loud, you will recognize that it sounded as if I was begging God to give us large, um, well, um... you know...

When it dawned on me what it had sounded like, I then said out loud (I wish it would have been an internal monologue) "Well, that didn't sound very good." The congregation of students began to laugh. After overcoming my embarrassment, I joined in the laughter, but it made me think once again,

Life is full of blessings. Just be careful which blessings you ask for.

S.W.A.T church

2011-10-31T20:48:00.004-05:00

Okay. So, it's been almost three months since I posted. Most of the posting has been for my own personal benefit, an emotional enema, if you will. For some who read this blog they have found amusement, maybe a sliver of inspiration, or, in many cases, a diversion to make it through a work day. I won't get big headed about people who say they read my blog: actually, I'd like to, but that wouldn't be humble, and I'm really proud of my humility. The calculated amount of people who read this blog probably reaches into the tens of ones - which is why I mostly blog for my own benefit, but I love the comments after I haven't done it for a while. This is from my former neighbor, Merv,

Kept looking for a blog from Reid and decided he must have broken both arms and couldn't write...

Or, this one from a friend in Arkansas,

I haven't seen a new blog since August 10th... I pray nothing has happened to keep him from writing those as I always look forward to the next one coming out.

Thanks, David, just a reeeeeaally nice way of saying "Stop being so lazy, Reid, and do what you like to do."

Lastly, and probably the best, Thanks for the photos, Christine, sure looks like your husband is losing a lot of hair. Tell him to write his blog.

Nothing like the honesty of friends.

The family and I were driving to church on a Sunday night last month - October. It was an exciting night, the first in a string of nights with the word fest attached to them. Oktoberfest - at church. With the rest of the congregation, we'd been planning Oktoberfest for months. Christine had organized a sheet for people to bring food for the potluck; I had been running down music and a script for the skit. But, what intrigued most people (especially the younger adults and anyone with a last name that sounded even the littlest bit German - you know, names with lots of 'k's' or 'sch's' together) was that we were going to have beer. I know, right, at the church? Beer and brats, throw in the Bible study and you've got a Lutheran rave.

On the way to the church our blue Holden station wagon bounced back and forth between potholes in the road. The floods did great damage to the infrastructure of the highway systems and often driving on country blacktop is like the grainy image of the lunar vehicle bouncing across the moon's surface. As the scenery rolled passed, bounced a little bit, I guess, we noticed life coming back to life. Recent rains had encouraged the grasses to grow again; the dams were full, bursting to the edges while black swans and other fowl floated on the surface. As beautiful as the scenery was, I kept thinking to myself, "Am I doing the right thing? Are we supposed to be having beer after church? Does the Lutheran Church of Australia excommunicate for this sort of thing?"

Most people, when needing directions to Green Pastures Lutheran Church in Lockrose, Queensland, hear that they should turn left after the Brightview Tavern. You know that drinking is part of the culture when the Tavern itself has a children's playground in it, just like the big McDonalds in the States. So, I figured, if people have to be told how to get to church using a bar as a landmark, we might as well make the church hall the very same kind of landmark - not a bar, per se, but a place where people take their time, let their hair down (or in my case, obviously, let my scalp down) and share what's going on in life.

Last week, as I talked with one of the professors from the Lutheran Seminary in Adelaide, I heard him say that it was obvious what Lutheran churches in Australia do really well: they fellowship. He said you could tell what was most important to a church by the size of its buildings. Guess what, the church hall where we gather for events at Green Pastures, is twice as big as the actual sanctuary. Pretty cool, huh?

I turned left at Brightview Tavern noticing the absence of children playing on the monkey bars outside the pub. They must all be heading to church to drink beer. As we neared the small, yellow church, I noticed something different though. At 4:00, the cars were already starting to arrive. Church didn't start until 6:00, so it surprised me that so many were turning up already. Then, I noticed the trailer. Someone had brought a bar-b-q spit! We were going to roast a pig! At Church! And there would be beer! This is the coolest church in the world! Whose idea was it to bring the spit?

I was excited...

Until I noticed Don walking towards me. Don is the chairman of the congregation; he is sturdy and full of laughter. There is almost always a sense that his chest is so full of mirth that any minute the dam might break and I'll be flooded with laughter so deep I might drown in it. He was smiling this night, too, except that it was more of a smirk. We parked our car and I walked over to Don noticing then that all the cars that were parked on the church grounds all looked the same.

"Good evening, Don."

"Evening, Pastor Reid."

"What's going on?" I asked after shaking his hand.

"These guys are some friends of mine from the police department." He motioned toward the hall.

In my head I had sudden flashbacks to college of the police rousting parties that were getting out of hand. But, I'd never heard of the police breaking up a party that hadn't even started yet. Maybe that's how they do it in Australia? It seems to me there are some more disruptive places than churches by the name of Green Pastures to take care of, but, it could have been a slow night.

"Ummm, what are they doing here?" Just as I asked the question, a group of policemen in full body gear came issuing from the hall in full S.W.A.T. gear. They were like angry wasps that buzz out of the nest when you've disturbed them.

"There's going to be a bust in town," Don said.

"Pardon my ignorance," I responded, "But they aren't actually busting Green Pastures' church hall, are they? That probably wouldn't be a good evangelical tool - you know, one of those catchy slogans you'll never put on the billboard, 'Come to Green Pastures: Get saved - Get busted. Don't worry, you're forgiven."

Don laughed. "Nah, it's just up the street. They are just using the hall for a staging point. They should be out of here by the time the service starts."

Excellent. As I looked back again at the trailer, it was not a bar-b-q spit, but a trailer of death: guns, tear gas, ammunition - straight out of a Arnold Schwarzennegar movie. He's got a German last name, he could stay for Oktoberfest. Well, we were in for an interesting night.

Now, the problem that I had was that if the swarm of angry S.W.A.T bees was using the hall for the staging point, how was I going to get the beer in the fridge? It would be kind of strange to walk up to the commanding officer and say, "Excuse me, Captain, I realize that you are kind of busy right now, but do you think it would be alright if I carried a case of beer through your gathering here and put it in the fridge. It's of the utmost importance that this beer stays cold. It could mean life and death to someone."

I couldn't say it like that, but I was pretty sure that people who came to Oktoberfest would rather have cold beer. Deciding to take one for the team I approached one of the officers.

"Excuse me," I stopped one of the black garbed, bullet-proof vested officers who was looking at his machine gun. "Would it be possible for me to go in to the kitchen."

His steely eyes gazed up at me with disdain. Who was this fool with his polo shirt, thinning hair and American accent? Was he a spy from the house that was about to be drug busted?

"What's your name?" he asked me brusquely.

"I'm Pastor Reid Matthias," I hoped that my title would calm his fears and perhaps allow him to lower his weapon of mass destruction. The officer scanned me from head to toe and realized that I was not a threat to him (or to any other segment of the world for that fact).

"No, you can't go in the kitchen."

"But I'm the pastor here. The kitchen needs to be utilized for holding the elements of consecration. The bibles we need are in there. A cross from the Holy City of Adelaide is inside." I didn't really say that but I really wanted to get the beer into the fridge.

"Do you know when we can get into the kitchen?"

"After we leave," the officer responded and then he turned his back on me. Amazing. A pastor turned away from his own...

"Reid," Don said smiling. "They'll be out in a little while. Just let them do their thing. They are trying to be secretive about the bust."

"I can tell," I said sarcastically as I looked over the small army that had assembled. There were roughly fifteen officers in full S.W.A.T. gear (which I looked up means 'Special Weapons and Tactics") two armored vehicles and a whole fleet of unmarked cars. For anyone who lived within five miles of Lockrose, I don't think it was too much of a secret.

The S.W.A.T. team bundled up after about half an hour. While I led Bible study (inside the church, mind you, because the selfish officers wouldn't let us use the hall), the team began to move out. My beautiful wife, in the middle of Bible study got side tracked and began to watch with great amusement until finally, the moment got the best of her and she exclaimed from the back of the church, "They've got two tanks!" Needless to say the kids in the Bible study did a quick calculation of what would be more interesting: Romans, chapter 1 or two armored vehicles motoring down the road to break down the door of a drug lord.

Bible study was over.

When people began to arrive to church, they noticed some of the police vehicles still there. A few of the congregation members verbally expressed their concern by saying, "I wonder what Pastor Reid did? I knew it was only a matter of time - being American and all. We've seen the TV shows, C.O.P.S. Bad Boys, Bad Boys, watcha gonna do?"

It was an interesting night and after the cops left, before the service started, I surreptitiously retreated to my car to carry the case of beer to the ancient fridge. We had to plug the thing in the week before just so that it would be mildly chilled for Oktoberfest. This fridge is so old that the energy rating is negative, I think. But, at least the beer was kept tepid.

It was a great night of worship and fellowship. It made me think of Green Pastures. We have our own Special Weapons and Tactics team. Our weapons don't kill people but ideas like grace and forgiveness are weapons of mass reconstruction. For those that have been beaten down over the years or have been neglected by churches telling them that they are only good in so far as they can 'do something' Lockrose is a place of healing. The tactics we use, special, but not exclusive to Green Pastures, are welcoming and fellowship - finding a place to sit and sing, pray and eat, live and be merry. We toasted the night. We laughed about me verbalizing, "Excellent, we're going to roast a pig tonight," when, in fact, 'pig' is a derogatory term for 'policeman.'

I was wondering why they didn't come back for worship.

Oktoberfest was a moment in time when we realize that church is about relationships, being part of something bigger than our own individual identities, and enjoying life for a while. I guess that's what makes a S.W.A.T. church.

There's No Place Like Home

2011-08-10T23:54:00.002-05:00

In 1939 audiences were treated to one of the best motion pictures of all time. Bringing music and cinematography to a whole new world, The Wizard of Oz brings audiences to an enchanted land swirling through a twister to land in a place where lions brave the yellow brink road, tin men feel their way through life and scarecrows realize that life is even better if you only have a brain. I think the American Congress can really associate with all three of these characters - bravery, feeling and an understanding that a brain is tantamount to good politics. I digress: this is neither a political blog or one built on foundational understandings of economics. This is the third installment of my fishing expedition and I bring us to one of the most famous quotes in all of cinema history: "There is no place like home."

Halfway through the night on our ride home southwest from the Swains to Gladstone, the winds started up again. Because the night had been so calm up until this point, I was startled to the point of waking. The waves cause the boat to twitch like a horse shaking a fly from its head and I immediately opened my eyes briefly and thought to myself.

"Oh, sunshine."

Most of the other pirates on the ship had reminded me that since I had been doing so well for the last days of the trip, I had my sea legs, in other words, I shouldn't suffer too much on the ride back. I lay in the upper bunk, Robert sleeping in the lower silently dreaming away in his own, non-seasick way, running through the last day of fishing on the Capricorn Star.

The sun beat down on us most of the day; sunscreen was a must. Some of the other fisherman had arisen at 4:30 in the morning to begin a new day of mackerel fishing; I had taken my turn wanting a chance at the long sleep fish and Graham had allowed me the chance. By 5:30 one had taken the pilchard dangling on the end of a line where three large hooks pierced at intervals. The mackerel, not wanting to end up on the boat went running, line zinging this way and that. As I grabbed the pole I remembered wanting to make a good impression on the other pirates. Unfortunately, the kind of equipment used on a deep sea fishing expedition is much different than North American Lakes and I found myself fumbling and fooling around with the line until eventually, as Warwick and Graham were watching, the mackerel swam to the front of the boat and found a way to tangle itself around the anchor. I watched the captain smile as he looked over the point of the boat.

"I think you've caught something much bigger than a mackerel," he said.

That was the longest sentence I heard him say all week. I wish he wouldn't have seen me. When I returned back to the stern of the boat, Warwick stood, head almost scraping the ceiling, smiling. I knew what he was thinking, "Rookie." After a display like that, there is nothing that I could do but laugh at myself once again. Life is much more enjoyable when you learn to laugh at yourself (that's my attempt at justifying being a lousy deep sea fisherman).

After we ate breakfast, some kind of egg with spaghetti and four pounds of bacon (Steve made the plates look like smiley faces - I guess he was happy to almost be off the ship for a few hours) the boat took off for a few more stops of fishing before the long, disinteresting ride, ten kilometers per hour across the ocean. At the first stop, I positioned myself on the duck board again away from my neighbors Peter and Adrian. Because we'd all gotten to know each other a little bit during the week, they did not take offense for my absence; it was not because of them, but it was a space issue. Just like all of nature longs for a little extra space, so did I and I watched with a small amount of schadenfreude when the middle of the boat connected with snagged lines. Just as we were about to leave, a tug on my line allowed me to catch one last fish. This one had heft and with a sinking resignation, I assumed that one of two things would happen on the long way up from the depths of the ocean: 1, I had a nice fish on that would be a piece of nice fish when it came up half swallowed by a shark or 2. I had caught another friendly remora. Let's face it, during the week, I was a remora magnet - even as the sharks had their feed of all the other fish approaching the surface, their friends found my bait as appetizing as a steak after a week at a vegetarian getaway.

Remoras, also called a 'suckfish' by Encyclopedia.com, is a scavenger. It has a flat disk on the top of its head which allows it to 'suck' on to various predators. The smallest remoras glom on to tuna or swordfish but the most common suckfish attach to sharks or whales, sometimes even the undersides of boats. The sucking property of the remora is so great that some tribes of the Polynesian people tie lines to the tails of remoras which suck to sea turtles which they can then pull in without even using a hook.

The remora makes its living, then, finding a decent host, attaching itself via 'sucking up' to the predator and then taking the scraps from whatever is left over. Not only does the remora not expend any energy in movement because they are pulled wherever the predator is going, but they also don't have to hunt down their own prey. What a life. I've known quite a few people who would have been remoras in previous lives. They were very prominent at college and usually when we would be having a celebration at the house. The suckfish would start showing up at the same time as all the coeds, the predators, who came with empty cups. Then, when the predators would get a drink, the remoras would ask the predators to fill their cup also thus sparing them any effort (or money) to enjoy life. It doesn't stop at college either; remoras are seen everywhere any time there is a celebrity in attendance. You can see them from a distance. I went to a Harry Connick, Jr. concert once and as he tried to leave the venue, people were around him crushing him for an autograph, a handshake or to press a CD into his hand as if he would listen and be moved to record it on a new CD.

It is simply part of nature that this happens: wherever there is power, there is safety. On the African plains, all the animals crowd around elephants and giraffes. Lions are hesitant to approach elephants, and giraffes can see them coming for miles around. Remoras are nature's highest form of sloth, I guess.

Anyway, back to the fishing story, this fish turned out not to be either choice one or two, but the third option was something I hadn't really considered (but continually hoped for). It was a red emperor. We hadn't caught any for the whole week of a keepable size until that morning when Graham had snagged one. But here I was, holding a nice red emperor up from the duck board hoping with all my might that it was big enough to keep so that Warwick and Russell would see it. Warwick, being the good natured person that he is, took a picture of me and finally he could see that I was truly a much better fisherman than he was. Sometimes I just write things because I know that the person I write them about will be reading it also. Kind of like when you are talking on the phone in a very public place and say at a much-louder-than-necessary voice to your wife, "Yes, you'll have to put on some clothes when I get home. I'm hungry."

The rest of the day was spent in relative stasis. The waves stayed low and the captain took us to other spots that, I would guess, he had never caught anything before - he probably just wanted to get home. After reeling the lines up for the last time, it was not really a sad thing to begin our journey homeward. There is no place like it. By the time the week was ending, the pirates were getting restless and ready to be away from the boat, the smell of fish, the sound of the motors and ready for landlegs.

The sun began setting for the last time, a beautiful sunset and the dolphins swam with us for a while. After dark, the stars shone glisteningly white across the ocean like permanent snowflakes attached to the dark canvass of the sky. Great pods of immature flying fish flew beside the side of the boat as we raced toward the west. After a large meal, many of us headed off to bed, others watched a movie and some sat, staring at the stars connecting the points of light like a draw by number picture.

Until the shaking of the boat, the time went quickly and then, as I prayed for a settling in my stomach for the last little while, we were nearing the port of Gladstone. Morning breakfast was at 4:00 and when I arose, the first, I noticed the beauty of land with only a trace of sadness to be leaving the sea behind.

After docking, we alit on land again, each hairy pirate giving expression to different pleasures of being back on solid ground, although it didn't really feel like it. The longer one is on a boat, the longer it takes to adjust to walking on land again. For the first two days of return, my steps were shallow and shaky and I was grateful that this passed.

What a great trip it was. We headed to Robbie's house, picked up our fish, handed out trophy's for biggest fish, said our goodbye and headed home to meet our wives and children. It is always good to be back with family.

It's always good because there is no place like home.

Oceanic Life

2011-07-24T00:34:00.003-05:00

Tom sat across the table from me. Slouched in the padded blue benches where we ate our meals, Tom flashed an impish smile at me. We'd been sitting for almost an hour sharing stories, telling tales of younger years, Tom, like many diminutive men, tried to regale me with myths of conquest. I looked over at Mick, the other deckhand, who smiled into his Coke swirling it round ice tinkling the plastic glass. We'd finally gotten around the topic that I knew was coming.

"What the (sunshine) is a pastor," he asked as his forehead scrunched up as if the question actually hurt. As my children will eventually read this, I'm going to insert the word 'sunshine' for the word that usually signifies carnal knowledge unlawfully gained. (Sunshine) was a very popular word on the boat, not just with the deckhands. The word seemed to morph into every different kind of speech, sometimes it was even inserted into the middle of other words as if to stress the meaning by adding (sunshine) to it.

I am not a prude by any means, but it was interesting to me to watch (and listen) to many of my fellow fisherman transform from whatever profession they previously held to their new profession which was full time sailor, or even pirate, if you will. As beards grew longer, vocabularies grew smaller. So, when one of the pirates (fisherman) couldn't figure out what to say next it was just as easy to slip in a (sunshine). (Sunshine) was used for all verb tenses, nouns, adjectives, adverbs (which is a really funny thing to behold). I even heard one of the men use (sunshine) as definite article once. Oh well, what happens on the Capricorn Star stays on the Capricorn Star, unless, that is, one of the pirates writes a blog.

I laughed as Tom questioned me on my calling in life. "A pastor," I said, "is a person that works in a church and attempts to help other people."

Tom scratched his head and took a drink. "So you're one of those Christian thingies?"

"I guess you could put it that way, Tom." Mick had begun to giggle a little. Tom, twenty years of age, perhaps had not experienced the vastness of life yet and, due to the house size chip on his shoulder being small, it wouldn't surprise me if it took a while for him to learn a different meaning of life. Mick, on the other hand, had traveled the world, married but as of yet hadn't settled down. Mick was thirty-three, had reddish brown hair and a flock of freckles that covered most of his body. His legs actually looked the skin of a giraffe. I didn't tell him that though. Mick usually had a controlled laugh, hesitant, a few 'ha ha's' and then it was all done, but at Tom's second foray into the wide world of spirituality, he couldn't control himself.

"You don't know what a pastor is?" he asked Tom.

It was obvious that Tom's hackles were about to be raised and I could see him want to assert himself to Mick, but Tom finally realized that Mick wasn't laughing at him, but for him.

I changed the subject. "What do you like to do, Tom? Do you like to fish?"

"Nah," he said settling back into his seat. "I like to dive but I don't like to fish. It's too boring for me." I didn't point out the irony of his working on a fishing vessel and I'm pretty sure Tom would have thought the word 'irony' would have something to do with a laundromat.

"How about you, Mick?" I turned the question on the Mick. It was obvious that Mick was an intelligent, thoughtful man. He reminded me of many bartenders I'd seen, slow to speak, but insightful when asked a question. To this point, Mick seemed a calm, caring man who tended to gravitate towards the pirates who struggle with the trip. During my hours of seasickness, Mick was one of the first to see if I would survive. Almost a saint, I guess.

"I love the reef. I'm planning on getting my captain's license to do reef trips someday."

"I like to kill things," Tom said.

"Thanks, Tom, we'll continue with your journey into your psychology in a little bit," I said. I remembered back to the afternoon, Tom standing on the duck board, cudgel in hand beating a mackerel senseless in order to bring it up. I inwardly shook my concentration to move back to Mick. "I'm new to this side of the world. Tell me something about the reef."

Mick took a deep breath and smiled. This was his sweet spot; I'm sure we could have sat there all night and Mick would gladly have described every part of the Great Barrier Reef. "The reef is about 2,600 kilometers long stretching from the northeast tip of the continent to the middle of the east coast of Australia. Around 8,000 years ago, the water in the oceans was much more shallow but as the waters rose, the land 160 kilometers from Australia was submerged. The reef, which had already started growing in these shallow waters had more room to grow."

"How does it grow?" I asked.

"There are lots of different kinds of reef but the interesting part of this place is that the organisms all grow together. They are dependent upon each each other whether the reef itself, the fish, the snakes, the turtles, the squids - all of it. It's a very tenuous place."

Tom added his bit of knowledge. "The reef only grows about one centimeter every 100 days." He looked out the window his blue eyes seemed to be searching for something in the dark. "I guess you can see how old this place is." My mental arithmetic was not that good, but it was obvious that the reef was old. Very old.

Mick continued after a sip from his Coke. "The reef never breaks the surface. It can't survive in the open air and, usually, when it approaches the surface, it dies."

It seemed to me that the reefs should thrive near the surface as that is where most of the smaller fish tend to be. I told him that.

"I suppose that the reef could do well but it takes an enormous beating from the cyclones that wash through here every year. You'll see it tomorrow when you go snorkeling. You'll notice that the floor of the ocean on the reef looks like a dead wasteland. If you are expecting colors and beauty, you will probably be disappointed."

I was already disappointed because as I had dreamed of snorkeling, I wanted to take pictures with my underwater camera of the colors of the reef, the turtles, snakes, sharks...

"And, there will be sharks. Sharks love the reef." Tom was looking at me trying to gauge my reaction - fearful or feigned bravery. I think he saw more fear than anything else. The biggest fish that I got to see in Illinois was a largemouth bass which you could put your fingers inside of its mouth and maybe come away with an abrasion at best. Some of the fish we had brought up in the last few days had been chewed cleanly through by sharks. Some of them looked as if they had been cut by a laser. "And, they love human flesh."

Mick held up a hand and smiled. "Tom, you know as well as I that sharks are almost completely harmless. They just have a different way of sensing the world." Mick turned his attention to me again. "You know, Reid, how when babies are really little they like to put everything in their mouth - to test what it is?"

"Mick," I said, "All babies are really little."

Mick rolled his eyes, "shut up, (sunshine)er"

I opened my hands to him, "Please continue, Mr. Cousteau."

"As I was saying," Mick started again, "Just like big babies put things in their mouths, sharks do the same thing. It's the way they sense the world. That's why when some really big sharks are caught they have tires and metal inside their stomachs. They aren't really trying to eat them, they just want to know what they are."

"So that's why take a chunk out of people?"

"Exactly," Mick said. "Almost always sharks have plenty of food that they like to eat; you've seen how picky the sharks are here. They will only eat the fish coming up that they want to. They'll leave all the grassies and leatherheads but attempt to take all of the coral trout, sweetlips etc. They can afford to be picky. When a shark takes a chunk out of a person, a leg, an arm, a side..."

"A head," Tom added.

"Almost never a head," Mick said, " They are simply trying to experience what the strange object is in the water. They have an incredible sensing organ in their nose; not only can it locate even the smallest amounts of blood in the water, it also senses heartbeat. Incredibly, a shark can locate its prey by the rapidity of the pulse of an object. When it can't sense a heartbeat, it will often think that the object is either struggling or else dead. As sharks are tremendous foragers, they will cull the easiest prey that they can."

"So, what are you trying to tell me?" I asked.

"Sharks attack surfers because they think it is a struggling fish. When surfers paddle out on their boards, sharks see something that looks like a fish in distress. Then, when they approach the object, they don't sense a heartbeat because the surfer's heart is hidden by the board itself then, voila, surfer is now down to three limbs."

"Or headless." Tom was being very helpful.

"I'll make sure that I don't take my surfboard out tomorrow."

Mick smiled. "That would be good. And make sure you don't wear red."

The next day dawned brightly. The ocean seemed to be making her bed for us, the waves diminished to almost nothing. Warwick, Russell and I decided to try out one of the dinghies motoring out to the shallower parts of the reef to catch some other reef fish. We caught plenty of fish; at first I was catching the most as Russell was hopelessly working with what he termed the (sunshine)ing anchor rope. It was fun to watch my brothers-in-law work out their differences of opinion. Like two bulls squaring off, they argued over where to drop the anchor. I stayed out of it knowing that my opinion would be like the sound of mosquito swirling around the head of said bulls.

Eventually, we brought in a good catch of fish, then, as the morning ceased to be morning and the afternoon sun rose hot over the waves, we motored back to the mothership to prepare for our snorkeling adventure.

After lunch, Mick drove us to another shallow part of the reef where we could swim amidst the columns of reef. On the way, he explained to us why we weren't allowed to spearfish anymore, which was a source of annoyance to Russell as he had purchased a relatively expensive (for my taste) spear gun for the trip only to find that spearfishing was not allowed on Capricorn Star expeditions.

"Last year, not on Capricorn Star, but on a different boat, a man died from spearfishing not from shark but from drowning. There is a thing called shallow dive blackout. He had been doing too many dives down and simply blacked out while underwater and had drowned." I was already checking my breathing and preparing not to go under the water too many times. I'm such a wuss. It's like some well meaning Australian once told me, "Guess what, I heard that a guy was killed by a spider bite when the toilet seat he was sitting on released its eight legged prey on his butt."

I've been checking every toilet seat since.

Mick pulled over the reef and invited us to drop over the side and check out the underworld of water. He hoped that we saw some sharks as well. I didn't really like the sound of that, but I felt more comfortable as I looked over at Russell who was sporting a brilliant red sun-safe top. He looked like a gigantic coral trout. I remembered Mick's words from the night before, "Just don't wear red."

I guess Russell could feed the sharks first.

As we entered the water, it was incredible to notice how dead everything looked. Broken pieces of coral were littered across the floor of the ocean not twenty feet down and instead of brilliant colors, oranges, reds, blues - all those that I'd been expecting and hoping for - the only colors were greens, grays and dull whites. There weren't many fish either, some small ones floating across the top, but as I finned my way through the water in my oversize snorkeling boots, I realized how difficult it was to swim not only because of the oar sized fins but the current in the ocean is incredibly strong. It was like swimming upstream in a river. Added to that was the fact that I was swallowing enough seawater to fill an indoor aquarium, I didn't stay in the water that long. But for a few moments, I watched Russell and Warwick picking their way through the columns finding mackerel, cod, shark, turtles and such. Even in the wasteland, there is life. I waved to Mick, giving him the international distress sign of a horrible swimmer thrashing about in the water hoping against hope that nothing was getting in front of my rapidly beating heartbeat and he drove the boat over to me telling me to pull myself in. I was cold and ready to be out of the ocean but I was really surprised how difficult it was to pull myself over the edge of the dinghy. I landed with a thud. I looked up at Mick who was doing his best not to laugh at me.

After we retrieved the other two, Russell in his shark attractant top and Warwick with his six foot something frame, we drove back to the mothership and, after changing clothes, we hurried back onto our own dinghy to continue fishing. During the next hour we caught relatively little. I did catch a shark which was exciting for me, but Warwick caught a grassy and let it flop into the boat by my leg. I felt something sharp but thought nothing of it at that time but I should have looked at Warwick's face as he noticed that the fish had actually stuck in my leg for a moment. If I would have have known that, I would have noticed that a piece of its fin was sticking out of my leg. Funny thing, though, Warwick wasn't going to say anything because there was still fishing to be done.

There's a true pirate for you.

The reef is a beautiful place. Oceanic life is completely and utterly different than I ever could have imagined. The sea life, the five meter wingspan of a giant manta ray that flew past our boat, the poisonous sea snakes, the squid (I imagined a kracken to come take down our boat a few times) - everything including the currents of the sea was alien and beautiful. It is something that I never would forget.

That night we returned to our boat, our beds and our lives off the water. I approached Tom and asked "What are we going to be doing tomorrow?"

"(Sunshine)d if I know," he said. I could have sworn he added an 'aargh matey'. "But all I know is, I'm ready to kill something tomorrow. And, I'm ready to go home."

Isn't it a great thing to be trapped on a boat one hundred and sixty kilometers from home?

The One That Got Away

2011-07-15T22:30:00.003-05:00

At four o'clock in the morning I looked around at the grizzled faces seated beside me eating a breakfast of cold cereal, dry toast and a cup of sloshing coffee. As I had been the first one to awake, I watched intently as the doorway to the front of the boat disgorged the groggy fisherman like a mother bird regurgitating its meal for her little ones. These men, seven days of (mostly) white stubble lining their hardened, sea weathered cheeks, could hardly be distinguished by the average tourist in Gladstone, Queensland, from twelve homeless men who might be loitering, or lurking, in the shadows of the quay.

Starting conversation was nearly impossible at that hour and, for the most part, exhaustion was written on their faces like words in a large print edition book. They could no more wish me good morning as they could throw a large coral trout back into the sea. It was a morning for silent reminiscing. Each man tried to remember, as best as he could, what in the world had just happened for the previous week.

Robert, my father-in-law had dropped the suggestion for this fishing adventure a few months earlier. He had regaled my imagination with his exploits of previous years out on the reef. Fishing amidst the coral reefs of the Great Barrier to Australia, photos of vibrantly colored fish, aquamarine waters, fluffy white clouds, and broad smiling men holding unnaturally large catch - I could smell the adventure of it, but Robert was only holding the worm on a hook in front of my face; there was no room on the Capricorn Star for the likes of this American. For fifteen plus years, this group of a dozen men, like the twelve disciples of two millenia past, had crossed the South Pacific Sea to anchor themselves in the midst of a catch. By the way they talked one only needed to drop a lure over the side of the boat and a Leviathan would gather it in his mouth and seemingly pull the boat into the ocean. I wanted very much to go on this trip but there was no room in the inn - only in my imagination.

The boat carried men who belied their appearance that night: businessmen, engineers, geologists, doctor, computer guru - but until one of their group became ill, it was devoid of a pastor. My guilty fear was that I prayed too hard to go on this trip thus causing the Job-like calamity of one of the twelve, but even with my eventual passage on the steamer, there was still room for one more thus assuaging my guilty conscience.

I guess they just needed a pastor on the boat.

We prepared weeks in advance for the weeklong trip on the Capricorn Star, a seventy-five foot boat - white and powdery blue (not too manly colors, if you asked me) - preparing the rigs, ten ounce lead sinkers tied onto line spoked with hooks and beads and all sorts of fish attracting designs. Robert, Elsa, Greta and I prepared a bucketful of them the night before we left and silently I wondered to myself, "Will we really need this much gear?" As much lead as we were putting on the boat, I was sure that we would need no other ballast and had dreams of pirate ships jettisoning weight as the storms of the fickle ocean pressed mercilessly upon the U.S.S. Minnow-like boat. (For those who don't know that reference, it is the name of the boat on the T.V. show - "Gilligan's Island" - I won't even begin to use this story as a metaphor for who Ginger, the movie star, would be).

The night before we left, Robert showed me all the fish we might (and might not) catch and with each flip of the page of his chart, he giggled with an almost childish, Christmas like exuberance. For Robert, this was his early birthday moment, a chance to be young again; to hang out with the boys; to laugh at ribald jokes and forget, for just one moment, that his hand wasn't working the way it used to. A few weeks ago, (the doctors still don't know exactly what happened) Robert lost the ability to use his right hand for anything other than waving hello. Some thought it was a small stroke, others thought something neurological or even a pinched nerve, but all in all, Robert was frustrated that this very thing might sabotage his fishing adventure.

Until... the electric reel.

Throughout the week on the boat it was fairly obvious when Robert caught a fish. For most fishermen, there is a routine on how landing a fish plays out. For instance, Adrian, when snagging a fish, would look around, smile and make sure everyone was watching what he was doing. Because he was in the middle of the boat, the fish that he would be bringing up from Davey Jones' Locker were obvious to all. But, it was humorous to me to watch his antics (mostly from jealousy, mind you, because when someone in the middle of the boat brings a fish to the surface he brings everyone else's lines and lures with him). Adrian was always the first one to get his line in the water, even before the skipper yelled out from his perch in the front of the boat "All right, let them down!" I so much wanted to beat Adrian to the bottom sometimes I surreptitiously would tinker with his reel when I went by, wrap the hook around his own line a few times - but it would never work. Adrian was the early bird of fishermen. Every time we stopped, he had his slab of fish wound through his hook and was halfway to the bottom before I could even get my pole between the other two men who stood beside me.

Anyway, Adrian, when hooking his fish would laugh and giggle as he 'struggled' to get them from the bottom, his pole bending this way and that, grunting as loudly as Sharapova landing a strong backhand to the corner. All fisherman make different noises when they fish, but Adrian's call was like a 'nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah' in my face and just once, I wanted to outfish him. It never happened, but in my own mind, I once dreamed of a fish pulling the rod out of his hands as he tried to rub it in that he was catching fish to wipe the smirk off his face.

What can I say; I'm a pastor, not a saint.

Robert, on the other hand, didn't need to verbally tell anyone that he had caught a fish. He let his reel do the talking for him. The electric reel that he had bought literally sang as it pulled a fish up from the bottom of the reef. It sounded like a plane taking off from the runway and every time that Robert pushed the up button, I imagined his face taking on a look of sheer pleasure as all heads turned to watch the tip of his rod bounce here and there pulling the brightly colored trout from its home. As his prize would near the surface, his reel would beep once, then a second time, until finally, like the last seconds before a bomb goes off, it would emit one long beep. Gradually, we would not look over to see him until we heard the third beep. Then, when he would catch one, he would look over to me, while I was untangling my line from the four other men not named Adrian in the middle of the boat, and say, "Did you happen to see that nice coral trout that was carried behind you?" His gloating made me sweat and I dreamed of a shark shredding his trophy fish at it was pulled from the water, like Jaws finding pleasure in a scantily clad water skier.

Fishermen are the most jealous of all 'sportsmen.' Even though they might be friends (and a few of us relatives, in my case) they look with envy as green as the sea itself when another fishermen pulls up a fish bigger than the minnow you just caught. Outwardly they say, "Hey, Robert, nice fish!" but inwardly their hearts are spewing curses at Neptune, king of the sea, hoping that Robert snags the coral reef the next time down. Fishermen are rarely content with quantity; they want quality - big, hefty fish as if the size of the fish is a reflection of the size of their... egos. Needless to say, for most of the week I was catching small fish, one after the other, and if on land I would have been keeping these beautiful fish to savor and enjoy with my family, but as I pulled these 'grassies' up from the bottom eventually cutting them up as bait, I grew even more envious of others, especially of my brother-in-law, Warwick, who was bringing up trophy sized fish and shouting across the deck, with thinly disguised boastfulness in his voice, "I've got six. How many have you got, Reid?"

I've always been a competitive person. I'm sure that it comes from my birth circumstances sharing a womb with two others, having to fight for everything, every bit of space, every bit of attention. But competing with in-laws is a completely different thing. Especially when they are as large as my brothers-in-law are (even my father-in-law dwarfs me). I want to compete with the big boys; I want to show them that this (smaller) American is just as able as these Paul Bunyanesque Aussie brothers to catch fish and to laugh and boast about my exploits. I wanted to impress them.

My first impression on the boat, though, was probably not what I had wanted. After a five hour drive to Gladstone, beginning at 7:30 a.m., we connected with Russell and Warwick at the Capricorn Star docked in the harbor. Warwick, all six feet-three inches and multiple-kilograms-heavier-than-I of him, was standing beside the boat unloading his gear that they'd brought on the plane. Warwick was wearing a blue-flowered Hawaiian shirt and shorts, his tanned skin reflected his days in the sun. His brother Russell, even larger than Warwick, stood beside his brother and as I approached, Russell extended his hand and his smile that I've come to really enjoy, and said, "G'day, mate. Welcome to Australia." It's the first that I had seen Russell since emigrating to the country.

I am the first to say that I am really lucky to have a fantastic set of in-laws. Christine's brothers, Russell, Warwick and Malcolm, along with her sister, Sandra, and her parents, have been openly welcoming all the days of our married life. We have similar interests, we connect on many different topics, I feel included when we gather together; but when we compete, all relations are thrown out the window. Warwick threw down the gauntlet first. "What do you say we put a little bet down on the fishing this week." As we drank a beer to the adventures that were to come, we laid down the rules: Most fish kept and biggest fish. I shook their hands and toasted their glasses. I'd been fishing many times before. How hard could it be?

We boarded the boat about four o'clock p.m. and as we sailed from the harbor in calm seas I had, in my head, the haunting melody of the movie "Titanic" running between my hears. Small pipes and violins filled me with a sense of foreboding. The skipper, Scott, told us it may be a 'little' rough on the way out.

All one hundred and sixty kilometers.

Because I'd been fishing on the reef before and because I'd fished in relatively un-calm seas, I thought that this would be no problem. In fact, I was so confident of my abilities that I consumed four pieces of greasy, oily, pineapple and ham pizza. (It would not be the last mistake of the night.) After we left the safety of the harbor, the seas came up. The southerly winds pushed at the boat in the worst possible way. Because we were traveling northeast, not only did the boat lurch up and down but side to side, also. My brain, tossed this way and that, began to lurch also. And Mr. Domino's pizza was starting to tell me he wasn't enjoying the ride. It was at that point, two hours into our sixteen hour adventure, I thought I might have made a mistake by praying to be allowed on the fishing adventure. God has a funny sense of humor, I think, and as I made my quivering-legged way to the back of the boat towards Russell and Warwick, I asked one more thing of the God of the universe:

Please don't let me puke in front of my brothers-in-law.

God must not have been able to hear me through the crashing of the waves against the side of the boat. Russell would later say, "I've never seen anyone spew that hard. It looked like a fire hose." Sixteen more episodes of vomiting later, the most miserable night of my life continued to drag on. Every time I looked up, my eyes rolled back into my head and my stomach would heave. I slept with the slop bucket. I wrapped her in my arms imagining just for a second that she would have pity for me. She evidently did not hear me either.

There are all sorts of slang for throwing up in Australian lingo: chunder, thunder from Down Under, technicolor yawn - all colorful names of what was going on in my life that night and I think I subconsciously named each time. I felt really sorry for Robert who was 'sleeping' in the bunk below mine. The sound of my retching must have left him in a terrible state and he even admitted to me later on in the week, "What have I done? What will these other salty sea dogs think of my world-record-shattering-longest-night-of-puking American son-in-law?"

I love making great first impressions. As the night drew to a close and as the sounds of breakfast reached my ears the next morning (which caused new, violent waves of nausea thinking about food) I fell out of my bed to notice the other eleven members of the fishing crew and four boat crew avoid me like the plague as if seasickness were contagious. What is worse, being sea sick or seeing the looks of pity from those around me?

And we were still only one day into the trip.

I got away on the fishing trip, a holiday, a vacation, if you will. But what unfolded in the next six days has left me with indelible and incredible memories which I will cherish for a lifetime. I will finish the story in two more parts.

Bon Voyage, readers.

The State of Things

2011-06-17T16:33:00.003-05:00

I guess I am in a state of ignorance about some things Australian. Certainly, I've come to find a way to drive on a different side of the road, awake in the morning to the sound of magpies screaming at each other as if their domestic troubles edthe entire neighborhood's attention, and I've come to enjoy the way Australians begin their sentences with either 'yeah, no' or 'Look..." and end their sentences with, 'but anyway.'

For instance, here might be a typical conversation I had in the last week:

Me: So (I like to start my sentences with that word) did you enjoy the State of Origin match on Wednesday night?

Australian: Yeah, no, it didn't turn out the way I wanted it too. The New South Welsh (which I found out was the plural for multiple New South Wales people) thrashed the Maroons (which is the mascot, or color of the absent mascot of the State Rugby Team that played the New South Wales Blues - also absent of a mascot which I will get to later. I did enjoy that the 'blue' is not a deep, dark royal blue but almost a baby, powdery blue that made me want to cuddle the NS Welshmen.)

Me: I didn't understand the game much. Is this typical of Australian rugby?

Australian: Look, the world of Queensland revolves around whether the Maroons (which they pronounce 'maroans' - I've come to tease Christine that the satellite circling our beloved earth is the 'moan') win the Origin series (pause) but anyway...

It is these very differences in colloquialisms and mannerisms of speaking that bring great joy to my day. I love the fact that I hear a different slang almost every day, and I mean that very literally, almost every day. The other day I was asking one of the teachers about a song that some students were going to sing for chapel and the teacher said, "Perhaps you should have a sticky beak about that." I kind of screwed up my face, as if I'd sucked the rind off a lemon and asked, 'what in the world does that mean?" By nature I can usually connect the dots, find a way to unravel the context, but 'sticky beak?' The teacher said, "Go poke your nose in their song. See if it's what you want... but anyway..."

So, I've been getting my beak sticky with regards to the State of Origin. I poked into its history and according to the incredibly reliable Wikipedia files, the State of Origin series has been occurring since 1908 and described as 'the best rugby played anywhere in the world.' Each team draws from the national teams but the players on each side, from Queensland and New South Wales, play for the state where they played their first senior rugby match - thus, their own state of origin. From what I understand, it's like the Superbowl of rugby in Australia, and as I watched the game, there was obviously a love hate relationship for the players. The irony of this game is that after it is done, the players, who have spent the previous 80 minutes bloodying (not a swear word in this context) each others' faces, then shake hands and return to their normal teams, some of them playing on the same team.

During the three game matches, the players, clubs and states despise each other so much that they have, according to my reliable source, given each other monikers, or mascots befitting what they think of their rival neighbor states. The Queensland team is called the cane toads, which are the rampantly overpopulated amphibians which have overrun the state and are categorically hated by pretty much everyone I've met, while the New South Wales team is called the cockroaches, which I think are pretty much despised and loathed by the whole world. I think it would be pretty funny if the two teams actually had those mascots and people would come dressed to the game in wart-filled headgear and alternatively freakishly ugly legs with disgusting underbellies. I guess I would say I would rather be a cane toad than a cockroach, but anyway...

So, last Wednesday, I was invited by two of the students to view the second, of three, State of Origin game on the big screen at the school. I arrived as the pregame was occurring, all sorts of advertising was being promoted. Then, there was this small television bit regarding a group of ten thousand people who had donned powder blue wigs (the game was in New South Wales). I remember when I was growing up the only people that had blue hair were members of the ladies auxiliary and they were all eighty years old. But here they were, ten thousand strong, and the leader of the rabble was a thirty-year-old man who, five or six years before, had been taken to the game by his mates for a bucks' party (bachelor party - I don't know if bachelor, in Australian, is spelled 'bachelour' - they add a 'u' into many words). All twenty-five of them, rabid Blue's fans, wore blue wigs of the same color as that famous American cartoon annoying non-talking dog, Blue - from Blue's clues. The idea caught on and the next year there were a hundred people wearing blue wigs, then a thousand and then this year, there was a sea of blue hair - it looked like an AARP (American Association of Retired Persons) convention.

The commentator, who was interviewing the original (pun intended) blue hair, said something quite profound, which I would later understand is a rarity at Australian rugby matches. He said, 'It's amazing how this caught on. It's like everyone here, wearing the blue wigs, understands that they are part of something bigger than themselves."

I would like to go off on a mini-Christian devotional about how Christians would like to see themselves as marked for something bigger than themselves, but I can smell the eggs and toast in the kitchen and it's time to wrap this up, but anyway...

I want to finish writing about the game. As the players lined up, preparing their bodies for full contact battle, no padding, very few mouth guards - basically walking concussions - I noticed that these men were so disproportionately large I had trouble even looking at them. I was in a state of ignorance as to how these men could move with legs the size of beer barrels and arms which looked like they could be deflated with a poke of a pin. Their physiques truly looked as if they had donned one of the inflatable muscle suits you find at novelty shops. I approached the big screen just to see if I could find the little rubber capped plug where the suit was blown up.

But anyway...

These men gathered full steam, screaming down the field to chase the man who had the ball and pulverize him, pile drive him into the ground and then sit on his face until it looked as if he was having a grand mal seizure. I watched with horror the first time I saw this, the man who had been smeared was flopping on the ground like a chicken with its head cut off, but all those around were laughing as if this were normal.

"Why are they flopping like that? Are they injured? Shouldn't the medic go out onto the field?"

Australian: "Look, he's just trying to get up off the ground so that he can start the next play."

Whatever you say. So many times during the match one of the player would literally peel himself from the turf, gash in his forehead, dislocated shoulder, knee buckling and then push the trainer back to the sideline saying, "Yeah, no, I'm right, mate. She'll be good. I've got me other arm still working."

It was a fine night to hear the voices of the commentators screaming into their microphones, enjoying the gladiatorial atmosphere of the night. I watched with amusement at the students and the teachers as they watched with gnawed fingernails in mouth for the Cane Toads and Cockroaches to finish the battle. I watched the contestants, cruising down the field on tree trunk like legs bowl into each other and was quite aware that at any minute one of them would break a limb. It was a feast for the senses filled with the fruits of anxiousness. And even though I was in a state of awe and shock (and ignorance, for that fact) I enjoyed every minute of it.

But anyway...

A Different World

2011-05-16T05:15:00.002-05:00

I guess I always knew this day was coming.

Even as I awoke this morning, I could feel life spinning on its axis, not out of control, but like the earth changing seasons. The tilt came slowly, like the transition between spring and summer. Perhaps I'd been putting off the inevitable, of thinking about what this morning and day would look like. Perhaps I thought that life would simply come skidding to a halt when I asked it to. Perhaps there is a little bit of that in all of us, a spark of the eternal, a glimmer of the immortal that assumes a piece of invincibility. Perhaps we all have that hopeful piece in us but today, that ceramic piece of my psyche was broken in a million pieces on the floor of life.

Today, I brought my little girl to high school.

Elsa woke up in a brilliant, glorious mood. For her, this would be an excursion into the bright future. It was a glimpse into the inevitable beauty, for her, of growing up. For a few years she has been making her own breakfast and lunch, doing her homework, helping with household chores, but it wasn't until today that I noticed she has begun to move beyond childhood. Like a shimmering boat she is moving out onto the horizon of a new world and I am left standing on the shore waving, waving so hard, praying desperately that the winds will not blow her sails and take her away too quickly. I watched Elsa prepare for school this morning and as much as she glowed for the day, I was not prepared for it.

On the way to school Elsa whistled and gabbed. She wanted to talk about all the things that the next year of school might bring: challenges in mathematics, science would be really fun, oh, Daddy, can I be in the choir? The only word I could connect with was 'Daddy.' High school, how can that be? How can the years pass so fast? How can I be so unaware of the passage of time that I don't realize that the next part of my life is approaching so rapidly, like a relentless waterfall that is drawing me towards the cliff?

Soon, I will stop being Daddy to her, I would guess. I'll just be 'Dad' or, as she learns from others, one of the 'runts' concerned only with curbing her fun and being a veritable stick in the mud. But, I smiled and assuaged any of her fears about meeting new people. It would be fun, I told her, she would fit right in. But inside, this Dad's heart was ready to break apart. Maybe the next two will be easier, but this day would be different than any other I had encountered.

We arrived at school; she helped me set up for chapel chirping all the way about how fun the day would be. The shades were pulled in the chapel. Small amounts of light filtered through the slats and onto the floor and I watched with fascination as my daughter, still so young, jumped between them. Other students began to slide into the room in twos and threes and my young Elsa, still insecure enough in strange settings, ran to her father looking for support. It was so precious, and like all the times in the past eleven, going on twelve years, Elsa subconsciously reached out to put her hand in mind. Her child-like faith that her daddy would always be there. She looked up at me with the largest of smiles, the ones reserved for only little girls' dads, beaming with all the joy of a child in a world full of gumdrops.

And then I did it. I didn't plan it and I certainly didn't think that I had the power to do it but...

I pulled my hand from hers.

It was like a switch had been flipped in this world - it became a little darker place. I thought I was helping her, helping her to make her way into an adult world. she couldn't always have her dad around. I told her it would be the best way for her to make friends, I tried to make a joke of it - you won't want to be around an old guy like me.

She looked at me as if I'd slapped her. Her face fell; she pulled her hand away from mine as if there was electricity leaking from my finger tips. Sensing the hurt, the betrayal (most of it was my own projected upon her) I asked her if she was okay. She said, yes, Daddy, and walked away from me. And as she walked away, every memory of her growing up years, her curly hair bounding through the grass as we went camping, her overalls protecting her from every bump in the road, her first book, her first tooth lost, her first day of school, her first lesson - everything flew in front of my vision and I realized that the past would be all that I would have soon enough. As Elsa walked away from me, the future came rushing at me - soon enough she would be graduating from high school, university, marriage and I would be that Dad that pulled his hand away from her.

But I had to; I have to let her grow up, don't I? Does every father feel like this? Does every parent want to rush back to those wonder years of childhood and count every single precious second and redo them, to see those little giggles and cuddles, falling asleep on my shoulder, asking for help for everything?

I made my way through the day trying to keep my head above the endless tide of emotion that is threatening to consume me. I smiled for the other students; cracked jokes with them, taught them a new song, made them feel welcome, but all day I kept one eye on my Princess (that's the name I have called her since day one.) I saw her throughout the day, but, in my own mind, all things were different.

As the day of school closed, we gathered all of the new students in the chapel and did some fun games. Those youth were happy, their parents proud (I just as much, believing my Princess to be the most beautiful, the smartest, the greatest child in the room) and the sunlight seemed to have changed to a different color - golden, I guess you'd call it. It flickered on Elsa's face for a little bit and I paused to stare at this beautiful gift that God has given us.

It has all gone too fast.

After all the youth had packed up, my Elsa came up to me, told me about her day, excitedly speaking about math and science, art and drama and especially music. And then, without thinking, Elsa looked up at me, smiled and put her hand back into mine.

Life happens. And on this different day, in a different world...

I call it good.

A Typical Sunday

2011-05-07T21:30:00.002-05:00

It's Mothers' Day.

The girls and I have been scheming for weeks trying to find the right presents for Christine. We've been watching adds on television trying to entice us to buy the perfect present for the perfect woman. My favorite add is from a hardware store. A surprised looking mother, with hands over eyes, expectantly awaiting her gift, enters from camera right. Father is covering her eyes, Mother is smiling trying to pull his hands off while two stereotypical young children, one male one female, stand in the background attempt to look excited. For they are overjoyed to give Mother the best present ever on Mothers' Day:

A hedge trimmer.

The first time we watched that commercial (the hardware store also told us that other perfect gifts would be mulch and a garden hose) we had to rewind it a few times to take in the full scope of the comedy. I almost ran to the first hardware store that I could find to buy something that all mothers need desperately - a new wastebasket, only $5.50 on sale now through Sunday. Very, very good advertising.

It is Sunday, now, and I have found out that Sunday mornings are anything but typical. Atypical, if you will. Not only was I to preach at two different churches this morning, but I was attempting to negotiate the waters of Mothers' day for my wife. Unlike our previous life, we awoke early, the sun filtering through our white, slatted drapes, crossing us with unwelcome sunlight at 6:00. I kissed Christine 'good morning' and then headed off to prepare for what would become a very different morning.

After finishing the final touches on Christine's Mothers' Day card, I filled the time before her arising going over the last points of my sermon. I had never been to Ropeley before. Ropeley Church is, what most would say, out in the Boonies. I went there once, last year, but I was nervous about finding the place again. So, I wanted to leave plenty of time to get there. I thought for sure an hour would be enough. My Global Positioning System (Gladys) told me that it was only seventeen kilometers but what was interesting was, the time they allotted for me to get there was three hours and thirty-four minutes. That should have been an omen for me. Christine got out of bed to see me off; she would meet me at the next service in the town of Laidley in a couple of hours.

So, we started off - we, meaning Gladys and me, joyfully tooled down the road, her silken voice singing to me the directions. We traveled through the town of Blenheim - if you are a frequent purveyor of my blogs, this is where Greta's track meet was - I looked to the right to smile at the grassfield where Greta had run.

And then things got dicey. If I have learned one thing about Australia, road signs are not obligatory. Many times, they point in strange directions. One of the roads I came to, the sign pointed off into the middle of a field. We approached Ropeley Road which, I thought, was a good sign as the church should logically be on a road with the namesake. Gladys did not speak a word of negation so we traveled down the paved road. After a couple of miles, the road split into a 'Y' and both arms of the 'Y' turned into gravel roads. As I knew this church was out in the country it seemed normal that we would travel at some point on gravel. As I followed the right fork, Gladys started to make funny noises, almost as if she were looking at a map herself. I could hear her turning the map upside down and mumbling under her breath, "No, this can't be the right way, can it?" As she was busily rearranging herself, I began to get nervous. I had allowed myself some leeway but that amount of time was gradually being eaten up on this strange road that twisted and turned through some beautiful country. As I was nervously driving, countless kangaroos bounded across the road; a pheasant flew not ten feet in front of the car and the sounds of thousands of birds reverberated inside the car. If I weren't in a hurry, I would have stopped to listen for a while.

It was at that point, as I found my way to a 'T' in the road, that Gladys made another noise, almost like she were throwing up. The roads were so curvy she must have gotten motion sickness. I asked her if she was okay but she said, "I have no idea where we are. Stop at a gas station and ask. I am shutting down. Happy Mothers' Day." I looked around me. I'm not sure there was a gas station within twenty miles and I hadn't seen another car since I left Laidley. So, I did what every good man does - I just kept driving. Sooner or later you run into a paved road with a sign, right?

Not in Australia.

Eventually, after making u-turn after u-turn following random cars on the assumption that they were going to Ropeley Church (hey might have been wondering who the stalker was behind them) I happened upon the little church on the hill. I was only five minutes late (I was expecting much worse) but as the service started, and the time for the readings began, I asked the congregation if there was a reader for the morning. After a brief bit of silence the organist yells from the back, "You made us wait long enough, you do it!"

Touche.

I can recognize sarcasm when I hear it and we had a good laugh afterwards. Fortunately, the good people of Ropeley felt badly for their feeble American pastor and sent an emissary with him. Ross, and his brother Greg, jumped into the truck in front of me and drove me all the way back to Laidley for the next service. I was thankful for their help but I gave Gladys another chance on the way home. No luck. She still couldn't figure out how to navigate the spider-web-like roads of rural Australia.

The next service started well. The people had a full service order printed out for me; all that I needed to do was read from the script. Like a teleprompter. There should be nothing to shake me during the service. I actually thought those words while entering the pulpit. Everything went fine until it came time for communion. We, the pastor and his family, were to come up first. We were to kneel at the altar railing and receive. I took my place after the ushers motioned for us to kneel, but for some reason, the girls were standing back. Josephine looked horrified and exasperatedly I told her to come and kneel. Christine smiled at me and leaned over and whispered, "There's a spider just underneath the railing. Could you kill it?"

This is strange for Christine because she does not carry the curse of arachnophobia like I do. And, from my brief time in Australia, I understand that if something has eight legs in Australia, you back away slowly and hope that you have no exposed skin. Spiders are likely to rip your head off and drink your blood from your carotid artery. I was hoping it was a small spider and later on, Christine told me that she would have killed it, but she was wearing sandals and a dress and she didn't want the blooming thing to scamper across her foot and run up her leg. When she asked me to kill it, I thought to myself, "You can do this. You can do this. It's Mothers' Day. Be a man."

Then I saw it. It was a Huntsmen spider and I can see why it has that moniker. It was big enough to hunt down a man. It's long, hairy legs were as wide as my palm and with horror I looked at her shaking my head. I can't do it. I pleaded with her. If this cup can be taken away from me, but if not, Christine, thy will be done.

Indeed, Christine's will would be done. She gazed down at the hideous beast that she wanted me to crush underneath my foot. I was already kneeling down over this chihuahua sized spider; I jumped up quickly, and with quavering heel I moved to squash the eight legged leviathan.

It's fast. I jumped. Most of the congregation saw what happened and I'm pretty sure there was some laughter going on. But then, I overcame my fear and stood directly on top of it, squishing it. But it felt like I was squishing a tennis ball. I wanted to gag, to retch, to do anything but look under my foot at the spider that was probably eating it's way through the sole of my shoe laughing all the way.

It was dead. Communion continued but I couldn't erase the thought and the feeling of the arachnocide. By the end of communion, the spider had disappeared. It must have had five lives or something. Little did I know that one of the congregation members had picked up the Huntsmen in a paper towel and then put it in one of the communion cups. If I would have found it in the communion cup, the odds are, when I got home, I would be calling Qantas for the first flight out of the Huntsmen filled southern continent.

Quite a typical Sunday.

Cross Country

2011-04-11T02:36:00.003-05:00

It's raining tonight which is not an altogether uncommon occurrence for this time of year in Australia. Because our house, like all of the houses in the neighborhood, has a slate roof, the sound the rain makes is a rhythmic drumming, like fingers rapping on a five gallon flour drum. Most people don't have flour drums anymore. Judging by the plentitude of varieties of breads that grace the aisles of the bakery, most people buy from store. My parents used to make all of their own bread; the smell of it still brings back memories of rolling out the enormous containers of flour in the cupboard underneath the microwave, sifting it, make sure that there are no chunks but mostly we just like sifting. The fineness of the flour feeling like a cool water filtering through my fingers. Those were good days of bread making, but when I make bread nowadays, (which is a very rare thing in any case) I don't have an attachment of memories. The bread that turns out from my eight inch bread pan is nothing like that of my parents: it is usually flat with increasing sizes of holes decorated throughout the middle. When I make toast, it falls apart in my fingers and with great frustration, I usually end up chucking most of the loaf away. But I still make bread for the smell. The smell of rain has memories attached to it also. As this rain pours down on our new house in a new country, the odor of wet grass - wet, cut grass reminds me of the country where the crickets would begin their annual symphony this time of year, the males singing their beautiful song in search of the perfect mate - the frogs, lounging in their temporary summer ponds in the backyard, barking to be heard. It seemed that all creation was crying out not to be lonely. I wonder what loneliness would smell like - probably of dusty attics and faded photographs, of moldy clothes and decaying wood. Silence would reign in the middle of the house of memories and those same photographs would be guideposts for the imagination. I guess my blog today is more of a stream of consciousness, that's not necessarily a bad thing as long as the reader follows along, but mostly what I wanted to write about this evening was a memory made just a few weeks ago. A very Australian memory. Greta was running in a cross country meet. In the small town where I grew up, cross country was simply how one described the shortest possible distance to another neighbor's house and no one would literally run across the country from one house to another. If a young boy did not play football, there was no other option for sports; cross country was something for boys who couldn't cut it for football - it was something they did in big schools. But Greta was exhilarated by the opportunity to push her legs faster and faster across the wide open course. In the United States, the extent of my cross country knowledge was that most of the races were on the hills of golf courses, roped paths lined the route, each leg of the race punctuated by timers and stands full of family and friends waiting for that one moment of time when they would see their favorite runner cross their area. Greta had asked if I could come with her to the event. The sporting opportunities are run during school hours and because it was on a Thursday, my day off, I could not turn her down. She batted her bright eyes at me and said, "Daddy, will you please, please, please come?" So, I walked Greta to school and promptly parked myself in front of Mr. Hooper, the cross country coach. Mr. Hooper is rail thin with skin darkened by the radiant sunshine of Queensland. His legs are so skinny (he wore shorts that day) that he looked like an ibis with a baseball cap. His good humor shown out that day as he prepared the kids for the day of running. Because they enjoy Mr. Hooper, he quieted them down with a hand. "All right, kids," he intoned with a voice very near that of the Crocodile Hunter, at least that is the way that it sounds in my memory, "today is a big day. We want to do our school proud. Run your hardest, run your best, and be good sports." He turned around as if he were finished, the kids were prepared to get up and run to the bus - a good warm up to the day. "Just wait, Mates," he smiled as he turned around again. "There are a few rules for the day. As we are going out in the country for the race (makes sense, it's cross country) rule number 1: The grass is yea high." Mr. Hooper signaled towards his chest the height of the grass. "Since the grass is that high, what does that mean?" In my own head I'm thinking 'it's time to mow the lawn?' but Mr. Hopper was digging for a different answer. A young girl raised her hand. "We have to watch out for snakes." "That's right," Mr. Hooper said. Bells and whistles were going off in my head at this point. Since when did cross country become an extreme sport? Do they even know how far away the nearest hospital is? He continued. "Stay on the path. There will be some brownies out there wanting to take a nice slither in the warmth of the afternoon so stay on the path. And, if you are watching any of the races, stay out of the grass." Okay, let me get this straight. This school is sending out thirty children to wend their way through pastures of deadly snakes - brown snakes are considered the second or third most poisonous snake in the world. I guess I'd have to run the race with Greta. "And another thing, because the grass is this high, if you get lost on the course, just stay where you are and someone will be around to pick you up at some point or the other." All the kids looked around at each other with this 'totally cool' expression, but my mouth dropped. What kind of crazy would this be? Mr. Hooper packed all the kids on the bus; I rode with Greta in the third seat front the front. Because the bus driver is on the other side of the vehicle from which I am accustomed, it still takes me a few moments to acclimate to the view of the scenery rushing at me from the left side of the bus. Screaming kids were a constant on the ten minute drive to the field (I had flash forward thinking of the pit of vipers that awaited each of the kids as they tore around the course). When we arrived, I found that cross country was indeed the correct description of what was occurring. The route was literally around a farmer's field, the cows were somewhat silent sentinels marking the parts of the course where the kids were supposed to avoid. I guess that cows have relatively little fear of the brown snake. En masse, we walked down the hill to our covered tent. Because the Australian sun is penetratingly hot, all forty-five of us (includes the parents) attempted to huddle under the canvas while simultaneously trying to avoid the shoulder high grass where brown snakes waited in hiding ready to ambush suspecting cross country fans. I looked out over the course and noted the beauty of the landscape. Various eucalypts dotted the course and the rolling hills promised a steady, hard race for Greta. She seemed unconcerned by the course or by the threat of snakes and simply wandered along the path pulling the heads from wheat like weeds. Ah, to be a child again. Greta's race was the last of the morning. As I watched all of the competitors before hand, I had a good understanding of what was going to happen. Usually, all the runners in an age group would bunch up at the beginning, the starter's whistle would sound and the little legs would churn faster and faster as they sprinted out of the finish line. Tangling in the mass, sometimes these same little legs would get interlaced would others and the children would take a spill where they would then get up and start running again. There was no malice; they didn't care if they fell or if they even ran the whole way. By the time the first group got to the hill, half of them were walking already so out of breath from sprinting the first leg that they needed a hundred meters to catch their breath. It was at this point in the race where the spectators would lose site of the runners. Like the moon craft that circled the dark side of the moon, there were tense moments of silence. Would the children find their way out? Would they be harpooned by venomous fangs? Would the cows rip from their fences to stampede the young children running their way? Not a child was lost. From the great distance we saw the runners turn the corner and job back to us. With great relief (perhaps I was the only one who audibly blew out breath) the cross country athletes slowly but surely followed the course and crossed the finish line. For those who decided it was a cross country walk a four wheel drive vehicle started the course ten minutes after the race began to clean up the stray runners that sprinted too hard at the beginning. Cross country extreme: if the snakes don't get you, if the grass doesn't swallow you, you can be sure that a large vehicle with exhaust pipe above the hood will come after you presumably aware of small children in its path. This was an incredibly enjoyable day. Greta finished well, she smiled, drank her water and rode back on the bus with her dad. I only got a few gray hairs from a cross country meet.

The Prince Is Coming

2011-03-20T19:53:00.003-05:00

The Prince of England was here this week. For Americans, the royalty of England has been a source of fascination. From the beginnings of the Revolution to the abdication by King Edward the VIII in public fascination, the British Royals bring intense scrutiny all over the world. In reality, the Queen of England and her famous family have little to no power, but their influence is obvious and everywhere. For Australians, when royalty visits, it is like a national celebration. Because it is relatively difficult for the reigning royalty to shadow the shores of Australia, the media circus was at its finest. Prince William graced the pages of every newspaper and television, and this American watched and read with great interest.

I remember when Prince Charles and Lady Diana were married. Why this was such a media spectacle was beyond me at the time (I think I was only seven) but perhaps in all of us is a little reverence for royalty. There was Prince Charles dressed in his finest formal military outfit and Lady Diana with the wedding dress from heaven. How she dragged that piece of clothing up through the church was amazing. Their carriage ride was seemingly from a fairy tale and the whole family watched with rapt attention on our sixteen inch, rabbit-eared TV the fairy tale wedding. Millions of people watched the ceremony (I can't imagine how nervous the pastor was) and my wish was to be part of the throng that welcomed the happy couple afterwards. It wasn't long afterwards that Princess Diana became pregnant - a boy who they named William. His has been a life of scrutiny and he has dealt with the invariable crush of media very well.

Prince William was here in Australia this last weekend visiting the various areas affected by natural disasters this last year. His first stop was in the north of the country where Hurricane Yasi decimated the crops and destroyed the livelihoods of some of the Australians. Then, on to Brisbane to talk with locals about how life has changed, how tenuous our existence is. Finally, the Prince of made his way west to the small farming villages around Grantham and then on to Toowoomba.

In the wake of his visit, a transformation has taken place. The newspapers have catalogued the faces of those who lost everything during the storms. A woman in Cairns was shown grieving the loss of the source of her stability; the people of Grantham, who became internationally famous when the town they called home was violently washed away, were pictured sifting through the rubble; the city of Brisbane, thousands of homes destroyed, was a carrier of grim faces.

But then the Prince arrived. The people of Cairns stated that the sun came out for the Prince - it was only their second day of sunshine this year. The people of Grantham and Toowoomba waited patiently on the future king and at his arrival, tears turned to joy, sadness to smiles - there was a rejuvenation of life. To his credit, the Prince did not hold back from the people of Australia - just the opposite. Prince William shook hands, smiled, touched people, consoled them in their loss and brought grateful relief from the shock of recent months. He spoke kind words, he held no sympathy in reserve and I was impressed by the very 'pastoral' way he took these people into his heart and gave them comfort.

Christine asked me if I would like to go see Prince William when he arrived in Grantham. It was raining that day; I wanted to mow the lawn; I had a thousand and one things to do to make an excuse to not make an appearance in Grantham (which is less than ten miles from our house). Surely the Prince will have enough to do without making time for this American Aussie and his family. I might get to glimpse him from afar - see the sun shining off his head (we have very similar haircuts, I think) - I had enough to do at home. These excuses ran through my head and I verbalized them to Christine. She, too, wanted to go see him - it could be a once in a lifetime event - and yet we hesitated. Life gets in the way, bills to pay, excuses to make - he'll come back some day and then we'll go.

My response to Prince William is a lot like how I deal with King Jesus. It should be simple to perk up and make the trip to devote myself to the King each day, to take a trip into solitude to find a few moments where I can be comforted, touched, smiled at in the presence of the sovereign and yet time and time again I make excuses; life gets in the way. He'll be back some other time when it's more convenient for me, and I forget how life changing it is when we continue our relationship with the King. He comes to us, not the other way around; we don't need to feel guilt but a sense of excitement when presented with the opportunity that the King is right around the corner. He has time for all of us, not just those that are struggling or having difficulties, but Jesus wants to share in all of life's moments.

Prince William's visit was a beautiful thing. I pray that King Jesus' stay is even more beautiful.

Bull in a China Shop

2011-03-07T23:08:00.002-06:00

Christine was laughing when I got home the other day. She had made a trip up the street to downtown Laidley, approximately six blocks from our house. Laidley is considered a big town for the Lockyer Valley, it's business district having shops lined along the main street roughly three blocks long. There is a shoe shop, a butcher, a restaurant, a movie rental place, a hardware store all with creative and inventive names. The name of one of the markets is "The Food Shop." I love it. From what I understand about townships in Australia, the only thing needed to be considered a town is a pub. You don't need a post office or a store, a gas station or hospital - just a bar. Laidley has at least two pubs; I haven't been inside either one yet not because of any particular leanings toward Puritanism, but I haven't taken time to get to know the local talent. One of the pubs, a hotel bar advertising Karaoke, sits midway along the main street advertising itself as a sports bar. It all looks very quaint.

Christine was laughing because of the excitement outside this pub. I'll try and recreate the event - I wasn't there so the dialogue will be false, but the sense of the conversation will hopefully fill you in on the colorful life in small town Australia.

To set the scene, Christine had motored downtown to go shopping (at the Food Shop, I believe) for groceries. Parking out the back, Christine noticed police cars greeting Laidley residents as they spent their hard-earned cash in the CBD (Central Business District). Lights flashing, the police officers had cordoned off the walking avenue between the stores. Many people were standing around watching the goings on. Christine stepped up to see what kind of hubbub would cause Laidley's finest to be out and about. She approached an older gentlemen who held up his hand.

"Best not go in there, Mate." (Even the ladies in Australia seemed to be called 'mate.' That or 'darl,' 'sweetheart,' - which sounds like 'sweet-hawt' which every time makes me jump)

"What's going on?" Christine asked as she looked over the quasi police tape.

"See that trailer over there?" The man pointed behind Christine to the parking lot.

"Yes," she said.

"A bull got loose, stuffed the whole trailer." (I'll get to Australianisms in a different blog, but at this point, just try and fit everything in context) Christine looked behind and noticed that a wooden trailer with metal siding looked like it had barely survived a tornado. "Yeah, big one. It must have been cheesed off about something, probably looking for a bluey, and tore out of it."

Christine's amazement was apparent.

"Yeah, that's why the police are here. The bull is loose - they say it's already been cornered."

"Where did they capture it?" Christine asked ready to jump across the line to find the police pulling some sort of Crocodile Dundee move to calm the savage beast down.

"It's in the pub."

"What?" I'm not making this up. The bull was in the pub.

The man looked at Christine. "I'm not making this up. The police cornered the bull on Patrick Street (Main Street) in the hotel. As big of a mess as the bull made with trailer, I wonder what kind of damage it's doing in the pub."

"Maybe it was thirsty." Christine said.

The old man looked her over. "Yeah, maybe. Or maybe it wanted to sing some karaoke."

True enough, the main news of the week was the picture of a bull escaping from its trailer to make headlines with antics in the bar. Only in the country would this even happen, I think, but when Christine told m the story, it was as if I'd been placed in the middle of the movie "Australia." I expected Nicole Kidman and Hugh Jackman to jump out of the background.

Just a short saga this week. Life is a good place to be.

Australian Adventure

2011-02-28T04:04:00.003-06:00

It's hot. Not just warm-I-think-I'll-just-sit-in-my-armpit-sweat hot, but the feeling as if my whole body is living inside a sauna. When I wake up in the morning, it's as if I'm breathing through a cloud. But, it's a refreshing change, in a way, from the bone-numbing cold from which we left in Rockford. Not better or worse, just refreshingly different.

Life is different. It's a different pace, a different sound, smell and taste. Overall, it has not been a huge shock to my system... yet...

It would be helpful if I described my surroundings, I think, not just the heat and humidity, but the actual vista in which I live. We live in the small town of Laidley, Queensland, Australia. It probably does not have many claims to fame; as of yet, I haven't find too many people that know a whole lot about it, and when we talk to the city folk of Brisbane, they ask, "What would you move out there for?"

Laidley is positioned between to sets of mountains, a small nested valley. The most famous moment in the Lockyer valley (or should I say 'infamous') was six weeks ago when the inland tsunami rushed down the mountain and through the valley decimating villages, ruining crops and destroying the dreams of many. Even just this week, as I was taking a walk along the small main street of the town (three blocks long) I overheard a woman talking to a neighbor telling them that her family was safe, but they have struggled after losing 100 head of cattle. This is as rural as you can imagine, but the people who live here have that hardened look of a group of people that not only survive but thrive when life throws lemons. Just like the floods of Iowa and the Midwest a few years ago, the people have banded together to return life to somewhat of normalcy even if they never return to a complete sense of security.

The flood has changed this place. When it rains people look over their shoulder to see if the water will be rising soon to chase them away from real life again. They are wary, like long-tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs. But they are honest, wholesome people, farmers for the most part, who long to live just a simple life of providing for their families and earning a living tilling the ground and planting food for the country.

I watch some of them go to work in the morning. Laborers, doing all sorts of jobs, leaving at 5:30 in the morning and not returning for twelve hours. I am still on CST of the States so I am up early and down early. I get to watch them as they watch me. It is a joy to wake up here in Laidley. My back, shaded porch opens to the east where the sun slowly scales the hills of the east and wakes the kookaburras that have made their homes in the eucalyptus trees. Other amazing birds inhabit the area, parakeets, lorakeets, cockatoos, willy wag tails. Tonight, even as I went for a run, I came across a man going to his car who carried a parrot on his shoulder.

I'm not making this stuff up.

During the day, I am still focused on driving. It is a whole new experience traversing the backroads of Australia on the left side of the road while positioning myself in the driver's seat on the right. More times than not I have attempted to drive the car away while entering on the left and then sheepishly I get back out while the locals watch me thinking I've gone crazy. As I drive down the highway, the memories of the flood continue to be tattooed on the highways. In some places the roads have been washed out; in others, the potholes still remain, empty, bowls in the side of the road that threaten to swallow tires whole. I have almost memorized where they are already, but it is still a stark reminder of the power of water.

When I come home at night, I love to watch the wildlife change. The birds go to sleep and the bats wake up. At the end of our street, a cul-de-sac, stands an enormous tree with limb the size of beer kegs sprouting even at the top. The fruit bats sit in this tree motionless until the sun seemingly starts to succumb to gravity on the western horizon causing incredible hues of orange, pinks, purples and blues to be painted on the walls of houses and roads. The bats take flight, hundreds - maybe even a thousand - swirling and swooping making their way to the fruit trees somewhere far away from their home tree. It is a beautiful sight even though my neighbors shake their fists at the protected bat species wishing all sorts of atrocities to befall them for the paint eating presents they leave on the cars as they pass overhead.

Then it is dark and the beauty of this country sets in. Supposedly, the clearest skies in the world are found in the Australian outback and I believe it. The stars shine with an intensity that I have only seen a few times in the northern hemisphere. The Southern Cross is a bright reminder of where I am and it's symbolism on the Australian flag leaves me speechless. It is a pleasant place to spend a night, in this a small town in Queensland, Australia. I look forward to carrying you on this journey in life with me.

Solomon once wrote in Ecclesiastes (actually multiple times) "Everything is meaningless, a chasing after the wind." But I will take on the second greatest king of Israel and proclaim that everything has meaning and the only knowledge and meaning that we have comes from our own experiences. I hope you'll enjoy my tour along the Australian adventure.

Peace,

Reid

2011-01-28T09:44:00.003-06:00

Certain toys always bring back memories. All of us, I would guess, remember the first bike that we ever had. Mine was a dark green mean machine (akin to the Green Machine, but not three wheeled and not anywhere near the ground) with a banana seat and yellow handle bar grips. She flew down the gravel driveway throwing up dirt and rocks as if I were putting the world behind me in a cloud of dust.

Our first (and only) video gaming system - the Atari 2600 - showed up one Christmas Eve after many beggings and pleadings to our parents. My brother and I wiled away the hours in front of the TV, the Atari projecting only two colors onto the screen - orange and green - blowing up Invaders from Space, or defeating each other in Technicolor baseball. Atari came with two types of joysticks (I always used to laugh at that description for the controllers - almost pseudo-sexual) one was square and looked like the gear shifter in a car without the nob, and the other was a small rectangle with a circle on the end that could be turned this way and that for use in games like Pong, Warlords, Night Racer...

As much as I loved those two toys, nothing beats the creativity of Tinker Toys. Packaged in a can that appeared much like a large container of rolled oats, Tinker Toys were a portal into a new place of imagination. My parents used to say that they played with Erector Sets (that name sounds funny to me also - toy makers must be really marketing for adults) and Lincoln Logs. Erector sets take a lot of time and effort with countless directions and maps and Lincoln logs are limited in the ways that they can be arranged, but Tinker Toys - the world is your oyster! The round pieces can be wheels or support columns, spokes or even eyeballs. From each of the round pieces pencil like sticks could be inserted to add on the next level of creativity. Tinker Toys could absorb hours and hours of life with great joy (and without joysticks).

I remember one afternoon we kids had been kept home from school because of one of the frequent blizzards that visited us during the dark winters. Snow days were the best for us kids because little was required (by parents) but much was expected (by kids). The parents hadn't made up a to do list so we had the day to play outside, not likely because of the forty-five inches of snow that fell per hour (and the -50 F wind chill), or we could play inside. We usually chose outside if we could, but on this day, the weather outside was frightful and the toys inside were delightful. We played with G. I. Joe soldiers, model airplanes, a buzzing version of football where these plastic football players moved across a metal board by vibration (still to this day one of my favorite games) - and then we got to the Tinker Toys. After dumping all of the pieces along the floor, we slowly assembled what would be the Taj Mahal of Tinker Toydom. Of course the origianal Taj Mahal took 17 years to erect and was built in memorial of Mumtaz Mahal, the wife of Shahjahan, who died during childbirth of the couple's fourteenth baby. We built the Tinker Mahal in 17 minutes and had no babies during the process unless you count my sister coming in with announcement that "Ken and Barbie had just had a Cabbage Patch Doll they named 'Geneva Gena.'

Just as we finished putting the finishing touches on the masterpiece, we hear that voice from the kitchen - we knew it was coming - sending out the alarm that dinner would be served in five minutes and that meant we had to put all the toys away. After much complaining, about five seconds worth, that we needed to keep the palace up so that Geneva Gena would have a residence worthy of her name, Mom gave us the look that said, 'save your breath, you might need it for the eating process.' It was pointless to argue. So, with great grieving, my brother and I began to dismantle the Tinker Mahal piece by piece while Ken and Barbie, along with their newborn, mourned near the side. There were so many dreams that we had for the rooms of the palace. As we disassembled the rooms, the hopes and dreams of those stories faded into the background. By the time the house had been dismantled, we had already moved on, but there is always that memory of what the Tinker Mahal looked like. Fortunately, we still had the pieces to build something even better the next time.

These last few weeks I have felt the same thing here in Rockford, Illinois. Two months ago we announced to our congregation that we would be moving to Australia where I had accepted the call to be the chaplain at a Lutheran high school and part of a five point parish near Plainland, Australia. When we told the congregation, the feelings were mixed, bitter was the point of the dreams and hopes that we have for the congregation that we won't be able to be part of (physically that is: as part of the body of Christ, we are all in this together, right?), excitement at the prospect of a great new opportunity. I can deal with those emotions, but two months ago, it wasn't really real, do you know what I mean? Because I didn't have my greencard yet, the new call was just a ship on the horizon; we could only see the briefest top of the sails.

This week, I got the good news that my greencard had come through. The government of Australia had deemed me worthy to place my feet on the sandy soils of OZ. That's when it got 'real'. Not that we would be turning back anyway, but at this point there was no hesitation to where we would be next. Then, I received an e-mail from the President of the Lutheran Church of Australia, Queensland District who said, 'get yourselves here as quickly as possible.' With the news of the floods, our help will be invaluable.

That made it even realer (I know that's not a word, but stick with me while I add more vocabulary to the English language.)

So, this week Christine, the girls and I have been preparing our house for departure. The basement was first. Piece by piece all the memories of our past have been taken off the walls - the flags, the mugs, the photos - with each memory removed and carefully prepared for packaging I find myself feeling like we are dismantling life - life as I've always known it, and with that feeling of dismantling is a surreal understanding that all of life is change. Sometimes it is painful (almost always it is) but with the pain is sure and constant sense that even in the dismantling of the present, the blessing of God continues to place us where He needs us next and most. The fear that comes with change is replaced with a sense of peace on a walk where God reminds us that even though we disassemble a life here in the United States, the same pieces that we are packing are available to us wherever we go.

I will tinker with the emotions that come with that understanding of new life.

Wishing Well part III

2010-12-15T13:54:00.000-06:00

Anda’s form shook with distress. The walls of reality began to crumble around her; her deepest desires, her most heartfelt wishes, her very soul seemed to quake as the depths of life flooded around her. She struggled to breathe. She struggled to move. Anda’s spirit seemed to desire that the waters of the wishing well would swell up and swallow her.

Behind her, Anda heard a splashing sound. The boy who called himself the ‘Dream Reaper’ was wading towards her. “How could you do this to me,” she cried out. “You’ve stolen everything from me?”

The wading boy stopped an arms length from Anda. “Are these all your coins?” he asked patting his jangling pockets.

“No, they aren’t all mine. But mine are in the midst of them. Wishes from all sorts of people for all sorts of gifts.”

“How many of these are yours?” he asked.

Anda finally looked at him. As she did, he took a step back almost stumbling. The waves from his near fall rebounded against the angel and back to Anda. She studied his youthful face. His eyes were close set, his small nose was slightly upturned and overall, his face was smudged with dirt. His hair was dark, at least it appeared that way in only the moonlight.

“What does it matter to you? You’ve taken them all?” She sighed in resignation.

“What good does it do to throw money into the wishing well? Does the Angel even see? Does the Angel hear your voice? Does the Angel even care?” The boy stooped down to pick up one of Anda’s last coins. “This one. What was this dream?”

“That,” Anda said as she began to rise, “was my last hope.” She held out her hand to the boy who drew close and placed the quarter in her outstretched palm. “I asked the Angel for the deepest desire of my heart. And now I know, truly know, that the Angel is simply…”

“What?” the boy pressed her.

“…simply a sign that life isn’t fair.”

They were quiet for a moment. The two of them, the Dream Caster and the Dream Reaper, paused to find the right words to say.

“It was always just stone,” the boy said. “But there is something more, something much better than stone angels and coin casting.”

Anda looked around refusing to hope anymore. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“This place, here and now, is cold and wet and confusing. But there is a place that I can show you, not far from here where the world is warm, the people are content and they welcome new people. Look,” he pointed over the pine trees. “Do you see the glow on the horizon?”
Anda nodded.

“That is the light of the new day and with a new day comes new life. That is also where I’ve found a community of…”

“What?” Anda pressed him.

“A place of faith. Not in stone Angels or silvery coins or even wet feet and hands. Come with me. Follow me.” The boy seemed very certain as he stretched out his hand to her.

“I’ve got to get home. If I don’t, my dad will… reprimand me.”

“There’s no hurry,” the boy said. “Let me walk with you on your way. Then, in the near future, look for me at your door.”

Anda looked at the boy’s small, wet hand. Slowly she reached out and took it in her own. The two of them stepped out of the wishing well and began walking slowly up the path to Anda’s house hand in hand.

“What are you going to do with the coins from the Wishing Well?” Anda asked.

The boy smiled. “New dreams are sown, my new friend, from the scattered wishes of the past. You’ll see.”

They were quiet on their walk.

The Wishing Well wished them well on their journey. It’s soft trickling of water echoed for a few moments. The moon winked behind the clouds. The Angel must have turned her face.

A new day was coming.

The Wishing Well: Part 2

2010-12-10T13:38:00.001-06:00

Without thought to the darkness that waited for her, Anda closed the bedroom door behind her. Leaving the lights off, Anda attempted to bury herself in darkness; she wanted to immerse herself in the anonymity of the night preferring not to see her reflection in the panes of her window.

“My window,” she thought. “I can escape out the window and run back to the wishing well. I’ll bring a handful of coins this time. Surely the angel will accept my offering if I bring a fortune.”
Anda rummaged through her room seeking to find her piggy bank containing what little treasure her parents would give her. After some fumbling in which she knocked over a lampstand (she we was sure her father would hear and offer advice in only the way that he knew how), Anda found her porcine treasure box, opened it and retrieved all the money left in it. Carefully she placed the piggy bank back on the shelf and wended her way to the window. As she struggled and strained to open the window quietly, she felt the blood rushing to the newly formed bruise on her face. It was simply a low throbbing now; the instantaneous shock of pain had escaped the window of her soul.

With just a small screak the window popped open. Anda tilted her head waiting to hear her father’s inevitable footsteps ascending the stairs. Hearing none, and thanking the God of the Angel for that, she placed her foot out the window and onto the roof of the house. After backing out and shutting the window until only a crack remained at the bottom, Anda noticed the breeze of the night that she hadn’t felt just an hour before. From this high perch, the world seemed different. If only I could fly away, she thought. Just for a few hours I could leave this home and soar through the clouds playing in the moonlight. No more pain; no more shame.

Anda peered over the edge of the roof to the ground below. Although only ten feet to the ground, Anda knew that flying was out of the question. She shinnied down the drainpipe being careful not to make any sound. She alit on solid ground once again thankful to the God of the Angel, for safe passage.

The short hike back to the wishing well was filled with wistfulness. I wish I lived in a house with a family that cared enough to care. I wish that just for a while we were normal. I wish… I wish…
Anda startled a deer on the wooded path back to the pool guarded by the stone Angel. It ran into the woods, turning back when it seemed a safe distance. The deer’s eyes questioned Anda’s need to be in that place. They stared, the two of them, just for a few moments and then the deer melted into the darkened woods. Anda continued on her journey. Not far from the pool, she heard a brief splashing sound. Hurrying forward wondering what could have happened, she hastened to the wishing well. Looking up at the Angel, she noticed the shadows had changed the Angel’s face from stern disapproval to seeming contentedness.

It could only be a good sign. Anda reached into her pocket to grab the rest of her remaining wishes, when suddenly she noticed that the moon was not reflecting any of the other casually tossed dreams in the bottom of the pool. Her heart leapt! The Angel! The Angel had descended to take the coins! All of her dreams had come true! With a great smile, Anda pulled the last of her coins out and hurled them far into the pool. Some of them rebounded against the Angel statue, the others plopped harmlessly into the pool below.

“Thank you, Angel,” Anda spoke to the statue. “I look forward to new life!” With those words, Anda reached into the pool and washed her face. She poured water over her head, over her arms. She took off her shoes and immersed her feet in the rippled coolness. Excitedly, Anda felt as if the doors of her heart had been opened and the wind of joy had swept across the waters of the pool and entered refreshing her to the soul.

Quickly, Anda dried her feet in the grass, put her shoes on and turned to leave. She felt like whistling; she felt like singing – she hadn’t done that in a very long time; she felt like dancing. Even the bruise which was beginning to outline her eye seemed less oppressive.

Anda turned to walk back home…

When she heard a sneeze.

It seemed to have come from the wishing well; Anda was not naïve enough to believe that the Angel had sneezed.

“Who’s there?”

Silence.

“Come out. I want to know who you are.”

The moon seemed like a spotlight on the silent form of the Angel spreading her trickling waters to the pool. Then, a small form emerged from the behind the stone skirt of the heavenly Messenger. His face was shrouded in darkness.

“Who are you?” Anda asked again.

The boy, who could not have been more than ten years old, said nothing but raised his hands.
His hands seemed to shimmer, to twist in the dim light. It was then that Anda realized that the boy had picked up all of the glittering money from the bottom of the pool. She could see the outline of his pockets bulging with coins.

“I am the Dream Reaper,” he said.

Anda sat down to cry.

The Wishing Well

2010-12-09T10:22:00.002-06:00

It is truly incredible that I have been this slack - four months (and a whole lot of changes). For the next few days, I'll be updating the blog with pieces of short stories that I have been working on over the years and then in the next weeks I'll be blogging about the process of change.

This first short story has appeared in sections of Our Savoir's newsletter, Crosstalk, the last two months. On Tuesday, I'll be adding the last segment (which hasn't appeared yet in the Crosstalk - so those who want to finish the story first will have to read it hear on the blog.)

The Wishing Well

Amanda, or Anda, as she was called by most of her friends, stood beside the gentle lapping water of the wishing well. The cool night brought goosebumps to her arms, but she took no notice. As she stood by the water’s edge, she looked up at graying statue of the angel which was the source of the water trickling into the pool. The angel held a sword in one hand holding it high as if protecting the world from any number of tragedies. The hardened look on its face gave the stone angel a determined look – a look that said, I will allow nothing to get between you and me.
Anda stared at the molding statue seeking desperately for some sort of acknowledgment by the angel that it recognized her presence.

Why don’t you help me? She pleaded with the unmoving presence. The only response was the whispering water as it cascaded softly over the hem of the angel’s robe and dropped into the pool.

A stark, white moon cast it’s glow over the ripples in the pool. Anda knew in her mind that the sun cast the light to the moon and was reflected, that somewhere – just somewhere – it was warm, comfortable and pain free. Anda stepped to the edge of the pool to view all the other dreams that had been casually flipped into the wishing well. She could almost hear the wishes embedded in the glowing coins.

“I wish I was prettier.”

“Let my mom and dad get along.”

“Please don’t let him touch me again.”

“Why am I like this? Make me a better person.”

One by one Anda could sense the needy. All wanted answers but the wishing well was silent. Anda was one of the needy – needing some sort of newness of life. Leaning over the pool she attempted to see her reflection but knowing that she really didn’t want to experience the recent attempts by her father to ‘help her understand how discipline will help her in life.’
Looking at her distorted image, her face wrinkled and moving, she unwillingly recollected the last nights, in a series of too many ‘discipline’ nights, rocking herself to sleep waiting for her bruises to turn color.

Straightening up, Anda reached into her pocket for the quarter. Turning it over in her hand, she noticed the similarities in color of the angel and the stern face of the first President of the United States. If only…

There are no rules for wishing at the wishing well. There are only hopes and rituals. Anda’s ritual was to take a coin from her piggy bank and press her wish into the coin hopefully ironing her deepest desires into the offering for the angel. Anda brought a quarter this night, normally it was a penny or a dime, hoping that the greater the worth of the coin the greater acknowledgment of the angel to grant her wish.

Please let my father stop hitting me. Let him see me as a precious gift. Let him treat me as his princess and not his disgrace.

A tear trickled down her cheek and dropped onto the coin. Anda’s face was like the angelic statue in the middle – always leaking water. Not wasting another moment, Anda drew her arm back, hesitating only a moment, and threw the coin into the wishing well. She watched the quarter arc over the water, the moonlight sparkling across it’s spinning surface. With great hope she listened for the brief plip as the coin entered the water and presumably settled to the bottom of the pool near the angel’s foot.

With something like reserved faith, Anda bowed to the angel and turned to make her way back home. The recent rains had made the path slightly muddy but Anda’s thoughts were far from the quality of the path. Nearing her house, she slowed noticing that even at this late hour, the living room light was on. Trying not to make a sound, Anda placed her hand on the door knob and opened the door. Entering without looking, she closed the door behind her.

As she turned around, her father greeted her with a closed fist.

“It’s past your bedtime,” he said. “I was worried about you. Next time, you’ll learn.”

Off the Beaten Path

2010-08-11T16:25:00.002-05:00

I have been continuing the discussion about Chapter 3 of Ecclesiastes which I will begin again next week. But, I have been asked by a few people to put a couple of articles that I have written lately into my blog. The first one is about worship and the next one is about a life of service.

Worship.

There are all sorts of feelings associated with the word. If I would send out a questionnaire regarding what ‘worship’ is, I’m sure I would be bombarded with a slew of understandings of what it is, what it isn’t and what it should be. In the past, I have asked confirmation classes their experience of worship. Usually they lead off with adjectives like ‘boring,’ ‘old,’ ‘meaningless.’ As each voice is raised with their description of how worship has shaped them in the past, I cringe. I have to take it personally, that, as a pastor of the church, we are not raising or children and youth (or ourselves, for that fact) to know the importance of that word put before us.

Worship.

What is it? As the youth have spoken about their own reservations about worship, we must understand how the youth and younger generation have come to comprehend worship. Because many of them see worship as irrelevant in their daily lives, they simply come to put in their time – some of that is because their parents see worship in the same way: worship is the hour we put in at the church, once per week, whether we like it or not, so that we can start the next week with a clean slate. The sins of this week are erased, now we can take the black marker and adjust the check list –

Worship – check. Now we can watch the ballgame we DVR’ed and finally relax for the day.

This is from people who attend worship regularly. What about the sixty percent of those on the Lutheran memberships that attend only once or twice per year? Why is worship avoided like the plague? I think there are a few reasons:

Worship is perceived with a financial cost. I have to pay to get in (that’s how many people view the offering). I have to pay for my own sins – right before communion, I drop my envelope in the offering plate and now I can go receive forgiveness.

1. Irrelevance. If a person is neither entertained nor ‘gotten something out of the sermon’, then worship is a failure. The overarching understanding of culture, in this day, is “what’s in it for me?” If it doesn’t feed my desires or my needs then it ceases to be relevant.

2. Unforgiving – it’s for the good people. Sunday mornings, too many people, scream piety - being good enough. The average person who struggles with addictions, domestic problems, health difficulties doesn’t want to attend a church where everyone seems to ‘have it all together.’ When they do show up, they believe that those who attend judge them for what they look like, what their past appears like and how new the car is that brings them to the church building.

3. Lack of depth. The world longs for an experience of depth. We are given shallow television sitcoms, egocentric advertising and a society that idolizes escapism. Many people long for the answers to life’s greatest questions but are met with ‘just have the faith of a mustard seed.’

Worship.

The real problem? It’s become a noun instead of the verb that it was always intended to be. The word ‘worship’ is used 250 times in our Bible and is never once used with regards as a place. It is never a thing – but it is an action. Worship has become synonymous with a place; we sound more religious if we say ‘I am going to worship,’ rather than, ‘I am going to church.’ Biblical acts of worship are always used from the perspective of humankind doing worship not letting it passively happen in front of their eyes.

This is where we have failed as a Christian body: we are not bringing up ourselves or the next generation to realize that worship is not something done to us, but something we do. And, it is not done for our benefit – it is done for our growth.

This is my definition of worship:

Worship is the art of forgetting who we are and remembering in whose hands we rest.

Maybe all of us can remember a mountaintop worship experience where God seemed more real than the fingerprints on the end of our digits, where the closeness of the Spirit seemed real and intentional where we forgot about who (or where) we are and remembered that there is so much more to life than what is now.

Instead of feeling like we need a vacation from church, we can start to rotate or hearts to taking a vacation from ourselves and offering up all of our fears, sorrows, worries and unfulfilled expectations to remind us that ‘we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us. For (we) are convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, depth, or anything else can separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:37b-39)

We worship to remind ourselves of love and life together with the One who supersedes all of life and death. And then we are left in awe.

Worship.

Sometimes when I hear the parable of the Good Samaritan, I start to yawn. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the brilliance of Jesus rhetoric regarding who is supposed to be ‘good’ and who is supposed to be ‘lessthangood’, but the story itself is repeated and played out so many times as a moral template for living in a world of sin, that I have grown stale with it. The parable has lost its glow like the shine on a copper penny that has been through the wash ten too many times.
It had lost its glow, that is, until Pastor Woody made a passing statement during his sermon a few weeks ago. He said, “Often we find our own identity in any one, or all, of the characters of the story.” After he said this, I looked back over the story (ashamedly, I missed part of his sermon because I was thinking about the characters of Jesus’ own narrative) and found one character that is frequently overlooked. Almost all of the attention goes to the Samaritan; a little bit to the priest and the Levite - because they should know better, and if there is any focus left in our attention span we might see through a pinhole the downtrodden man and his foes, the robbers. But, there is one more character of the story: the innkeeper.
As Woody spoke, I was placing myself in the shoes of that innkeeper. Minding his own business (literally), preparing places for weary travelers, he probably was intent on simply making it through the workday and getting home to the children, a meal and maybe a nice, relaxing bit of sleep. Innkeepers don’t like interruptions - I have seen that first hand.
Maybe you have seen innkeepers who are not as impressed with travelers who make extra demands. I have watched innkeepers, or hoteliers, hold back their distaste – as if they swallowed a lemon (rind on) – for a family that asks for a few extra towels.
But here, in this Gospel story, the innkeeper has been given an extra task by a traveler. Imagine the innkeepers distaste as a Samaritan brings in the refuse from the street, a man who has been beaten and bloodied – must be homeless, part of the rabble that can’t get a job. Perhaps the innkeeper would hold up his hands and say, “I’m sorry, but you can’t bring him in here like that. We don’t have the facilities to treat and administer care.” The Samaritan rents a room, ties up the donkey and gives innkeeper the license plate number in case there is any trouble in the room.
Then, inconceivably, the Samaritan stops by the front desk the next morning, drops the key off, and has the gall to say, “Here is some extra money for the man who is still staying in the room. Take care of him. If there are any other expenses, I’ll be back to pay those later.” I imagine that the innkeeper would come around from behind his desk and start his tirade. “What does this look like? A hospital? A clinic? Does it look like I attended medical school? I don’t have time to take care of this guy. Maybe he got what he deserved. Take him some where else. He’ll upset the rest of my patrons.”
Of course, that isn’t what the innkeeper said. Jesus doesn’t tell us what his reaction might have been, but I’ve simply filled in how I probably would have responded. I’d be a priest-like innkeeper or a Levitical hotelier. The sentiments above are my own self-centered reactions to how I have, in the past, reacted when extra responsibilities are put on my plate. I am self-centered, immature, uncaring (should I go on?) but our parablic innkeeper is exactly the opposite. It seems as if he is willing to take on extra responsibilities above and beyond the call of duty.
Often, the Spirit will bring new people into the shadow of the doors of Our Savior’s. Not all of them are healthy (emotionally, spiritually, mentally or physically). They come with needs to be healed; they long for a place of comfort and restoration. We, at Our Savior’s, are called to be the innkeepers. As the Spirit appears with new armload of hurting human souls, are we priest-like innkeepers who through up our hands saying, “I’ve got enough on my plate now (or worse yet, we’ve got enough people in our membership to worry about already)” or are we like the gospel filled innkeeper who seems to accept the next task with hope and faith that the Samaritan will come back and reward the innkeeper for his work.
That’s our call – the call of duty, to take the wretched poor, the homeless, the widow, the orphan, and the spiritually damaged and nurse them back to health. It’s a monumental task –
But only an innkeeper can do it.

Embracing

2010-07-16T09:30:00.003-05:00

Supposedly, there is a time for it and a time for refraining from it. I could leave you to guess what it might be; it could be anything - running, speaking, eating steak, petting spiders - but from verse five of Ecclesiastes: (there is) a time for embracing and a time for shunning embracing. What? When would we shun embracing? Who doesn't want a hug? Isn't that what's wrong with this world - that we've learned to avoid hugging? Embracing?

I like embracing. It feels good. Hugging Christine is like a little trip down memory lane. I can remember my first embrace with her (I will spare you the details) but walking into her open arms is like a ship finding a safe cove out of the wind. All storms cease; the protection of her arms is as needed as running, speaking, steak and spiders (I can do without them, though). I'm not writing this to brown nose because our anniversary is in a couple of weeks (maybe a little bit) but I think all of us, even the men (especially the men, perhaps) enjoy a daily hug. Hugs are a bit different nowadays though in my household. Now, as I approach Christine for a hug like a plane coming in for a landing, I have to prepare for the inevitable wriggling and wiggling of the girls prying their little bodies inbetween Christine and I needing to be part of the group hug. Good times. Good times. Pretty soon they will too big to wiggle between the two of us.

Is there a difference between embracing and hugging? That's the true question from this blog, I think. And, I believe there is a difference. Hugging has a time limit. I looked it up. The Guinness Book of World Records says that Paul and Sandra Gerrard set the record at 24 hours and 1 minute. Surprisingly, the world's longest kiss is six hours longer. Karmit Tsubera and Dror Orpaz found a way to lock lips for just under 31 consecutive hours. They obviously did not have children trying to wedge between them.

Anyway, hugging has a time limit. There is only so long that two humans can be connected. It's a natural thing. By that, I mean, nature has intended a certain amount of space to between everything. All atoms, molecules, insects, plants and animals seek a modicum of space to thrive and survive. That is why, in most psychologist minds, it is incredibly healthy for couples to have a hobby, or a circle of friends that help them find space outside of the marital relationship. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, as they say - But at the same time, too much space makes the heart wander. We'll talk about that some other time.

Embrasure is different than hugging. I believe that embracing is more than just physical bodies touching. Embracing is the use of the whole person - mind, body, strength and soul. When one would say "I embrace life," or "I'm embracing the past," "I'm finding a way to embrace my feminine side." ( I haven't said that yet.) To embrace means to encircle something with every part of your being. I believe this is what Jesus was talking about, and the shema from Deut:6 "Love the Lord your God with all your heart, your soul and your might."

In other words, embrace God.

It's hard though. We find too many ways to distance ourselves; we find things that wedge between us and God. Perhaps unconsciously we'd rather hug God, find a little bit of comfort, peace from the storm, and then let him go. I feel better; now I can make it on my own, thank you very much. God becomes a wonderfully soft Teddy bear sitting on my bed at night.

But this, I don't think, is the embracing that Solomon is writing about in Ecclesiastes. Throughout the first three chapters, the king writes distinctly about the futility of all things like a chasing after the wind. At the end of chapter three he writes: Thus I realized that the only worthwhile thing there is for (people) to enjoy themselves and do what is good in their lifetime; also, that whenever a (person) does eat and drink and get enjoyment out of wealth, it is a gift from God (3:12-13).

Embracing the good things in life is a gift from God. Pleasure is a gift. Hugging is a gift. Steak, is a gift (even if the cow would disagree).

But there are certain things that we are allowed to refrain from. Life, at times, can seem like a cosmic buffet; I'll take a smidgen of this, a serving of that, a dollop of this and a slice of that. Pretty soon, our plate is full and we become stuffed with our own gluttony of life. Paul says in 1 Corinthians 6:12, All things are lawful for me, but not all things are beneficial. Surely life is full of pleasures, and none of them can tear us away from the love of God in Christ, but not all of them are beneficial. Our society revels in the bacchanalia; if it feels good, do it. Drugs? No worries. Sex? What can it hurt? Food? Fifty-eight million Americans alone are overweight. Forty million are obese. According to www.annecollins.com, three million Americans are morbidly obese. The website also states that 78% of Americans do not meet the daily basic activity amount to remain physically healthy. 25% of Americans are completely sedentary. According to A Healthier America, if 1 in 10 Americans would embrace a walking program (a walking program!) the country would save 5.6 billion dollars per year in heart related health costs.

We refrain from embracing healthy activity because it takes work and sometimes work doesn't feel as good. Well, there was my soapbox for healthy activity.

But beyond that the ability to refrain from certain activities makes us well rounded individuals - adults. Adults have to make decisions about what they do, what they say and what they embrace. Imagine the chaos of the world if we never filtered the things that we said or if we never curbed our appetites for pleasure. This planet would be ruined in short time.

There is a time for embracing - heart, soul, mind and strength - God, health, relationships.

There is a time for refraining:

I'll let you decide when that is.

Gathering Stones

2010-06-24T10:40:00.002-05:00

My daughter, Greta, has a rock-collecting container. It looks like a miniature tackle box but instead of lures and hooks it is filled with rocks. To my eye, Greta' rock container holds a hundred similar stones. To Greta's eye, it holds treasure - not in the bejewelled, golden kind, but the treasure of memories. Greta gathers stones and the visible reminder of the shape and the color of the stone brings back a moment in life.

A few years ago, my family on a vacation. We decided that between my internship year and my last year of seminary that we would see as much of the North America as humanly possible. So, in a six week journey, we put seven thousand miles on the car (and the pop-up camper). Traveling from Iowa across to the West Coast, we visited incredible sites like Custer State Park, Bryce Canyon, Zion Canyon, Yosemite, Redwoods. We trekked up the coast through Oregon and Washington and finished by traveling from the Canadian Rockies to Lake Superior. All in all, it was an experience that we can't ever replicate not just because of the length of time (or length of journey for that fact) but because life is never the same. The girls were six, four and three and deep into experiencing the world one rock at a time.

Instead of being awed by the magnificent canyons or massive trees, the girls were always on the lookout for things that they could climb whether park benches, trees or rock piles. As Christine and I 'oohed' and 'aahed' over the magnificence of the created world, Elsa, Josephine and Greta had their eyes glued to the horizon for the next rock pile. So, every few hours we would have to stop and stretch while the girls fulfilled their inner spirit of mountaineering.

As I watched the girls do this, though, what I began to notice was that after each moment of rock climbing, Greta was picking up a rock and putting it in her pocket. We watched the pockets of her jeanshorts bulge like the cheeks of a chipmunk carrying seeds. By the end of the day she probably weighed and extra five pounds.

"What are you carrying in your pockets, Greta?"
"Nothing." Three-year-old logic is quite different than adult logic. Well, maybe not.
"It looks like you've got something in your pockets."
It's funny; she actually had to look at her pockets to see if something was in them.
"I wanted to take rocks."
"Can I see them," I asked.

You could see the light in her eyes. She wanted to share those things that she had picked up along the way. Pulling out handful after handful of pebbles, stones, pieces of rock not much bigger than a sand particle. Her little hands were like shovels digging into the earth; some of the rocks tumbled to the ground but she kept her eyes on them making sure not to lose any of them.

To my untrained eye all of the rocks looked basically the same. Smoothed by erosion and time, these gray stones, some of them with a white stripe or a distinctive crevice, looked basically identical.

"Greta," I said poking my way through the mound, "Why are you carrying all of these rocks around. They look all look the same."

Greta moved in between myself and the pile assuming I was about ready sweep them from the table. Protecting them like a mother lioness she looked up at me and said, "Daddy, you're so silly. These are my memories from my walk today." Then, for an agonizing fifteen minutes, Greta recounted every climbing episode that she'd encountered. One rock that was next to the picnic table. Another one from the place where we saw a bear in the distance. She pointed to a smooth rock that she actually tripped over. All of them were a reminder of what she had just experienced. She had gathered up the rocks to remind her of where she had been.

I have written about this in the past, but the same thing happened with the Israelites crossing the Jordan River. God tells Joshua that the priests must gather rocks with them and pile them up on the shore as a visible reminder of where they had just been. The rocks symbolized the difficulties of the journey but also the hope of the future. They piled the rocks on shore and in the middle of the Jordan River. In the midst of where the water just was they piled another set of rocks to remind themselves that God had spared them from death.

What about the stone rolled from the tomb? What about gravestones? These rocks are reminders of memories along the journey but they are also promises of hope for a future. Plans to prosper and not to harm. The stone rolled from the tomb leads to an awareness of the gaping hole that death brings but its emptiness leads us to hope - hope which does not disappoint. Hope which leads to faith and new life. This stone we carry with us - it rolls with us (a rolling stone) like the stone that Paul says rolled with the Israelites through the desert to provide water at a moments notice. (1 Corinthians 10:3,4)

So I asked Greta what she was going to do with her stone memories. She smiled. "I'm going to keep the best ones and throw the rest in the river." With that she picked up her rocks, put them back in her pockets and made her way to the stream where one by one, with great relish, she plinked and plunked the rocks in different parts of the fast flowing stream. With each toss she recounted what she was doing when she found the rock, but at the same time, without even knowing it, she was making room for more 'stone memories' in her pockets.

That was a good object lesson for me. There are so many 'memory stones' that I hold onto that limit my ability to move on. I become weighed down by the oppressive memories of the journey that sometimes I forget to cast them into the river, to let them roll on their merry way so that I can fill my own life journey with the things that God has planned for me/us/we/the world.

What memory stones will you keep and which ones will you cast into the river? Where will you go to gather stones and where will you toss them.

Ecclesiastes 5:5a a time to throw away stones and a time to gather stones together.

Laughter and Tears

2010-06-10T11:34:00.003-05:00

Don Pederson writes in his book Mental Laxatives for a Constipated Mind,
"Most of us do not take laughter seriously enough. Too often, laughter is regarded as child's play. To be an adult is to be hardworking, responsible and serious. We need to revive our natural sense of humor."

Humor is not laughter, but laughter is our response to humor (or nervous or embarrassing situations). Sometimes laughter is not even intended - it just slips out - when someone falls and gets hurt - or at funerals, some people - although they don't find the situation humorous, laugh because their brain doesn't know what else to do. Scientists assume that laughter is an inherited response from our farthest back ancestors; they laughed when danger passed. When the sabertooth tiger missed them, yup - they started to chortle - that is, until the pterodactyl picked them up and took them away to the nest for supper.

Laughter is also a bonding experience. When one laughs and shares in the joke, the others are invited into the company of mirth. Usually, scientists say, the boss is the one who shares the most humor because when the boss laughs, it's going to be a good day. I'll have to keep an eye on that one.

The study of laughter is called gelotology. The ironic part of gelotology is that scientists have found that they can't actually study laughter. When it is forced, it doesn't happen. When they hooked people up to instruments, laughter ceases.

Physiologically, the front part of the brain decides what is funny. When humor reaches the brain, the immediate response is a forcing of pressure from the lungs back up the throat. The ha-ha-ha (or in Santa's case - ho-ho-ho) is the epiglottis closing over the opening of the trachea. When we laugh really hard, this causes us to gasp, some of us begin to cry - not because we are sad, but our body tells us we are suffocating. Even though we are happy and laughing, we cry because it feels as if we are dying.

Tears are a symbol of death. "Jesus wept" - the shortest verse in the Bible and perhaps one of the most poignant. That Jesus wept is a sign that he could feel the ultimate suffocation that the fear of death has on us. When we mourn, it is often a response to the death of something. We cry because someone has died, a dream has died, a relationship has ended. Our tears symbolize and reflect the suffocation that life sometimes has on us. We can't help but crying.

Laughter and mourning are different locales in the same mountain range. Most often, the Bible expresses mourning with visuals of sackcloth and ashes, tearing of clothes, shouting and wailing to the God of the heavens. In Biblical times, often the family of the deceased would hire professional mourners, those who did a good job of crying. Those who cry have an excellent sense of self. Some of us feel like professional mourners sometimes: we mourn people, events, oceans filled with oil, cities and villages imploding because of earthquakes - it seems as if the world will never be free of reasons to mourn.

But God promises us that a day will come when mourning is God - a morning of non-mourning. Revelation 21: Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more... And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, 'See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them as their God; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them; he will wipe every tear from their eyes; Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.

No more mourning, crying and pain, but as of right now, there is a time for it: and it is healthy. We need time to mourn, to cry, we need time to dance and laugh. That is life.

That IS life.

Weeping - Laughing

2010-06-04T10:08:00.002-05:00

A time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance.

It's sounds as if Solomon is painting the picture of opposites. Interestingly enough, weeping is made synonymous with mourning, and laughing similar to dancing. Mourning and dancing are the actions and weeping and laughter are responses to the actions. So:

Mourning necessitates weeping and laughter follows dancing.

I can definitely find myself in the latter. Every time I dance, pretty much the assembly begins to laugh. The use of the body to copy the rhythms in music is at the very core of how the world works. Have you ever noticed someone who is walking while listening to music through headphones? By nature, the body - even those who are rhythmically challenged - will gravitate to the beat of music. And once in tune with the music, we become one with the song and its meaning. I believe this is why people clap to keep the beat during a song or even move their feet. It's rare, I know, in Lutheran circles in the United States, for people to consciously become part of the music, but in certain places in the world, if you don't dance, you aren't really worshiping.

I have some really good friends who are Tanzanian. As part of the New Life Band, they witness through music and message to tens of thousands of youth and adults every year. Every three years or so, the band travels across the Atlantic Ocean to be missionaries to the United States and to gather funds for their ministries in Tanzania. They told me the story of their first experience with Christian worship in the United States. These are the things that struck them as totally outside their realm of experience in Tanzania:

1. Worship is one hour long. If it goes any longer than that, people start to look at the watches; they start to fidget. If they haven't gotten their God-fix by the time communion is over, they start heading for the doors. American worship services have tried to squeeze the amount of praise for God into one hour (sometimes less) and then move on to the really important things of the day like soccer practice, mowing the lawn, watching football, whatever kind of entertainment or work that might captivate a sabbath afternoon. In the last one hundred years, western society has lost all understanding of Sabbath. We no longer have a day of rest, to thank God for the peace of a day apart from work. We have an hour - an hour that many would say is simply 'putting in their time.' The Tanzanians were amazed by the lack of rest and reflection on God's abundant goodness to humans.

2. People don't dance. All the songs during a Tanzanian worship regard dancing as essential as much as the piano or guitar. To really understand the song, one must be one with the rhythm and the melody. They move back and forth. It seems coordinated, but it is more that they are completely in tune with their bodies and their congregation. God gave us bodies to praise. The New Life Band found American worship services so sterile that worship seemed almost a necessary evil rather than an expression of praise.

3. There is so little interaction between those that have come. Most churches have aisles, but they might as be walls. Most churches have permanent indents in the pews or chairs from the current residents who have been sitting in the same space for the last thirty years. We are creatures of habit and what the band noticed was that apart from the sharing of the peace (which lasted thirty seconds) there was no interaction at all between congregation members. I think we, as Christians, have lost the sense that we are a living body: what one person does affects all the others. Sharing the peace in Tanzania may take twenty minutes; they actually share the peace - find out how family members are doing - taking an interest in the lives of the people around you.

All in all, they (and I think I am included) would love to see a different type of worship that frees us from the starched repetitions that we have always done. Whether traditional or contemporary worship, a dose of dancing (which leads to laughter) might be just what the worship doctor ordered. I'm not saying that I'm all that comfortable with dancing, but that's because I don't often allow myself to be part of the Spiritual music of a congregation.

Dancing leads to laughter, and laughter leads to health.

That's where I will continue next week, I think.

Summertime

2010-05-28T11:25:00.002-05:00

The dam is barely holding.

You can see it behind their eyes, the excitement building somewhere in the growing brains - brains that for nine months have soaked in information, videos, gossip, rules about what is cool and not (I don't even know if 'cool' is a 'cool' word anymore). These cerebral cortexes not only look like sponges but they act like sponges - they soak up anything in the near vicinity, whether good or bad.

Sponges are some of the coolest things on the planet. They are considered animals even though, to me, they look more like plants. Sponges, although animals, do not have a circulatory system, a nervous system, or a digestive system. In other words, they don't think, they don't feel and they don't really eat - they basically take up space, waving back and forth in their territory waiting for some kind of food they can envelope. Our neighbors' dog is really a land sponge. It does not behave as if it has a brain; if it moves at all, it is so slow that the squirrels stop in front of its face and have a good chat knowing that Harvey couldn't catch them if he tried; the dog has also lost the hunting instinct - Harvey's idea of the thrill of the chase is to blow a fly off the bowl of yummy dog food placed directly in front of its muzzle so that he only has to lift his head to lick out the crunchy tidbits before it goes back to his non-stop rest. This dog makes a koala bear seem like a whirling dervish (a koala averages 20 hours of sleep per day).

Sponges, as I was to learn, can survive at the very depths of the oceans; some of them have been found 8,800 meters under the surface of the ocean. For those of you who live in non-metric countries, that's five and a half miles from anyplace where the sun shines. Imagine the pressure at five-miles down. Imagine living in a place where darkness is swallowed - swallowed like a doggy treat.

I don't really know how I got off on this tangent; I think it was that I was thinking about how children's brains are like sponges - yes, that's it - like sponges. Ocean sponges (there are a few fresh water ones also) don't really soak up water. The water simply passes through it where the cells of the sponge gather food and oxygen from the water. Children's brains sit in the steadily flowing informational flow of school picking out bits of things from the instruction that feed them - help them grow.

But now, the brains of the children feel full. Nah, not really. Their glassy-eyed expression is from staring out the windows of the school at the absolutely gorgeous weather. Like moths to a lightbult, the children's face float towards the sun shining through the dust-streaked glass. Their very apparent sense of freedom is only a week away.

As my children come home from school, their homework is dropped in a screaming heap by the back door and the dam bursts; they are like screaming eagles streaking out the back door to play in the back yard. Sometimes I watch them from inside the house, through my own dust streaked window, remembering how summer (and summer school vacation) is truly what makes life go round.

I have often wondered how summer got its name. From what I gather from the incredible world of the web, the word 'summer' may come from the Norse god 'Sumarr' who is the god of summer. I would guess that Sumarr was a really short god. In case your not following, Norway has a really short summer.

It's been too long since I've blogged.

Almost every good thing happens in summer. The heat returns from its vacation to the south - the sun is a snowbird, I think. The rains come to the deserts; the cows start calving; the crops grow; the Monarch Butterflies begin their return from Mexico. Road construction continues in earnest.

Okay, it's not the greatest thing, but that's what happens when you live in a northern latitude - ice and snow eat roads for breakfast.

So, I watch my girls through the dusty window remembering the times when I was little, the last day of school had come. Ripping off what was left of my paper bookcovers, I turned them in with great pleasure. I no longer needed science text books, math workbooks and English quizzes. Now, I could simply learn from nature. Summertime is the time when nature teaches us more than classrooms probably ever can. Nature teaches us how to care for creation. Nature teaches us how to survive. Nature teaches us how to breathe in fresh air and exhale all of the conditioned air that comes with indoor living.

But too often now, we have taken the shape of the living room sofa. We continually express in our brains that 'I should go outside for a walk or a run' but the sofa seems to have a seatbelt that keeps us in place helping us to believe that tomorrow is really the best day to let our brains go for a walk in the great outdoor.

This summer, I'm not just going to watch the girls smile through the window or see them run quickly through sprinkler water. I'm going to do it myself. I'm going to reinvent myself as a child of the summer where my brain soaks in the sun preparing it with rest for any future possibilities. Summer is a time of play and rest.

Play and rest this summer.

Duality

2010-02-05T13:02:00.002-06:00

There are two sides to every story.
For every action there is an opposite and equal reaction.
There is a time to kill and a time heal.

This verse, I knew, was going to be the hardest to write about because that phrase 'to kill' is such touchy one. In my Jewish study Bible, it's even worse "to slay" which brings about all sorts of systematic visions of movies like Braveheart, Gladiator, and Hot Shots: Part Deux. Our current culture has the most distinctive dualistic relationship with death and violence. On one hand, we do everything by every means to avoid death and dying, but on the other hand, we are fixated on death to the point where we consciously or unconsciously slow down for car accidents, rewatch injuries during athletic contests or even subject ourselves to the vilest forms of 'entertainment.'

What is it about death that makes us feel squeamish and fascinated at the same time?

A few years ago I attended a Halloween party that was bacchanalic in its embracing of gore and violence. I was shocked by how much Halloween had changed from a "boo! - Oh, that's a good one" kind of funny, to explicitly portrayed violence through the haunted house which featured decapitated corpses staggering from a casket, to pools of fake blood running across the cement floor. It doesn't seem that long ago when Friday the 13th was the scariest movie of all time, but kids don't even notice a movie like that any more. There's no realism. There was no realism until a series came out in the mid 1990's - black listed of course - called the Faces of Death which were live video footage of people dying.

Now, we don't even have it blacklisted: it's on our own news services, whether religiously inspired beheadings, suicide bombers driving planes into buildings or car accidents happening too fast for the mind to comprehend. America has become immune to violence and it is a sad, depressing thing. Many of the kids I have asked "Why do you watch this stuff?" respond - "If it's happening to someone else, I can be thankful it's not happening to me."

So, our world is inundated with death and the fear of death and we sink further and further into the presumed safety of our own little worlds, inside our texting devices, in front of our television screens, typing furiously before the computer monitors hoping and praying that the angel of death is, like a moth to a street lamp, more attracted to the light of the outside world . Our relationships suffer; we become a society ruled by fear of the other. Remember what it was like to shake hands with everyone without the thought of 'swineflu' running through our brains. Our fear of death is killing community life one village at a time.

There is a time to kill but I believe it's not killing of another person; that, to me, makes no sense, but the killing of our ego - the killing of our pride, the death of our fear; phobicide. What would happen to this world, to our nation, to our village, to our families and selves if we moved past the fear of death to open the door of abundant life which is in community with other people. What if we murdered our television sets and took steps outside the front door for hours at a time. What if we wrote letters again, called people on the phone just to hear the sound of their voice? What if we began to heal our society from the inside out learning to forget the fear and find ourselves in the middle of a family of humanity? What if?

The dualistic nature of Ecclesiastes 3 is no more apparent than in verse three. "A time to kill, and a time to heal; (an alternative translation from Hebrew is: A time for wrecking and a time for repairing). A time to break down and a time to build up.

"Breaking down" can mean a multitude of things.
1. To cut something up into manageable pieces. "Can you break that down for me?"
2. Something most football players despise. During my football years, the coach would blow his whistle where we would then run in place as fast as we could until he blew the whistle again and yell "Break down!" which would see us then fall to the ground as fast as we could then rising attempting to not be the last one to stand again.
3. To extemporize rap-style. i.e. In the immortal words of M.C. Hammer "Break it down, now."
4. To flatten card board boxes. When I worked at Radio Shack, this was the main focus of my job. I always wanted to be a great salesperson. I would study the specs for all of the electronic gadgets - the robotic toys, the CD players, all sorts of needless necessities that kids crave - and then every time someone would come in to buy a computer or any other high end product, the store manager would approach the customer, relieve me of my prospective commission and relegate me out the backdoor to break down cardboard boxes. I grew so frustrated with him that I pretended the boxes were him and I punched them time and time again. He only caught me once. It was especially embarrassing because I had drawn a picture of him on the cardboard box and talking to the box while punching it saying things like, "Oh, you think that's funny, stealing my fifty dollar commission? How funny is this? Do you like that? How about a double kick to your face?"

There's a time to kill cardboard boxes, I guess.

But the breaking down that Ecclesiastes calls for, I believe, is the breaking down of walls of pride. And oh, the walls that we build are hard. The only thing that seems to have any sort of success against our walls is a word of forgiveness. I, for one, would rather have the wall than speak of forgiveness sometimes.

Sometimes our sinful self would rather kill a relationship than to work through the difficult times of confession and forgiveness. Mark Steele has an interesting view on how human nature works. From his book Half Life/Die Already

There have been too many important decisions to count in my life -

but six are instrumental to this story.

The first of which was the transition from offended to teachable. My assumption had been that this would be an evolution - something that would grow in me over time without much effort on my part. This was, of course, ridiculous, because offended is easy and teachable is a state of being about as attainable as invisibility. I had assumed I was teachable because I was sometimes teachable, but of course, this also meant that I was at other times offended. This is not a decision. This is a state of stuck. I had always hoped that in every instance where I experienced tension between these two states oppositions would eventually merge into one reality.

No Dice.

It became evident that change would not come until I began deep introspection in every aspect of my life. The first aspect: When things did not go my way, how did I respond to disappointment? More often than not, by holding on to the offense. So funny. I have hurt so many people in so many different ways and, because I understood what I intended, I think the wounded should leap over tall buildings to forgive me. But when the hurt is done to me, I think the wounder should pay. I don't actually say this, because that would be un-Christian. I instead imagine lengthy conversations that are awkward for them and rewarding for me and when I am finished with the imagination, I have less hair and a pit of acid in my stomach. In certain seasons, I have carried unforgiveness, and it has tangled and soured in my stomach like spilled milk in a shag rug. Many ask me: Why do people keep hurting me? But I think this is the wrong question. Maybe when wounded, we should ask,

What am I refusing to learn?

In other words, why am I refusing to learn to forgive. I think at the heart of healing or building up is forgiveness. We heal others by giving the gift of forgiveness which truly is the gift of life. If my spouse has erred in some small way, I could hold that transgression against her thereby giving me a sense (albeit false) of power over her, but at that point, our married existence is being strangled, losing air, losing life - it is being killed. But forgiveness opens the airways, it allows new life to begin. It allows us to take the fear out of marriage and gives us renewed zeal to begin again.

A time to kill - I'm being a bit terse but - try and kill our love affairs with electronics. Turn off the tube - talk to the family; share life with the neighbors.

A time to heal - Speak, write - lay down the cell phone.

A time to break down - unforgiveness; it is extraordinarily easy to retain forgiveness, to hold the power of life or death over a relationship

A time to build up. Experience new life in within the bounds of forgiveness.

Have a great week.

Reid

Planting and Plucking

2010-01-29T13:52:00.002-06:00

Ecclesiastes 3:2b "... a time to plant and a time to pluck up what is planted."

Some people are born with green thumbs. Interestingly enough, the history of 'green thumb' presumably dates back to King Edward I of England. According to the Old Farmer's Almanac, King Edward I loved peas. He enjoyed fresh green peas so much that he had half a dozen serfs working to keep him supplied, a prize going to the one with the greenest thumb, presumably from hours of shelling.

I have shelled many a pea pod in my day. When the sun would shine mid-summer, my siblings and I would be dressed in play clothes and moved out the door to the half acre garden where all of my parent's plants lived and breathed. These memories seem to have a crusty, golden feeling to them, like an old mirror that has some rust around the edges but the reflection seems almost accurate. Walking toward the garden, late morning, the grasshoppers would have already started their click-clacking, the cabbage moths would be floating between dandelion patches and the mosquitoes would still be shaking off the morning dew.

We kids would be equipped with five quart empty ice-cream buckets or else five gallon water pails to collect the produce of the garden. As we approached the growing vegetables, it would be amazing to think that just 10 weeks before, these enormous plants had sprouted from seeds. Most parents think the same things about their kids when they get older, I think. I've heard so many adults say, "They just grew up so fast." It's easy for grandparents to say that; they aren't in the midst of diaper changing, discipline and sleepless nights when seven-year-olds are coughing every four and a half minutes. Someday in the not too distant future I will probably say the same thing about my girls and then I will have realized, I'm closer to grandparent's age than I am to a new father.

Off topic, sorry.

Planting wasn't so hard. Dad would bring out the old tiller, its rotating claws looking like a machine from a science fiction movie. The motor on that thing would frighten the dickens out of our gun shy dog while the cat, Ozzie, would simply yawn at the goings on. When the tiller started up, it was like a parade; dad driving (or being pulled along) followed by skipping young ones stopping to pick up a rock to attempt mothacide (I never did hit one of the cabbage moths but it was still fun). Tillers aren't fast but they are powerful and as dad finally hit the garden we watched the claws dig up the black dirt bludgeoning the clumps into small clods. We would follow behind picking up juicy worms to fish with. It was a good summer life.

The '80's were a time of small jean shorts and tank tops. Sunscreen was rarely used; nobody cared about sunburn. We spent hours in that garden. My dad and mom would put some seeds in each of our hands and tell us how far to space them. After we got bored, I watched my brother look around near the end of his row and dump most of the seeds in one tiny clump. Impatience is a necessary part of childhood.

For those ten weeks we watched the plants grow. What our hands had put in the ground, our eyes watched come out of the ground. At first they were just plain, small sprigs of green, but soon the leaves began to open and in the instance of peas, the tendrils of vines stretched for the sky seeking to grasp anything which to climb.

Just like kids. It seems like from the minute they are born they are looking for things to climb, things to pull them up whether chairs, hands, steps, light fixtures, garage doors or radio antennae on a large combine. Kids long to be higher, where the adults are, assuming life is much better at a higher altitude. It is most beautiful; they never stop reaching for the next step. Like peas, they reach one rung and keep going for the next all the while growing taller and taller.

During most of the summer, that's what peas do: they climb. Then, when the heat of summer beats down, the peas start to blossom. The fragrant blooms fill up the garden. It seems the whole world is filled with the beauty of the pea plant. Walking down the rows of peas, if you could step close, you could watch the fingers of vines wrap around the chicken wire fence as if holding on for dear life. They don't want to be on the ground - the air is much better up there.

Then, when the blossoms have come and gone, the pods form - first flattened, but then seemingly filled with moisture, they burst outward seeming to stretch the seems of the pod itself. They look like they'll pop like a balloon if you just touch them, but the pod itself is hard. It is weathered and strong as a safe. It can withstand quite a bit of pressure.

And there we were, we kids, in mid-summer pails in hand walking out to the pea plants to pluck from them the pods only to bring them back to the house to shuck them. It was not hard work, but to a child, anything repetitive is dull. We would hurry down the rows picking as fast as we could, missing many, but probably eating many more raw, right from the vine. There aren't many vegetables as delicious as the fresh sweet pea. They are quite a bit like candy, crunching between your teeth, squishing. Even the juice of the pea pod can be chewed and swallowed although swallowing the whole pod is not as enjoyable.

Sooner or later we would return to the kitchen hauling pounds of pea pods. We would spend the afternoon pulling back the tip which would pull the pea string (that's what I called it) to make opening the pea pod that much easier. Then, you would pop one end of the pod and run your thumb down the middle freeing each pea from its nest. By doing this, one's thumb would turn a nice, pea green. Thus, a green thumb.

We spent many a summer with brown skin, dirty-black clothes, and green thumbs. There is something inherently good about working the soil - planting and plucking. The cycle of life replicated every year gives life a complete kind of meaning and feeling. Planting means spring; plucking means summer, plucking up means fall when we would go back into the garden to free the chicken wire from the dried vines of the peas. But that is life; it is a circle.

And it is beautiful.

Mark 4 - if you get a chance, read how Jesus describes planting. Read carefully and find a little extra meaning behind the seed.

Turn, Turn, Turn

2010-01-22T09:31:00.003-06:00

Soon I will be 37 years old. For some, that seems like a lifetime ago. There are two gentlemen at church that, when they greet me, call me 'young fella'. For others, like those in my confirmation class, they see me as ancient. Thirty-seven years old seems to put me at the age of Stonehenge. When I try and interact with them using some of their own lingo using words such as 'like' a lot, or throwing in a couple of 'Whassups', I can actually hear there eyes rolling. I might be a little past it, but as Steve Martin says (perhaps denying reality) "I still got it!"

So, I am almost thirty seven. That's how we say it in English. I am my age. My years determine who I am. If I was fifty seven - I should act like a fifty-seven-year-old. If I was thirteen I should act like an early teenager. But in most languages, the phrase for stating age is not 'I am..." but "I have thirty-six years." It seems like a slight difference, but in reality, the attitude difference is huge. If I say "I have thirty-six years" that means I am not defined by the digits, but defined by the ownership of the memories of thirty-six years.

A better way to look at it is, each of the years that I have might have a different theme because of location or outlook on life. For instance, my early twenties were defined by my college experience; my mid-twenties by traveling, my late twenties by early fatherhood. So, in a metaphorical way, each moment of my life is a rock - some are diamonds, some are coal, some are granite - whatever. But, I have them - they are mine and belong to no one else. As I look back at the moments of my life, I can sort the memories by category of rocks - diamonds, the beautiful moments of growing up, the fun moments of college, married life and children. These are the rarest and most beautiful like the gems.

The granite is the most abundant. I don't know the make up of the earth's rocky crust but it seems like there is a lot of granite. Granite is hard and composed of many different minerals - so is the majority of life. Most days are composed of repetitive patterns of behavior of which we sometimes take no notice. But, have you ever studied granite closely? There are rainbows of colors that sometimes our eyes miss. The granite of our lives is what makes us who we are; it shapes who we will be. This rock is the strength of our person.

Lastly, the coal. Of course coal serves a purpose. The coal of our lives, the episodes that we'd like to forget, or burn for that fact, reminds us of who we don't want to be. I don't want to be impatient, mean, envious, boastful, arrogant and rude. I don't want to insist on my own way, be irritable and resentful. Basically, the anti-love from 1 Cor. 13. But the coal, when pressured by heat and weight turns into diamond (after a very long time). We learn from our mistakes and we move to be better.

So, we have these rocks in our lives. These are our years. We aren't the things that we have done - we own them; we have them.

When I probably had seven years of age, I think I remember hearing the song "Turn, Turn, Turn" by the Byrds. Every time I hear this song it brings back some really groovy memories of my childhood - music tends to do that, to bring you back to a time where everything seemed a little more diamond like. The Byrds didn't write the song, actually Pete Seger did, but the Byrds made it popular with their twangy guitars and lilting voices. If you get a chance, YouTube it and listen to it again with fresh ears. Pete Seger may have written the music, but someone much older wrote the words: Solomon, third king of Israel.

Ecclesiastes 3: For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die...

In the next few weeks I'd like to go through the list of supposed opposites and dig a little more into the seasons of life. I like how Solomon understood life itself - seasons. I've heard that phrase before that the segments of life are defined by seasons: spring, summer, autumn and winter. Most would think that the seasons are of equal length but I would like to think that they are not. In my opinion, spring is the first 30 years, summer the next 25, autumn the next 20 and winter - whatever happens after that. Each season in nature is characterized by certain events and so is life.

Spring, new birth, new growth, new learning - everything is new. Solomon writes, there is a time to be born and a time to die. When spring rolls around it seems like every living thing is singing "Turn, Turn, Turn". The winter is past, life has come. The world has a new year. It is in the springtime of life when the sun begins to warm the earth. As I write this, those of you who might be reading this in temperate climates, just imagine the re-awakening of the earth from under a thick blanket of snow, like a sleeping giant shaking off the sleep, stretching and yawning, taking a huge breath! In spring we hear the birds beginning their happy songs again, the worms screaming in horror that the birds are back. The fresh wind from the west promising not snow but longer hours of sunshine soon. People seem to walk with a new bounce in their step, more willing to say 'hello' less willing to say goodbye. In this season, there is a time to be born and a time to grow, but spring is also a time to die. In the first years of our life, we learn to die to the things that hold us back. No longer are we completely dependent on our parents for everything. It is a time of utter change, and that can be frightening, just like death.

So, I haven't done a specific Bible study on this blog yet, but perhaps we can do one together. If any of you would like to share some stories of the springtime of your lives, the newness of life, new birth, please e-mail or respond to this post. I won't publish without your consent, but I would love to hear your own stories - your own diamonds, granite (and coal, if you wish). In the next weeks, I think I'm going to try and work through Ecclesiastes 3 so please read through the first 15 verses and give me some thoughts and ideas.

Peace,

Reid

Scarred for Life

2010-01-15T14:53:00.003-06:00

I see it almost everyday. Right outside my office window it flies. Rarely do I pay attention to it other than when it is flapping so hard it makes a whipping noise. It is the flag of the United States of America. Like the flags of every other country in the world, it has specific meaning. It is a symbol embedded with symbols. I won't write today about the feelings of patriotism that is, in some, inspired by the stars and stripes; that is not my intent. My intent is to write about something very visible that has a history - a history that I have not really thought about, not until it was blogday, at least.

Disregarding the Grand Union flag of the Continental army (which was never recognized as a flag for the the entirety of the union), there have been 26 different flags that the United States has used as the flying symbol of the country. If asked before my research, I could have picked out two: the 13 colonies flag (the one supposedly seamed by the esteemed Betsy Ross) and the current one consisting of 13 stripes and fifty stars - which symbolically stand for the 13 original colonies of the country and now the fifty states which make up the union. I've never really thought about it that hard but I guess every time a new state was added to the union they would have had to have a new flag. If you want to see a progression of flags from the inception of the country in 1776 until 1959 (our present flag) go to Wikipedia and look it up. Our current flag, like almost all symbols, has a tinge of folklore with how it was adopted as our country's flag.

When Alaska and Hawaii were being considered for statehood in the 1950s, more than 1,500 designs were spontaneously submitted to President Dwight D. Eisenhower. Although some of them were 49-star versions, the vast majority were 50-star proposals. At least three, and probably more of these designs were identical to the present design of the 50-star flag. At the time, credit was given by the executive department to the United States Army Institute of Heraldry for the design.

Of these proposals, one created by 17-year old Robert G. Heft in 1958 as a school project has received the most publicity. His mother was a seamstress, but refused to do any of the work for him. He originally received a B- for the project. After discussing the grade with his teacher, it was agreed (somewhat jokingly) that if the flag was accepted by Congress, the grade would be reconsidered. Heft's flag design was chosen and adopted by presidential proclamation after Alaska and before Hawaii was admitted into the union in 1959. He got an A.

In the basement of our house we have multiple flags. Because Christine and I have a large worldview, we try to collect flags from many of the countries that we spend a goodly amount of time in. The Canadian, Danish, German, Tanzanian, American and English flags hang on the west wall of our basement. The Jamaican flag is there too - my brother bought it for me when he and his wife returned from a second honeymoon. We haven't been to Jamaica, but its got green in it - so we put it next to the Tanzanian flag - green makes me happy.

The Australian flag has an interesting history also. I could go through all of the flags but the two prominent ones in my life are, of course, American and Australian. The Flag was established in 1901 when Australia became a federated nation under the 'supervision' of Great Britain. After Federation on 1 January 1901, the new Commonwealth Government held an official competition for a new federal flag in April. The competition attracted over 32,000 entries, including many originally sent to the Review of Reviews. The designs were judged on seven criteria: loyalty to the Empire, Federation, history, heraldry, distinctiveness, utility and cost of manufacture. The majority of designs incorporated the Union Flag and the Southern Cross, but native animals were also popular. Five almost identical entries were chosen as the winning design, and their designers shared the 200 pounds prize money. They were Ivor Evans, a fourteen-year-old schoolboy from Melbourne; Leslie John Hawkins, a teenager apprenticed to an optician from Sydney; Egbert John Nuttall, an architect from Melbourne; Annie Dorrington, an artist from Perth; and William Stevens, a ship's officer from Auckland, New Zealand. The five winners received 40 pounds each.

Incredible, isn't it, the creativity of youth?

The symbolism of the Australian flag: Union Jack - protectorate of England. Seven pointed stars - 6 states and one territory - federation, Southern Cross (five starred constellation seen from all states and territory). For many years, the Australian flag was backgrounded by two colors, either red or blue, until 1954, that is. In that year, the red background was dropped because red was the symbol of communism.

Amazing the how the history of the symbols informs us of what the personality of the country is. The history has shaped how the country views itself.

For me, symbols on flags are like scars on the body. Each scar is a significant moment in the history of a person. And, each scar influences how we respond to stimuli in our environment. Some people are full of scars and will often engage in a game of 'scar wars' with another person to see who has had the most physically traumatic experiences in life.

Some people would say that people with few scars are either a.) incredibly lucky or b.) incredibly dangerous. I would say that people with many scars fall somewhere in the middle of unfortunate and daring. I've got quite a few scars myself; multiple knee surgeries, a head surgery from birth. My brother and I, who are identical twins, have the same scar running down the middle of our heads (we were born without soft spots and needed to have strips of bone removed from each side of the middle of our heads so that we didn't end up looking like twin E.T's when we grew up). I used to tell young children that my brother and I were conjoined when born - right down the middle of the head. The doctor's separated us successfully but left each of us with half a brain. Only conceptually is that true.

Each scar has a story and a memory of trauma. I can remember the instant my knees decided they had had enough torque and blew out. I remember having warts on the tops of my hands and having them frozen during football season. They blistered so badly that I had to wear surgical gloves during football practice so that they wouldn't get infected. It worked until I caught my hand in the face mask of a rushing lineman effectively ripping the glove and all the skin of my knuckles off.

I could go on in detail describing all the scars of my past and perhaps grossing every reader out, but more importantly the scars that I want to talk about are unseen. Whether we like it or not, our hearts are scarred by what others do. As much as we like to say "Sticks and stones may break our bones but words will never hurt me" they do. They hurt bad. We carry the scars of off-hand remarks about our looks, about our personalities and about our ideas. We learn what topics we should stay away from like learning to keeping our hands away from a hot stove. It takes a long time for the scars to heal but one thing remains, the memory of the pain.

There may be moments in your life when you have scarred for life by the actions of another. But what softens our hearts is the universal solvent of faith: Forgiveness. Once we learn to forgive, we free ourselves from the pain of the past. It no longer is a festering wound by a symbolic reminder to be aware of how people can be cruel or mean. And, on the other hand, a symbolic reminder to treat others in the same way that our own soul longs for. When we forgive, the scars of emotional pain can be softened. Forgiveness is less for the other person and more for ourselves. If we don't forgive, we continue to wallow in a sense of resentment. We learn to hate ourselves as much as the other person effectively locking ourselves out of a place of love.

The scar remains - scarred for life; but new life can be born from the pain.

Ascribe

2010-01-08T11:27:00.002-06:00

I like to write.

I should say, I like to type. No one really writes any more, except my grandmas. Regularly I still see the beautiful script of aged ladies, diligent words pressed respectfully with a pen to paper. Although, my Grandma Matthias has found the 21st century and is into e-mail and Facebook now. I can always tell it's her even without peeking who it's from because Grandma only types with the caps lock on. When I read her e-mails I have to put aside my thinking that capital letters means lots of emphasis should be put on the words. My grandma Matthias doesn't typically put a lot of stress on a phrase like this: THE SUN WAS SHINING TODAY AND GRANDPA CHOPPED SOME WOOD. HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT DAY. GMA MATTHIAS

Really jumps out and catches the eye, doesn't it. But nobody really writes like that. No one, that I know, hand writes in capital letters. There's so much more subtlety to hand written words. And, people are much more likely to take seriously hand written words than typed words or spoken words.

A pastor friend of mine was telling me a story of how handwritten letters affected the life of one of his parishioners. The woman, who had made some considerably life altering changes, had received letter after letter from her family. My pastor friend, I'll call him Larry, was sitting with the woman one day when she broke down crying. The woman had read the letters daily which boldly proclaimed what a sinner she was, how disappointing she was to the family, she had no part in family dynamics. In effect, the letters were castigating her for choices made, but in essence were letters of fear that somehow they had failed her.

The woman, Anne (not her real name), lived with a constant source of guilt and dread that she was not human being anymore. Larry prayed with the woman and asked her to give him the letters for safe keeping. The words were stones. Like the woman caught in adultery, she was caught in the crossfire of a verbal stoning. Battered and bruised, physically she had escaped with her life, emotionally she was dead.

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. Yeah, whatever. Especially written words will kill. How many times do we see it in the paper that words have destroyed reputations, ruined relationships and brutalized life. The spoken word is air - breath released; it brings a memory but the written word is permanent and if written by hand, we know that the hand of a person actually pressed on the same page that we are holding. It's personal, very personal.

Many times, though, handwritten letters bring joy and contentment also. I love receiving handwritten Christmas cards. I got one this year - from my Grandma Nacke. I love reading the stories of the lives of people who I know and am endeared to, but often I will skip most of the information if there is a personal, handwritten script on the bottom. That usually means that they had a special message just for us. Yeah, they did a lot during the year - that's great - but LOOK AT THE HANDWRITING AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE! THEY STILL REMEMBER US!

Remember not that long ago when almost all letters were still sent through the mail not filed electronically, typed, texted or Facebooked? Christine still keeps all the love letters that I wrote when she was in Australia and I lived by myself in Arizona. Every time she would receive a letter (so she tells me) she would read it three, four, fifty times not only to read it but to see my handwriting - because my handwriting is unique to me.

There are experts who can tell when signatures are forged or simply tell what people are like by their handwriting. (They soon might be out of jobs when everyone in the world forgets how to use a pen) They are called graphologers. For example, graphologers would suggest that these types of script say lots of things about us:

SIZE Small handwriting- research-oriented, good concentration, methodical, not always social Large handwriting- people oriented, outgoing, outspoken, love to entertain and interlock Right in the middle- you like to be with people, but value your own time

SPACING Good deal of space- you need your freedom, to do things in your own time, don’t like to be overwhelmed or crowed. Very little space- it shows a tremendous about of irritability and constant pressure on yourself

HOW LETTERS ARE SHAPED Rounded letters- indicates creativity, artistic abilities (writing, painting, acting, etc.) Pointed letters- shows you are more aggressive, intense, very intelligent, curious Connected letters- you are logical, systematic, make decisions carefully

LOOPING Loopy handwriting- very social individual, huge imagination, sensitive to criticism Not loopy- more isolated, reclusive, within themselves

DOTTING YOUR I’s Right over the I- attention to detail, organization, emphatic in what you say or do High over the I- shows great imagination To the left- procrastinator Circle your I’s- visionary, child like Slashing it- overly self-critical, don’t have a lot of patience for inadequacy or people that don’t learn from their mistakes, irritation

CROSSING YOUR T’s Right in the middle- you are personally safe Short crosses- shows a lack of determination Long crosses- great determination and enthusiasm, can be stubborn Very top of T- you’re an idealist, ambition, good self-esteem Cross downward at the top- you dominate your environment, authoritative nature O’s Open- you are talkative, social, able to express your feelings, have little secrecy Closed- you are very personal, limited sharing of your personal feelings, introvert

LEAD IN’S OR EXCESS FLOURISHES Lead in’s (or excess flourishes) - shows family orientation is important to you Lack of lead in’s (or excess flourishes)- you tackle problems in a direct, practical way, unhampered by sentimentality

MARGINS Writing all over the page- you can’t relax, constantly thinking Left hand margin- you live in the past Right hand margin- you are always looking towards the future

PRESSURE Tremendous pressure- very intense, may have some evil qualities, aggressive, blow up easily Average or light pressure- laid back, go with the flow

DOODLES Boxes- you need structure, stability and order Flowers- idealistic, romantic, creative Triangles- perfectionist, structured, people that feel stuck- don’t risk easily Circles- dreamer, creative, takes thinks personally, visionary Smiley faces- illusionary, wanting life to be beautiful, optimistic Color inside the box or shape- you are very intense, serious, worrier, can suggest sign of temper because of tension or frustration

PUNCTUATION MARKS Lots of exclamation marks- ego is involved, you want to be understood, passionate

SLANT If you write upward- you tend to be optimist, hopeful, honest, ambitious, motivated If you write downward- you tend to be negative, slightly depressed, dishonest

SPEED If you write things quickly- you are impatient, dislike delays or time wasters If you write slowly- more organized, more methodical, more self reliant

SIGNATURE (this is your public self image!) Legible- shows integrity, confidence, leadership, open to show your true self Not legible- very private person, hard to read or understand .

I didn't come up with these ideas - I found them by typing words onto the internet. But, the handwriting really does say something about the person. I will not tell you which of the styles is mine but needless to say I'm a bit loopy.

Larry and I met this week. We read from the book of Psalms as we always do and this week it was Psalm 29: Ascribe to the Lord, O heavenly beings, ascribe to the Lord glory and strength. Ascribe to the Lord the glory of His name; worship the Lord in holy splendor. Within the word 'ascribe' is of course the need to write. How often do we write down what is due to God? I don't do it very often, not in my own handwriting anyway. Often it is typed form that comes in the visage of a sermon. What would happen if every week we took time to hand write down all the goodness of God? Would our view of life in general change? Would the words that jump off the page remind us of the goodness of God? That God's own handwriting is nearby?

Paul writes in 2 Cor. 3 "Are we beginning to commend ourselves again? Surely we do not need, as some do, letters of recommendation to you or from you, do we? You yourselves shall be our letter, written on our hearts, to be known and read by all; and you show that you are a letter of Christ, prepared by us, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts ---"

Our lives are living letters prepared by God written in the script of the Holy Spirit, legible to the whole world. God's handwriting does not need ink but is impressed on our very souls. What do you think God's handwriting looks like? Loopy? Extra spaces? Speedy? I would guess that God takes His time to prepare a love letter and writes it carefully and slowly on our hearts so that we can open it every day and remember that all of us are beloved children of God.

So, this week, try and write a few letters in your own hand. Ascribe to God the glory, ascribe to others all the love that God gives you, and ascribe to yourself that you are beloved of God and many.

My New Year's resolution is to try and keep typing this blog.

If only I could hand write it. Maybe more people would read it.

Peace,

Pastor Reid

Santa Claus

2009-12-17T11:09:00.002-06:00

Being Santa is not easy.

I've only had the opportunity to don the Santa suit once in my life. I was not prepared for it: physically, mentally or emotionally. All my experiences of Santa occurred in a mall when I was younger. Usually, Santa was sitting in the center of the shopping area. Situated on a throne, usually red, surrounded by bored looking teenagers dressed up in elf costumes, Santa was probably the premier draw for the synagogue of capitalism. Scores of kids would line up for the privilege to sit on the lap of this jolly, obese, octogenarian to ask him to lend his ear to the whimsy of children. For some reason, Santa's throne was always cordoned off with a rope as if families would rush the throne, trampling each other for Santa's boon. I never understood the power of the rope: it's not like kids couldn't just stoop under it (or, for the vertically challenged, walk under it) - but for some reason, that golden cord held the kids at bay whispering animatedly to each other about all the presents that Santa was going to bring them. You could watch them checking their lists - if another kid had a good idea, the child would pull on the sleeve of their impatient parent and ask for a pen to add that special doll or toy to the list. (I'm not even sure if kids ask for dolls or toys anymore. It seems as if they are all asking for technical gadgets or movies?)

So, the elves would carefully take each young boy or girl to the seat of honor - the ever diminishing lap of the red-suited genie. I'm sure that some kids enjoyed the experience, but I don't know if I ever saw one. Most of them were frightened of the outlandishly large beard which obscured the Santa's face ("Does Santa have a mouth?" I heard one child ask) The child was placed on the lap of Santa who almost always had a bit of halitosis. The prerequisite "Ho, Ho, Ho, what would you like for Christmas little..." He would look at the parent who would whisper the child's name "Janie." The child would start to understand that perhaps, just perhaps, this wasn't the same man that lived at the north pole because he knew every child's name - even identical twins, in my case. The child would then rattle off an enormously large list of Christmas gifts that Santa was to pack in his enormously undersized sleigh. The list brought to Santa realistically was a list for the parents who really wanted to know what their children wanted.

Then, after list was spewed out, Santa would inevitably pat the child on the back, promising all sorts of things that no human could keep, and attempt to send the child on her way. Invariably, the child would want to add a few more things to Santa's ear who then would have to employ the slaves, er... the elves as bouncers sending them away from the throne in tears.

It's a tough thing to be Santa.

So, as I began telling a bit before, my connection of being stuffed in the fat suit occurred when I was a senior in college. I had neither white hair, nor the girth to pull it off, but sometimes pillows do wonders. After I had donned the traditional attire of the merry man o' the north, I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. No mouth. This might be a problem. I tried talking but every time I did, I ended up with Santa's beard hair caught between my teeth. It was then that I wondered how many Santas before me had eaten the same hair. Filled with revulsion, I walked sideways out the door and squeezed behind the steering wheel of my 1986 Chevy Cavalier. As I drove to the piano store, I wondered to myself, "What have I gotten myself into?"

My piano teacher in college was a short, willful woman who always liked to be called Doctor. It was much more formal than Suzanne - that was the name for a nurse, or a receptionist - but certainly not a piano teacher. The piano teacher I'd grown up with was Shirley - she was a strict, rote, pedagogical teacher who I actually learned to love greatly after I stopped taking piano lessons from her. Anyway, Doctor had convinced me that I was the special student chosen that year who would be playing the part of 'Accompanist Santa' at a local piano store where local students were having piano recitals. Doctor decided that my personality lent itself well to playing "Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer" at ingloriously slow tempos.

So, I said yes, not because I was particularly enamored with the task, but because it's never wise to say 'no' to piano teachers. It will come back to haunt you.

I drove twenty miles in that stuffed Santa outfit. On the way down, as I waited at stoplights, I did garner a lot of attention. One time, I looked to the left and a little girl was staring at me. I could almost read her mouth as they pulled out in front of me. "Mommy, Daddy, where is his sleigh?" I'd hate to have been in that car for the rest of the drive.

I arrived at the piano store fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. The local piano teachers greeted me at the door with their thanks and appreciation, and, I think, a great sense of amusement that I had been connived into doing the role. The kids arrived later; many of them shrank from fear looking at me. Others were inquisitive: some of the smallest ones were pushed forward by their parents who then came to me and tried to get their lists in first. Mostly, I just stood by the Christmas tree wanting to drink some eggnog but knowing I couldn't because I'd get a hairball from doing so.

The recital started; I took my place at the piano. One by one, the children came forward to sit by me at the piano bench, I on the left and they sitting as far as they could to the right side. Some of them even standing because they really didn't want to sit that close to an icon of epic proportions. Most of them wouldn't even look at me; only one of them started crying. It was a good thing she had the song memorized really well because her whole body was shaking with sobs. While I was playing, I looked around at the director of the store who gave me a frustrated point of the finger and mouthed the words, "Keep playing!"

By the end of the evening I think I had frightened three quarters of the piano students in the Waterloo area and the other twenty-five percent had torn up their lists. Their was no way any of them were going to get close to the piano playing Santa. I stood up, turned around and said, "Ho, Ho, Ho! Merry Christmas!" You'd think I'd said, "I've got a gun and know how to use it!" Everyone seemed to jump a little bit. The children cowered between their parents' legs and the parents stood with kind of a smug disapproval of a twenty-two year old Santa that couldn't seem to connect with kids.

Everyone liked the idea of Santa coming but I don't think they really wanted Santa to be there. The idea of Santa was kind of nice - a well proportioned, happy, old man who wanted to bring gifts to every boy and girl on the planet within a 12 hour time frame. The idea of the aforementioned jolly man sliding down the chimney when everyone was asleep is a nice little myth that we tell our children to appraise them of the situation of why there are dozens more presents under the tree in the morning than when they went to bed. But in reality, no one wants anyone sliding down their chimney (or coming in any other entrance) in the darkness of night. Instead of leaving cookies and milk, most of us would be calling the cops and having Santa brought up on charges of B & E. The idea of Santa is much more appealing than the reality of him actually showing up.

Same with Jesus, I think. Before I get all sorts of theological vitriol about comparing Jesus to the saintly old fellow, let me say this, I don't think Jesus is Santa, but I think some of us view him like that. That Jesus is somehow this cosmic baby that comes at Christmas every year, who we can bring our wish list to and he will deposit them in some way to our lives during the darkness of night. The idea of Jesus is very nice; that Jesus is a nice, peaceful comforter who was sent to this earth to basically provide a buffer between us and his dad - God. You know, because God is the ever angry God who wants to punish - even at Christmas. The idea of Jesus is very nice; a baby we can hold, like that big cartoon figure that holds Bugs bunny and says, "I'm going to hug him and stroke him and call him George."

The idea of Jesus is nice, but the reality is, when Jesus sits on the throne of our hearts, everything else is pushed out of the way. There isn't room selfish ambition, vainglory, pride, ego, lust - you remember the list. When the king sits on the throne, those that come to him must listen. When Jesus says, "Take up your cross and follow me," that doesn't mean - well, maybe tomorrow, or, let me see if I can go to the Christian store and find the smallest cross possible. What it means is, Christ calls us to pick up the cross and die - die to ourselves and let him...

Be born in our hearts again.

At Christmas.

That is not the idea of Jesus - but the reality. The gift of Christmas is not something we hold in our hands but the Spirit of Christ that grows in our hearts.

He is here. Christ has come.

O come let us adore him.

Merry Christmas,

Santa

History

2009-12-03T10:30:00.003-06:00

Barbara Brown Taylor writes in her book Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith, "As anyone who studies congregations knows, history matters. The story of a church's birth tends to shape that community's identity for the rest of its life, with each new generation adding its own variations to the foundational themes." I've had some time to think about those sentences lately putting them into various thinking terms of my own contextual experience. I don't believe Brown's words are limited just to congregations, but to individual people as well.

For example, while living in rural central Iowa, the town of Story City (not a city by any means but most people and places have delusions of grandeur at one point or another) has a welcome sign off Interstate 35, placed right next to the McDonald's and Happy Chef, which is supposed to infuse weary travelers to exit the highway and come to the happy place of Story City (neither a city nor particularly storied for anything). The sign, decorated with happy, caucasian, blond haired children in outfits right out of the 1850's, states the welcome in Norwegian - "Wilkommen" which every time I saw it reminded me of my grandma's house. When we'd show up at her door she'd yell out from the kitchen "Well, Come in!" Certainly, if I spoke Norwegian, was blond and predisposed to wearing britches and aprons from the mid 19th century I surely would have swerved off Interstate 35 to feast on the famous Norwegian delicacies of Chicken McNuggets and French Fries which, I can't remember if they translated the menu at McDonalds into Norwegian for all the native Norskes, would have been "Kyllingen McNuggets and Franske Venn." If you go to Oslo and visit the local McDonalds, make sure you use these words.

Obviously, the burg of Story City wanted to hold on to its past traditions, roots of its beginnings. They somehow wanted to cling to the Northern European Protestant work and life ethic of stoicism and sub-zero temperatures. The people of Story City we found to be likable, if not a bit standoffish for Christine and I were neither Norwegian nor particularly stoic. Funny thing was, almost every person we came into contact with would wave the banner of their Norwegian heritage. They proudly proclaimed their last names of Oleson, Larson, Johnson, Nelson but if I were to ask if they could speak Norwegian, they stammered that they were out of practice. When they'd tell me they still had relatives in Norway, I asked if they'd ever been there to meet them. "Well, um, we couldn't do that - we wouldn't want to be a burden to them."

I asked one of them if, when they proclaimed their 'full-blooded Norwegianosity', they claimed America as their home country. They promptly smiled through thin lips (no self-respecting 'full blooded Norwegian' would dare confront or even speak about the feelings that I had hurt), turned their back and hoped that I had a good day (even though they hoped that I'd go back to Germany where all my relatives came from).

It is not a bad thing to hold on to our roots, but there comes a point in time when all of us find ourselves in a place of new growth. Our family trees have been established, they have taken root and those trees have budded and produced seeds. The seeds cannot continue to live on the tree, they must fall and, at times, feel the pain of being separated from the tree. Sometimes, the seeds are carried by the wind or other ambulations to places far beyond where they were little nuts.

The trend, though, is changing. Before massive advances in travel and communication (i.e. cars and phones) most young people lived near the family farm, marrying other young people in the community and rarely every left their own county and even more rarely, the country. The advent of technology allowed people to travel but still be connected with home. The computer, cellphones, i-phones has allowed people of all ages to stay connected with their families even while being apart. This is, for the most part, a good thing. But a curious thing is happening with young people of today: the technology is actually stunting young people's growth as adults. Students who attend college (many of whom still live at home to save money) have the umbilical cord, the cellphone, attached to their parents who still desire some semblance of control over their children's lives. It is thought that some college students and young adults speak to their parents at minimum once per day. This may or may not be a bad thing, but a generation of young adults are finding themselves mired in the worries of their parents, frightened of messing up, and parents who worry that if they don't watch over their children, their children will make the same mistakes that they made. In the book When Parents Love Too Much: What Happens When Parents Won't Let Go" by Laurie Ashner and Mitch Meyerson, the authors write, "For parents who love too much, worry is a constant companion. Concern over their chldrens' lives and troubles can become so torturous that they cannot eat, sleep, or think about anything else." Parents forget that the very decisions they made to leave and cleave (leave their own parents and cleave to their spouse) are what make them responsible adults today.

Some statistics: In the year 2006 in America, according to All Academic Survey, 13 million post high school young adults lived with their parents. In Great Britain, the Office for National Statistics says that in 2008, approximately 1/3 of young men ages 20-34 still live with their parents and 1/5 of young women of the same age do. That figure increases in the 20-24 area: 52% of young men live with their parents and 37% of young women.

Is this a bad thing? There are many factors when looking at this issue. The economy truly hurts young people moving out of home. No jobs, no money, no affordable housing - the only option is to live at home. The price of education has sky rocketed in the last fifteen years. It is no longer truly affordable for young people to attend college and yet they can't afford not to.

Surely the financial climate has changed, but the responsibility lies on both sides. Parents, family, friends must find ways to encourage their young adults to take responsibility for their own lives. So often, because we love our children we want to help them in any way that we can. But helping often morphs into enabling them. Our helping actually hurts them in the long run.

Part of my history deals with chickens. My parents raised poultry: chickens, ducks, geese and a few mangy turkeys who had a proclivity to die in the strangest of ways. Every year we watched the seasons of poultry life - hatching, scratching and (gulp) chopping. My favorite was the hatching part. My mother was a 1st grade teacher at the local elementary school and every spring she did a hands on process with the life of animals. She would bring fertilized chicken eggs to school and place them in a metal incubator, turn them every once in a while, and then wait for the little white eggs to begin to hatch. As the years progressed, Mom would let us kids help out with the hatching process. As with most hands on experiences, there are teaching moments. One morning, as we worked quietly in my mother's classroom, my mother was called out to speak to the principal. After she left, I began to hear some cheeping noises emanating from the incubator and I walked over to inspect the exciting transformation. I lifted the cover and a few of the chicks had already made their way through the tough shell. They were ugly little things when they were fresh, kind of wrinkly and hairless like one of the cats we had later on in life. As I perused all the eggs, one in particular caught my eye. The chick's beak was sticking out through a small hole as it was attempting to push its way out. It looked like it was struggling so, after I had looked around to see if anyone was watching, I removed the lid entirely and began to help the chick to release it from the bondage of its white, enameled cage. I fancied myself something of a chicken savior - here I was helping a poor, defenseless creature to escape the struggles of early life.

My mother entered in quietly. She saw what I was doing but, as the wise woman she is, wanted to let it be a teaching moment.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

I was so startled I almost dropped the half opened egg. "I'm helping this chick get out. It looked like it was struggling."

Mom smiled. "It was. It was supposed to. The chick has to struggle to get out of the egg to build up its neck muscles so that it will be prepared to eat from the ground on its own. It struggles to be able to grow."

My mom, in her infinite wisdom that day, taught me a little something about myself that day. Even though I still have the DNA of my family tree coursing through my veins, I have been allowed to struggle in life, to learn to stand on my own two feet, to learn to feed myself. My parents, family and friends have watched me (the little nut) be taken to far away places throughout the world and have watched proudly (I think) as I am kept in God's hands to serve people here or there. But, struggles are part of life. Struggling induces growth. We all can learn a bit from our history there.

So, this week, as you have time, think about your own history - what incidents made you who you are today. What things do you hold on to from your past? What things do you need to let go of? What things in your history continue to shape who you are and where you are going?

Just call it a history test.

Something Olde; Something New

2009-11-12T10:31:00.003-06:00

Many people love antiques. I am one of those people - you know, the people that travel to destinations to look at old things. The older the better, I say. There is something sacred about holding pieces of the past in my hands. It's almost as if the memory of the previous day is impressed on the object and in some strange way I can sense the feelings from yesteryear. Whether wood or photograph, brass or book, antiques bring within me a great sense of awe and a yearning to have experienced the time when the object was useful.

Many crafty kinds of stores cause my skin to itch. Take me to a fabric store and I begin to convulse. Even say the name of Hobby Lobby and I'll get my book to read in the car while you go in the store. But antique stores, the ones with the red brick fronts, large plane glass windows crowded with 'treasures' from bygone years, those stores are worth a walk through. Usually, some discarded piece of furniture or toy, pot or painting is worth a second look. What I've found is that my favorite stores are the ones that actually have the word "Olde" in it as if mis-spelling the word 'old' makes it more authentic. "Ye Olde Antique Store" or "Olde Stuff" - that's what I'm talkin' about. I want to enter those places of peddling.

On one occasion, I remember walking through an antique store after being beckoned through the front window by an assortment of olde trinkets. When I opened the front door, the bells on the frame above tinkled a bright welcome. Most olde stores still carry the tinkling bells, I think. New stores today often have an annoying buzzer (doctor's offices) or even a computer generated blip that lets me know I'm one of how many thousand customer's that have graced the floors of the store. But olde stores welcome you with that sound and even more so with the smell - the aroma of olde woods, olde books, musty, dusty scents designed to make our memories leap to the forefront of the mind of days ago that have a beautiful, golden aura about them now.

As I walked through the store I ran my hand along olde wooden furniture feeling the polished texture, cool along my fingers. The upholstery, in many cases, in shades of faded tan, floral patterns or maybe wicker chairs that creaked when I sat in them. Olde beds a couple of feet shorter than my own. Dressers with mirrors the size of Iowa. It was breath taking. Often, when I go to an antique store, I will try to determine the age of the piece and then make up my own story about the life of this antique. A certain washing basin from the house of a steel tycoon; maybe a picture frame that held the visage of Mary Todd Lincoln. The stories seem so real as if the objects themselves could speak.

Then the books. Ah, the olde books - I never buy any. Most of them are written by authors of a different style who wrote to inform rather than entertain. I don't buy them but I love to open them right to the middle and smell them. As I opened one of the books one of the clerks caught me with my nose buried in the midst of a copy of Moby Dick. She either thought I was extremely near sighted or particularly found of Herman Melville. Neither. I just love the scent of aged pages.

I could spend hours within the dark confines of an antique store finding the stories, maybe even placing myself into the voice of the past. I like Olde things and many other people do to.

People like olde things, but often, people don't like olde people.

This is not new information, but we live in a generation that would tend more to put the elderly in homes than to invite them to their own. We shy away from contact - it's the way that most Americans (and many humans) deal with death, to deny it - as if touching an older person will gives us the 'olde' disease. We shy away from their stories or more often, speak only our own rather than to listen to the wisdom of the past. We can do it on our own. You've had your life - let us live our own.

Many cultures revere the aged: Asian cultures, African cultures and South American Cultures. But, many 'western' cultures find the elderly to be in the way of the fast paced, hectic lifestyle. We smile when we move them to a 'home' letting them know that we still think about them, this place will be fantastic - a swimming pool, lots of friends, good food - but what they really want, I believe, what they truly want is relationship with family. Too often the elderly are moved into a nursing home or a permanent care facility, assisted living if you will, and forgotten about - shut out of life as they new it no longer surrounded by the comforting memories of the home they lived in nor the people who made it special.

In many ways they are a forgotten segment of society. It's a pity. There is so much we can learn and love about growing olde(r).

Walking into a nursing home is like walking into an antique store in many ways. The front sign will often have a nice name, something with 'meadows' or 'shady acres' (which to me is not that much of a positive). In the front windows will be the elderly in their wheelchairs soaking in the sun. The age displayed for all to see. An invitation. When you walk in the front doors, your are greeted quite often by a bell and a friendly hello from the front desk help and of course, the smell - quite different than an antique store - the odor of disinfectant and, quite frankly, of age.

Imagine with me, if you will, walking through the nursing home and sitting in front of the elderly, soaking in their stories, holding their polished skin, wrinkled with years, spotted with age, feeling the coolness of their fingers, and listening to the stories of the past. Hear about the Great Depression, WWII, the joys and sorrows of the fifties. Tune your ears into the music that emanates from their memories. You don't have to buy anything - they are not selling it - just soak in the beauty of age.

I have to admit, it is scary getting olde, but if family and friends are willing to walk with me the road we all travel can be paved with joy and contentment. We can travel the path together - who knows what stories we will tell?

Head Scratching Fun

2009-10-22T11:24:00.002-05:00

It was supposed to be an easy task.

In my own head, I had already created the job description before I had even brought my shadow through the front doors. My daughters are in a musical production of Mulan - the Disney show about a young Chinese girl who strives to save her father's life and bring honor to his name by dressing up as a man and joining the Chinese army. I never realized how much work and energy and labor go into the production of a children's musical. From my minimal experience of how children's musicals work, I just assumed the kids showed up and were herded onto the stage to stand and deliver their lines, and then get out quick.

My assumption proved incorrect and as I watched the proceedings of the dress rehearsal, I realized that all people that work with children's youth productions should be paid as well as CEO's of large companies. Seriously, watching adults try and finagle thirty-five children age 6-12 is as painful as having root canal. First, the children have arisen early on a Saturday morning (or should I say the parents have arisen early on a Saturday morning to drive their children to the place of practice) and they are excitable after a hopefully good night sleep. Secondly, because the kids haven't spoken all night (presumably) in their sleep, it's as if they have to make up for lost time. I've never heard that many children speak at the same time; watching the director of the play scream at the top of his voice, red-faced, spittle flying knowing instinctively that every other minute he is thinking to himself "Why, in the name of all that is holy and pure, did I agree to do this job", is an amazement to me.

I watched the parents drop their kids off and leave them with the director and his staff who are gluttons for punishment. The parents look like they've toilet papered the neighbor's tree and run off giggling into the night. Freedom. You can see it in their smirky smiles. Freedom to have a few moments of coffee, the paper and maybe, just maybe, a warm shower without being interrupted by a request to peanut butter the breakfast toast (I am speaking from experience).

It was supposed to be an easy task. The theater productions give options to the parents: either volunteer with specific parts of the production or pay $100 extra. Most parents choose to pay because they could never get a babysitter that cheap anyway. We, Christine and I, on the other hand, chose to volunteer because that extra $100 can come in handy - like another tank of gas (which is another story of frustration for another time). Christine volunteered to help backstage; Christine volunteered me to be theater security. Security. I had visions of being one of the bouncers at the door keeping out all the riff raff who are trying to sneak in and get a glimpse of a 12 year old Mulan surrounded by rhythmically challenged 7 year-olds. Security. I thought maybe I'd get one of those ear pieces and microphone cuffs to radio back to headquarters regarding the paparazzi that were surely to come.

But, the woman in charge of volunteers told me my main task would be to keep parents from rushing the stage while dress rehearsal was going on so that they could adjust their child's collar or wet down their hair with some motherly saliva. Needless to say the balloon from my dreams popped loudly.

So, I brought along a book. Thought I could get some reading in, I did. But, as I watched the first scene take place, the director beside himself in fury that Moo Goo Gai Pan did not get her steps down in the correct order, I felt a presence beside me. There she was, the backstage director smiling cunningly.

"I see that you don't have much to do," she started the conversation.

"I'm okay," I said. "I've really been keeping an eye on the bouffant haired mother who keeps wanting to stand and work over her daughters costume."

She smiled. Inwardly I knew that she was rolling her eyes.

"I have another job for you," she started again. "Since you are not doing too much here, in between scenes, I need you to take this spray can and spray the wigs, hats and such with de-lousing spray, as a precaution."

My jaw dropped. I raised my hands in surrender. "Sorry," I said. "Not part of the job description. I'm just security. Look at my badge."

I didn't have a badge - just a name tag with my handwritten name that said 'Reid - Security'.

The woman was not impressed. "It's not a hard job. Just lay out the headpieces and squirt a little bit of this into each one of them."

I swallowed hard. The last thing that I wanted to be doing was putting myself into contact with parasitic insects. I have a hard enough time with boogers that touching possible lice infested wigs was giving me the heebie jeebies. I looked toward the stage and inwardly counted at least five children that looked like they were infested. Another two were possible bogeys - they kept moving their wigs - possibly re-locating their lice colonies.

"Really," I said, "I'd rather not."

"Are you allergic to the spray?" she asked.

I have a tough time lying. I looked at the floor and mumbled 'no.' I was like a little kid who'd been caught cheating on his spelling test.

"Here," she said and forced the spray can into my hand. The woman turned around and I'm sure was laughing sadistically like the wicked witch of the east before the house fell on her. I looked at the can in my hand - read the ingredients - they were actually going to put this stuff onto the hair of little kids?

So, for the next minutes my head started itch. I had to scratch. Yet to even touch the "possibly" infested headgear, my fingers made their way through my thinning hair. I was already under the assumption that lice can spontaneously generate and here I was, exhibit A. Then came the wigs and the hats and the frocks and the smocks. I held them as far away from my person as I could but lice can jump a long ways, can't they? After creating a bug-bomb like smog around the headgear, the haze barely lifting, I almost had thoughts of applying the lice spray to my own head. Like hair spray, it would take care of the critters before they spent too much time setting up their estates between the forests of my hair follicles. I didn't do it, but I wonder - just wonder...

Security is not all it's cracked up to be. Sometimes we are called to do things that are not in the job description. Sometimes we are called to do a job that no one else will do like: cleaning toilets, changing diapers, forgiving people. Sometimes we are called to do things that no one wants to do like: holding the hand of an AIDS victim, speaking a word of comfort to a family who has been the victim of abuse, speaking a word of to parents to stop enabling their son or daughter who has an addiction.

Jesus had a lot of extras placed on him that was not in the job description for the Son of God. He was supposed to be the king of kings - sit on the throne - overthrow the ruling government and set up a kingdom that would never end. To have seas of servants and fields of slaves waiting on his every command. He would dress in royal robes and grant boons to those who were faithful and punish those who were disobedient.

But we find Jesus time and time again in the midst of a situation that called him to place his hands on the outcasts - the sick, the lame, the blind, the leper - all the other people would consider this an opportunity for diving into unclean-ness. That truly is the beauty of Jesus. He who would/could be an earthly king gave up earthly power to be a servant of all and he calls us to the same: to give up our pride, or ego, or self-assuredness, to hop down off our high horse and do the task that leads us back to God.

Jesus may have even encountered children with lice and still cared for them.

It's all good, head-scratching fun.

The best day of her life

2009-10-08T11:30:00.002-05:00

One of the true pleasures in life is walking to school with my daughter Greta. She, 6, is at an age where her dad is still one of the pillars of her life; I have not ceased to be cool and I do not gather a rolling of eyes like dewdrops on early morning leaves.

She still wants to hold my hand when we walk.

I'm not sure there are many greater things in life than holding the small, soft hand of a child in your own and wonder at the beauty of life through the eyes of a child.

We left early one morning for school. Breakfast was hurriedly finished, lunch was made, little green backpack was packed full of notebooks and reading materials: Life started out that day the same as any other. After saying goodbye to her mother and sisters, Greta pulled the door closed behind her. Walking down our cement driveway Greta unconsciously reached for my hand. We walked that way in silence for a while, Greta in her own little world trying to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk for fear that her mothers back would be crushed, and I, contemplating what the day of work would bring. But these days I have been gradually trying to push myself to ask the girls more questions about life so that when the teenage years bear down on Christine and I like locomotives we are prepared to communicate with our children.

"How did you enjoy last night?" I asked Greta. The night before, Christine and I had been to a wedding reception and the girls had experience the joys of wonderful babysitting when they had two are three hours of undivided attention.

"It was good." She replied while finding a good stick to carry down the street.

"What did you do?"

"We read books and then I read books to them. Then we watched a movie. We watched Winn Dixie." Greta then proceeded to tell me the story of the dog and I soon found myself day-dreaming again. After she stopped talking, I snapped myself back to attention.

"So," I kiddingly queried, "was it the best day of your life?"

I did get a roll of the eyes for that one. "No, Daddy, it wasn't the best day of my life."

"So what is the best day of your life?"

Greta looked up at me with her brown eyes searching me. "Today," she said.

"Today? Why is today the best day of your life?"

Greta smiled. "Because I've got P.E. today at school."

Physical Education. She loves P.E. more than Winn Dixie; more than trips to Australia, Georgia or Rake, Iowa. She loves it more than a treasure hunt in the back yard. What a great thing to have the best day of your life be the one you are living right now.

Now I'm sure that if Greta, in her six year old way, were to really think about what has been the best day of her life, it probably would not be with regard to the activity curricula at her school. I've seen her laugh and jump and smile and giggle away the hours, but the beauty of a child's life is that every moment is new and experiential. I wish I could snag on to that for a while. I wish I could say that I already know that this is the best day of my life because I've got pre-marriage counseling to attend to, or no other days can compare to this because sermon prep lights up my eyes like Christmas bulbs. I wish I could do that, but maybe all that I need is an attitude adjustment.

On my desk is that very thing: my attitude adjustment holder. Inside this beige, metallic cup are the things that make life a bit happier. Such as: guitar picks, coffee grounds, a love note (from Christine in case I need to clarify) and a few odds and ends that turn my frown upside down. Perhaps this attitude adjuster will help me find some Greta-like days in the near future.

Jeanne Moreau writes (I have no idea who this is but I have a great book of quotes) "Age does not protect you from love but to some extent, love protects you from age."

As I continue to reflect on Greta's words and the Word itself, I am reminded that love makes our age pointless. Time truly ceases to matter when we love. We love God, we love our neighbor, we love our selves. The present is eternal.

So this week as you wind your way through life wondering what has been the best day of your life and what might be the best day to come I think it bears reminding that living in love makes every day the best day of your life.

Symbology

2009-09-11T12:25:00.002-05:00

I am not an observant person. Certainly, I can pick out where the door of my office is; perhaps notice the sky, I might. But, by and large, I miss things that most people see. I've even been known to lose my keys - forgetting that they are in my hand or my sunglasses while they sit on top of my dome. When it comes to observing people, I generally miss the big picture. I am aware when people are happy because they laugh; I have an understanding when people are sad - tears being the obvious indicator. Ask me to search for the obvious clues that my wife is frustrated with me and I will fail every time.

Three days ago, my wife was frustrated with me and I missed it which led to missed signals which led to a silent treatment, which I took as Christine just needed a little time to herself. Little did I know that she actually wanted to talk but she wanted me to start the conversation. As the smoke poured out her ears and she actually had to tell me that she wanted me to start the conversation, I looked into the mirror of the bathroom, propping my hands on the countertop and then heard a distinct 'pop'. I looked down at my hand and noticed the unthinkable - my wedding ring had snapped.

That is some bad mojo.

The history of the wedding ring dates back to the time of the Pharaoh's of Egypt when civilization was springing up along side the banks of the Nile River. The Nile River was a bringer of fortune and fertility and the earliest wedding rings were fashioned from reeds along side the river to make bracelets for the arms and rings for fingers. The ring is, of course, a symbol of eternity: there is no beginning or end. In the early Egyptian culture, it was shaped like the sun or the moon and the space inside the ring is not just empty space, but a doorway to greater things. Then, like now, the ring was worn on the (no shock) ring finger because this finger was assumed to have the vein that traveled right to the heart. The symbolism was taken up by the Greeks later on who called the vein the vena amoris - the vein of love. Early rings were made of hemp, probably, but if you really loved your significant other, your ring was made out of bone or stone: it didn't wear out after a year.

The ring symbol stuck. Gradually, rings made of different metals took over. The Romans used iron, although rust became a problem. Later on, wealthy men began to give their brides gold rings as a symbol of the wealth of his love for her. Some rings were not in the shape of rings at all, but in the shape of keys. These 'key rings' were not given at the wedding ceremony but to the wife when the husband carried her across the threshold of the new house.

Either way, I broke my symbol the other morning.

In the wedding service, we exchanged wedding rings as a symbol of our love and faithfulness to each other. Now, mine was broken. What did this mean? Because the symbol was broken, did that mean our marriage was faltering? Does that mean I should start peeking around corners for women who would think I was single and who were in search of a particularly lonely, unobservant pastor? (I sometimes have too high an opinion of myself)

Of course not. The ring broke because the gold, after all these year (it was is my father's wedding ring) had worn enough on the thin part and it had cracked. The jeweler told me it was easily fixed (and even easier for him to tell me it will cost $40 to fix it. $40? Come on - just weld it back together and I'll give him a nice ten spot).

The ring is a symbol of love and faithfulness in marriage, but then again almost everything in life is a symbol or can be thought of symbolically. I wear a stole on Sunday morning (sometimes) and on the stole are different symbols representing different aspects of worship life whether wheat and grapes for bread and wine, or crosses symbolizing the sacrifice of Jesus. Even colors are symbols - purple being royalty, white being purity, blue being sadness, cranberry meaning... actually I don't know what cranberry means but for some reason, I guess it's a color.

All things can be symbols: Cars are symbols of status - Rolls Royce - rich; VW bug - environmentalist/farfegnugganist; Pick-up truck - rugged, outdoorsy type like my co-pastor Lee (without the ruggedness). 1986 Buick Century, Mary Kay Car, rusted and dented side panels - totally classy. (my first car)

The greatest symbol of all time is the Bible. In all observation, the Bible is a book - it looks like a book, smells like a book, reads like a book. Symbolically speaking, the Bible is infinitely more than just binding, pages, words and ink. A symbol is something that represents something else - when you see a symbol, you automatically think on two levels. With the Bible, it is not only a book, but also the Word of God. Martin Luther went one step deeper and said that the Bible is "the cradle of Christ." It is not Christ, it is not God, but Jesus can be encountered in the words itself.

In this present culture, the Bible has been cracked and in many ways broken. It has been misused to bolster the ideologies of groups, it has been abused to proclaim dominion over all sorts of people, but almost more often, the Bible has been neglected and literally cracks from dis-use. We, as a contemporary people, by and large have no idea what this symbol says to us and more often than not, we don't want to know because it might change us - it might cause us to give up other symbols of status and relevance and lead us to the ultimate of symbols - the cross where heaven and earth were split and cracked so that we might finally, once again, be re-united with God of heaven and earth.

What does this symbol speak of, first and foremost?

Love God and love your neighbor as yourself.

I'll try and go a little deeper next week. I have to go apologize to my wife now for breaking my symbol of love and faithfulness.

Shibboleth

2009-08-28T11:28:00.002-05:00

Reading the book of Judges is puzzling for me. I've been steadily working my way through the old testament and I have a tendency to skip the stories that I've read before or jump over the passages that have been underlined or highlighted before. I'm going slow this time: I read through the story of Gideon which consistently reminds me that God is patient and slow to frustration. Right now, I read through the chapters regarding the judge Jephthah. Some may remember his story; most would like to forget it with regards to the sacrifice of his virginal daughter. That's a story for another time.

Today, what caught my eye, was the story of Jephthah and his Gileadites who are constantly at war with others - even fellow people of Israel. The story is from Judges 12: I will type it out - you can get your Bible and read it for yourself, but this may make it easier.

"The men of Ephraim were called to arms, and they crossed to Zaphon and said to Jephthah, 'Why did you cross over to fight against the Ammonites, and did not call us to go with you?' We will burn your house down on you!'"

It's amazing the things people find to get picky about - to start a fight about. Kids will fight over toys. Adults will fight over perceptions of events. Couples will fight over remote controls. The men of Ephraim wanted to burn down Jephthah's house because they weren't invited to the war. Very interestink. A side note to the story: many of the tribes of Israel did not enjoy Jephthah's leadership because they perceived him to be unworthy - he was the son of a prostitute - he was not recognized to be a 'true' Israelite because of his background. So, the people of Ephraim thought that God would recognize their true claim and rid the land of Jephthah and his army.

"2 Jephthah said to them, 'My people and I were engaged in conflict with the Ammonites who oppressed us severely. But when I called you, you did not deliver me from their hand. 3 When I saw that you would not deliver me, I took my life in my own hand and crossed over against the Ammonites, and the LORD gave them into my hand. Why have you come up to me this day, to fight against me?' 4 Then Jephthah gathered all the men of Gilead and fought with Ephraim; and the men of Gilead defeated Ephraim, because they said, 'You are fugitives from Ephraim, you Gileadites - in the heart of Ephraim and Manasseh'. 5 Then the Gileadites took the fords of the Jordon against the Eprhaimites. Whenever one of the fugitives of Ephraim said, 'Let me go over,' the mean of Gilead would say to him, 'Are you an Ephraimite?' When he said, 'No', 6 they said to him, 'Then say Shibboleth," and he said 'Sibboleth,' for he could not pronounce it right. then they seized him and killed him at the fords of the Jordan. Forty-two thousand of the Ephraimites fell at that time."

What is Shibboleth? Very literally, Shibboleth, for the people of Gilead, was part of a plant that contains the grain, but what they were asking of the people of Ephraim is if they were part of the in-group. They could tell who was an outsider by the way they pronounced words. They had accents - in many ways, even if they spoke the same language it wasn't pronounced the same way - and so they would slay anyone who was an outsider.

Shibboleths have been used throughout the ages to decide who is a native and who is a foreigner, or, in many cases, who is a friend and who is a foe. Here are some examples of Shibboleths:

During the Battle of Normandy in the Second World War, the American forces used the challenge-response codes "Flash" - "Thunder" - "Welcome". The last response was used to identify the challenger as a native English speaker (and therefore not an enemy), whereas the German enemy would pronounce it as "Velcome". This caused problems for German Jews serving in the U.S. Army.
Similarly during Operation Chariot the British raiders used the challenge "War Weapons Week" and the countersign "Welmouth", likewise unpronounceable by most Germans.
In the Pacific Theatre of Operations, the shibboleth was Lollapalooza, whose pronunciation produces severe difficulties for the Japanese.
Woolloomooloo was used by Australian soldiers in the Pacific Theatre during the Second World War to identify themselves when approaching a camp.
During the Israeli War of Independence, Israeli army passwords were often chosen to contain 'p' sounds, which native speakers of Arabic can rarely pronounce properly.

Shibboleths can also be physical - for example: circumcision. In the ancient world, all Jewish boys were circumcised at eight days of age. The Bible requires circumcision as a covenant between the Jewish community and God - to take what is most important to the (gulp) human male and take a piece off symbolizing steadfast devotion to God. At this time of history, Jewish men could always be checked by the ruling authorities and were often left out of societal functions including athletic events. Many athletic events were done in the nude. Young Jewish men were not allowed to compete in the Greek events and the only way they could participate was if they were to have a reverse circumcision, which was, well... let's not go there now.

Shibboleths abound in every culture, every country and every crowd. There is the focus group - the one with all the resources, the power and the prosperity and then there is everyone else who is trying to get into the powerful group. Sometimes there is an initiation right; sometimes there is an oath; sometimes something amazing is required of the entrant. Some are turned away because they are not the right shape or size. Some are turned away because they don't say words the right way. Some don't look or sound right. It all begins to sound unfortunately familiar. The Body of Christ often has its own set of Shibboleths that we have conveniently forgotten about at times.

For example, I have been to a certain church in the past that denied communion to me because I was not part of the congregation. Many people have had this occur, but in many ways, it is very hard for me to swallow, that humans can decide who gets to receive the body and blood of Christ and the forgiveness and grace that it allows. Because I do not say the creed the same way or hold different views about certain social issues, I am outcast - I am not good enough to receive Jesus in communion. Now, those churches that practice closed communion will shout to me, "We are simply following the guidelines that Paul set for the early church. It is to save you from condemning yourself!" My hackles are raised - I would like to think that God can sort that out. And, maybe, my anxiety was raised because the pastor who refused communion to my whole family and I on Christmas Eve - even after I'd been the organist at the church for a year -stared me down from his place on the stairs and said I wasn't worthy. He didn't use those words, but they were implied.

I love that the ELCA practices open communion; obviously, we will help all people understand what communion is about and not let people denigrate the sacrament and treat it shamefully, but the invitation by God is for all people to take part in his Body and Blood. Not just certain denominations.

Perhaps I'm in a grouchy mood today, but this has been riding on my mind a lot lately. God offers the kingdom of God to all people. There is no Shibboleth involved. There is nothing that we have to do to prove our worth - the gift of faith is free; it is ours. I don't have to pronounce the name of God correctly or wear my hair or beard a certain way to come under the patient, loving eye of God the Father.

And for that, I am grateful. No Shibboleths.

The Well

2009-08-14T12:45:00.002-05:00

My parents live on a hill in the middle of rolling corn country. On their property is a house, a garage, a shed and a small chicken house. Over the years, a barn has blown over, smaller and less significant sheds have been torn down and thrown into the fire. There was also a large chicken house that gave shelter to thousands of chickens through my first two decades of life. During my sprouting years growing up in that house, responsibilities were given to each of us kids to prepare us to be self-sufficient later in life. Those duties included cooking and cleaning, washing dishes and of course...

Chicken chores.

Chicken chores were just that - a chore. Early rising, during our week to do the chicken chores, we would stagger out of bed after the cock crowed - usually my father waking us up with a cheerful little song that only early risers have and late sleepers detest - throw on whatever clothes that we had left on the floor from the night before and prepare to go outside to feed and water the needy little birds. My question when younger was: "Why can't they just feed themselves? There are plenty of bugs and worms out there. Let them work for a living!" My parents were unsympathetic to our cries. So, while it was still dark we counted steps down the hallway, avoiding the creaky stairs, grabbed the water bucket and headed out into the dark to feed and water the chickens who were feeling lucky because they were still sleeping.

Chicken chores weren't bad during the summer. It was warm. The birds were lucid and uncranky. There was some dialogue sometimes - I would greet them and prepare them for their demise in the fall, all the while talking about how much I loved buffalo wings and sweet and sour chicken. But winter was another story. Frigid temperatures, pitch-black building and blinding snow accompanied the chores. It was one thing to feed the chickens, but watering was another story. My parents, of course, are not on city water. They had to have a well drilled when they arrived on the farm. The well supplied water to the house but also to the yellow hand pump that resides by the chicken houses (or where they used to stand). The hand pump was the source of water for the chickens, and our own drinking water for that fact, but the water that issued forth was not the clean, clear drinking water that we have here in town. It does not contain fluorine or chlorine, whichever it is, that kills the bugs, but it contains a lot of iron. Getting a drink of water at my parents house meant chewing the water.

The old hand pump would take three pumps to get the water issuing out. I would hang a five gallon bucket under the spigot willing the water to come out faster so that I could go back inside where my hands weren't freezing to the pump itself. As I watched the water flowing into the bucket it was quite obvious that the amount of rust was substantial but not in relation to the amount of water itself. To drink the water at the farm meant dealing with the rust and being thankful for the water that we had.

I've been thinking a lot about that hand pump and that well recently. Mostly because I have been preparing for confirmation again this fall and, as always, we'll be delving into topics of small catechism and those precious words of wisdom "Was ist das?" What does this mean? And the response for all Ten Commandments? "We are to fear and love God..." We are to fear and love God. We are to fear God? What does this mean?

The word for 'fear' that Luther is translating from Hebrew to German is 'yara' which translated literally means 'a flowing' or 'a raining down.' This fear is a flowing in the midst of all the blessings of God a realization of something much deeper. In the midst of the water is always the power of God. The power of God is, as Paul says, "a consuming fire." One that consumes all of our selves - and so it is this that we fear, or maybe a better English translation 'be filled with awe in the face of a Creator that could crush, but never will - because his love is too great for that.' He has promised in Romans 8 that nothing can separate us from the love that is in His son Jesus Christ.

So this fear is sprinkled in the midst of all the blessings of God. But often, we as humans, will only see the fear of God as running from, rather than a fear of running to. We look at a verse like Hebrews 10:26, 27 "For if we willfully persist in sin after having received the knowledge of the truth, there no longer remains a sacrifice for sins, but a fearful prospect of judgment, and a fury of fire that will consume the adversaries." We fear God who is ready to punish at the drop of a hat. Because we have sinned God is ready to rain down on us torment and fire.

We, I'll include myself and (I think I can) Luther pre-reformation, are so deathly afraid of God's punishment that we are like Adam and Eve hiding their bodies in the Garden of Eden. But, that is not how God operates in the world. God is love and love endures forever - everything else passes away. Even our sinful natures passes away in the consuming fire and purifies to reveal something greater and deeper. It reveals the purified soul, washed in the water of baptism, longing to find its place in the God who conquers even death.

And so we fear. Proverbs 1:7 says "The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge..." Fearing God, or better yet, keeping God in ultimate reverence is the beginning of knowledge in figuring out how to wend our way through this life. So that when dark days come, the light still shines.

A friend of mine the other day was commenting, just like every one of us, "If God is all powerful, why doesn't he just stop the bad things happening to me." It truly is the unanswerable question - this problem of theodicy - why do bad things happen to good people. Why does my mother get cancer? Why do children die? How can a man of God do that to someone else? In some ways it's a bit like asking why the sky is blue and why is grass green. You can come up with some pretty good explanations but it still is in essence impossible to say. But (I hope this doesn't come across as Pollyanna-ish) mixed in with all the blessings of God is life itself is pain and grief and loss. If there were no times of tribulation, would we truly know what God's blessing is and how beautiful it is? If God were to sift the water of His blessing, and take all substance of grief, pain and loss out, would we truly know what his love means to us? Would we take notice of the beauty of life? My friend Tim, who has had cancer twice (and I ask God boldly to keep it away) said that until he had cancer, he wasn't truly aware of the beauty of a sunrise or the sound of his wife's breathing right after he woke up and she was still asleep. He never really grasped the significance of the cry of his child. That life courses through veins and awakes in us is a realization that the gifted-ness of this life is precious beyond measure. I am paraphrasing here - Tim would say that until he had cancer, he never recognized all of the good stuff - but happiness is realized in the moments of sorrow, pain and grief when the only comfort is to realize that God is holding us tightly in His hands.

The fear of the Lord is running to God and falling on our knees, not running away from God for fear of Him crushing us. The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge that in the midst of the flow of life, in the outpouring of God's grace and blessings, we are not alone. We recognize the new life in Christ and revel in it's blessings and hold tight to the promises of God in the tough times.

So, I go back to the well, time and time again and remember. Just remember.

Time Keeps on Tickin'

2009-07-22T13:59:00.003-05:00

An old English proverb states: "Time is a file that wears and makes no noise." I don't want to have a lot of sentimental nonsense for this entry, but time has been wearing on me a lot lately. It's as if the world is spinning faster and faster and I'm simply caught up in the whirlwind. I wake up in the morning and before I'm done yawning and stretching, night has come and I am back into bed. Where does it go? Why is it so fast? Why does it hurt?

On Monday night, a few of the fellows and I met up at the softball diamond for a double header of slow pitch softball. Truly, slow-pitch softball is one of the great pleasures of life not only because it is in the company of fine men, but it requires very little expectations of greatness. Anybody, really - anybody, can play slow-pitch softball. I look out across the diamond and see young men, old men, in-shape men, men that look like they've eaten a basketball, some men can barely walk and yet they are placed at first base or behind home plate to take up space. Truly, softball is the great equalizer of all sports. Almost like golf or bowling - I'm not saying those are sports mind you (they're games, but I'll not have any fights over semantics on this blog, George and Rich.)

I watch the young men with envy. Not that I am old, by any means, but those young men can show up, not stretch, not throw and be perfectly fine with exerting the greatest amount and effort and have no sore, aching muscles the next day. I, on the other hand, have learned the necessary beauty of stretching - it's annoyances: I want to just show up and, frankly, stretching is painful. I feel like an old rubber band that has been sitting in my desk drawer, kind of dry and crumbly and when you start to stretch it you can see the cracks forming. I can't sprint like I used to, or I can, but it's the stopping that's the problem. Like a semi-tractor engaging enough momentum to get up hill, changing gears - I can do that, but to slow down and stop again, you might as well have a pull off ramp on the side of a mountain.

On Tuesday morning, just like every Tuesday morning after softball, every bone in my body crackles. I actually wake Christine up with my creaking. Like sharp retorts, the joints popping sound like mini firecrackers off the wooden floors of the room. There is pain in my muscles, my back, my neck, my arms - sheesh, I sound like I'm 80 years old. Pretty soon I'll be taking Geritol. I remember in my somewhat youthful years playing baseball everyday of the week and be ready to bale hay for eight hours the next morning. Yes, I am practicing for my geriatric years.

If only time would slow down for a while. I'd like to just rest a while at this age. The girls are at a perfect time in their life: they are young enough to still need us, young enough to still think I'm cool, young enough to hug and cuddle and read to, but independent enough to play on their own every once in a while. If only time would slow down. But, this ever moving ball continues rolling. Now that I'm getting older, time seems to go faster and I fill my time with different things. God, family, friends, work. In times of crisis, those are my priorities and in that order. Josephine, a few months ago, somehow caught her foot in her bicycle between the wheel and the kickstand. Impossibly, Christine could not extricate her foot. Christine tried calling me, I would have been there in a moment. If there is a family crisis, family comes first. Family should always come first, right?

But what happens in times of relative serenity? The priorities get rearranged backwards. Christine might want me to come and eat at home one night during the week but for some reason, my job calls me - I can't let this person down; I can't say 'no' to that person. Suddenly, I, without realizing it, have rearranged my priorities and family comes last on the totem pole of responsibilities. And God - where does God fit in? I can always do my devotions later - people need me. Prayer? Come on, meetings take precedence. Someone will pray at the meeting. That's the same thing, right?

Nah, I'm delusional. God doesn't require just a piece of my heart just as Christine only wants a little section of my life. Christine and I, when we were married, had our hearts sown together by God. And in the midst of everything in my life, God simply wants to be part of it; God wants to help show us the path in the midst of the mountains. If time allows, that is.

I met with a couple just recently who have been married almost twenty-five years. The husband is quite ill; the wife has conquered cancer lately. Because they are later in life, there is always the fear that these might be the last moments. And as they look back over life together, they have chosen to see the blessings of life together and more than once one of them has said, "I wish we could do that time again." I sometimes think that also. In heaven, do we get to look back at the fantastic moments of our lives almost as if we were watching home movies? Will we get to experience the ultimate of joys like here on earth?

I don't know what heaven will be like, to be honest with you, but what I do know is that every time I say 'I love you' to one of my family members it is an opportunity when time ceases. It is at that point when time touches eternity.

Love is the great bridge between heaven and earth.

Henry Van Dyke wrote:
"Time is - too slow for those who wait,
too swift for those who fear,
too long for those who grieve,
too short for those who rejoice,
But for those who love, time is not."

It's time to love. It's time for the opportunity to remember that life is not a solitary existence but a connection of moments to love other people.

I guess it's time, huh?

The Bark That Bites

2009-06-05T10:23:00.002-05:00

Merv is one of my favorite people in the world, or recently has attained that status since we have moved to Rockford. Merv is one of my next door neighbors; he is a cross between Wilson from Home Improvement, and Mr. Rogers. More the latter than the former I think. Merv and his wife, Ruth, live directly across the street; the road is not a barrier between our houses, more like a moving conveyor belt like you might see in an airport. A couple of times a week either he or I can be seen floating across the street to chat or borrow stuff.

Merv is seventy-five years old but (and this is said in the most positive sense of the word) acts like a twenty-four year old. He stands five foot six at the maximum; his thin white hair waves in the wind like corn silk. Sometimes I watch the hair on his head - it is mesmerizing, it puts me into a trance. Sometimes a rouse myself and find him looking at me as if I have missed the question he has put forth. I don't know if I have seen Merv yet without a smile on his face. Smiles are always encouraged by eyes and Merv has really big eyes - they are magnified by enormous glasses with lenses circa 1980.

The thing about Merv is he's got ants in his pants. That's what my parents used to say when I, or my siblings, couldn't sit still. It seems to me like Merv mows his lawn four times a week or he's got some sort of project that requires immediate attention. Sometimes, when Merv can't find things to do at his house, he'll come over to mine and start fixing things at my place. A few weeks ago, while I was walking Greta home from school, one of my other neighbors, Christina, asked if I was hiring out for lawn help. With a surprised look on my face I told her 'no.' She said that there was this old guy in my front lawn spreading fertilizer. She wondered why I hadn't hired someone younger to do my lawn.

Another time I got a call at my office by a different neighbor who had called to tell me there was a stranger on top of my roof (and he didn't have a big red suit and a bag of toys). Merv had been on the roof of my house patching my chimney so it didn't leak.

I like Merv - not just 'cause he takes care of me and teaches me how to do home improvement projects, but because he's an average Joe - Average Merv; I should start calling him that.

A month ago, after Christine and I had watched our two maple trees fall, I decided to rent a log-splitter. Most people who know me know that I am machinery inept. Table saws scare me; jigsaws give me nightmares and my last attempt at using a nail gun made me so angry I almost nailed my shoe to the floor. It's not that I don't understand machinery, but I think there is a vast conspiracy by tool makers and moving part experts to foil all attempts that I make to improve my home.

So, I decided to get a log splitter. I have neither the muscles nor the aim to split all the logs of two trees. I also decided that I needed help. If anyone would know anything about splitting logs, it would have to be Merv. When I asked him he said, "Sure I'll help you split logs."

"You've done this before, right?" I asked.

"I was an accountant - that wasn't part of the job description," he responded. "But, how hard can it be?"

It turns out, it really wasn't that hard. The guy who rented the machine to me showed me all of the proper procedures for turning it on, squishing logs, proper use blah, blah, blah. All that I heard and saw was this cool looking contraption that looked like a cannon from a space ship. I couldn't wait to get home to try the baby out.

As we backed the machine into the driveway, Merv's perma-smile got just a bit bigger. We had three hours to be 'real men' doing 'real men' things. Like Tim the Toolman, I got everything prepared and we started the operation. At first we were tentative; I was putting logs in, pulling my hands back while Merv ran the joystick. It was loud, hot work but the power of the machine was incredible. Even the biggest logs splintered like twigs. As we got the hang of it, I got more and more comfortable with what I was doing. The machine was no more an instrument of great power but a toy. I lessened my attentiveness. Faster and faster I put the logs on; pulling them out with great abandonment.

Around 11:00 Merv said that he had to go to lunch soon so I increased the pace.

It happened so quickly. I don't remember how it happened, but in my haste, in my ignorance of the true power of the machinery, pain surge from my hand. Somehow, on the last log, the end of my thumb had become lodged between the log and the brace and as the wedge crushed the log, so too was the end of my thumb. Pain was instantaneous; so was the blood. I looked at the remnant of the last part of my thumb, then I looked at Merv and shook my head. It wasn't good and certainly wasn't pretty. If only I hadn't been so stupid. If only I could just rewind my life a few minutes and remember the power of the machinery. If I could go back and do it all over again.

I got to visit the doctor a couple of days later. I won't go into the graphic details of what my thumb looked like but we'll just say it wasn't for the squeamish. The doctor didn't seem to care too much. Obviously they've seen some things worse than this. He unwrapped the splint and thumb made a 'hmmm' sound from his throat - that made me nervous and then said, 'Looks good, Mr. Matthias."

What? Looks good? Are you joking or just a sadist?

"Well," he said, "Here's what's probably going to happen: First of all, the bone you broke probably will never reconnect - but some scar tissue will build up between the bones and maybe that will be just fine. Second thing. Your thumb nail will fall off - or at least part of it. If it doesn't come all the way off, we'll probably have to numb your thumb and pull it off." I think my eyes started to roll back in my head for a little bit. "Stay with me, Mr. Matthias. If, and that's a big if, if your nail comes back the odds are it won't be in the same formation that it was in the past. It probably will have some ridges - only half may come in. In fact, it may be that your nail doesn't grow out straight, but out and up. That will be interesting." Interesting for you, Doc. So, what he's telling me, get used to being The Thumb in the freak show at the Circus.

"What about the numbness, Doc?" I asked. I hate the feeling of not being able to feel a certain part of skin. That gives me the willies.

"Because the cut was so deep, you probably won't gain full feeling again. You might experience pressure or maybe some hot and cold, but feeling - I don't know. It'll just take time to see how this all plays out. But, you'll get used to it."

Easy for him to say. Easy for him to say.

If only. A lot of if only's come talk to me. If only I hadn't said this. If only I hadn't done that.

A man called me a while ago and said that his wife had caught him cheating on her - it wasn't physical, but there were some questionable e-mails and photographs. Some would call it an emotional affair - semantics, if you ask me - Jesus says, if you even look at another woman who is not your wife in a lustful way, you have committed adultery. Either way, his wife was appropriately furious, angry, hurt and resentful. The man asked me if I knew what was going to happen.

If only. If only.

Well, in many ways it is a perfect application of The Thumb analogy. Marriage, when first begun, normally has an essence of power about it. We stand back and revel in the beauty and awesomeness of trusting your heart and life to someone else. The vows we make impel us to be very careful with the heart of the person that we are caring for. Sometimes, after a few years, marriage for some becomes routine - it becomes just a part of life and the emotional and physical power that once seemed so overwhelming becomes a normal part of life. Some forget the awesome power that marriage has and we take it for granted. Then, eyes are put where they shouldn't be or hearts where they weren't meant to be. This man said it was exciting at first. It felt like he was getting away with something. He felt like a 'real man' again. Someone was paying attention to him.

But then the fateful day. He was caught. Trapped. Squished. Broken. If only he could do it over.

Now the predicament that his sin had led him to was very painful, very present and very real. The brokenness of their marriage may or may not ever be healed. Certainly, it would never be the same. The scar tissue might heal to some semblance of the past, but numbness might be a constant for the rest of their life together. Just like my nail may not come in fully, or even at all, their marriage will take a lot of time and healing before it is functional again. He and his wife need a splint, but it will take a superhuman amount of forgiveness from an incredibly strong wife to begin to trust and grow again.

The man didn't appreciate the power of marriage. In the bond of marriage there should be safety. When a man and woman leave their parents and join themselves together, they are one. What the husband does affects the wife - everything! What the wife does, the husband feels - everything! That is the power of marriage.

If only the world would start to respect the power of marriage more.

Job Satisfaction part tres

2009-05-21T10:47:00.006-05:00

Perhaps everyone has some job dis-satisfaction at some point. Their profession turns abruptly to con-fession, and all of us can confess that there are parts of a career that we would love to do without.

My brother-in-law is a partner for Accenture (formerly Arthur Anderson). Russell has worked all over the world including exotic places like New Zealand, Kuala Lumpur, London, Amsterdam, Singapore and, of course, Canada. The one place Russell will not work is the United States - and why is that? Not because he doesn't like the States or that he has a political quarrel with this country, but he doesn't appreciate working 80 hours per week and then receiving so little time off to rejuvenate. Almost everywhere else in the world, there is a mandatory four weeks of holidays for workers so that they can be more productive, but here in the States? You'd be fortunate indeed if you received at least three. There is something so appealing and appalling at the same time about the American "work ethic." The harder you work, the more money you earn, the less time you spend with your family and children, the more (possibly) you rue the lack of time enjoyed when you were younger.

Why the love affair with the almighty work ethic? I have even heard some workers bragging about how much time they work and how little time they spent at home. "I worked 70 hours last week," one might say. "Yes, well, I had a presentation with the 'higher up' and pulled two all nighters." A last one might add, "I gave 70 hours at the office, fifteen hours of charity work, and missed the birth of my daughter. Ah well, she'll forgive me someday."

Of course the last statement I made up, but we often play that career poker game of upping the ante and laying down a full house of not being in the house. It is shameful. But we must work, right?

Yes, we must and there are still parts of the job we would love to avoid whether personnel issues, details or public speaking. If we could trim down our jobs to doing just the things we like to do, well, then you've got your hobby.

The characters of my tree chopping story had different understandings and levels of job satisfaction (or dis-satisfaction), but what was most saddening was that none of them enjoyed what they were doing. Not only were they not being paid well, but it was simply a way to spend their time.

The economy has tanked, and in some ways, I don't want this blog to come off as patronizing, but at this point, when people are out of work, in some ways, it's a re-orientation of what people would really like to do with their lives. What is it that moves them? What is their passion? It might even be an opportunity to sit back, take a deep breath and ask the question, "What is it that God has planned for me?"

How will God use you? Even in the midst of hardships with a profession, how will God use you?

Paul was a tent-maker. Working with canvas (actually, I have no idea what they made tents out of two thousand years ago, but go with me) could have been a tedious job. And, strangely enough, Paul could have done anything he wanted. With his education, his intelligence, his oratory abilities, Paul could have been a Public Relations person for the Roman Empire and made good money at it, too. But, of course, Paul listened to the voice of God (after a while and after some horrible decisions) and was called to put his talents to use.

Many youth and adults that I have come into contact with assume that Paul was always happy with his decision, that he had a nice life as a preacher - worked one day a weak like all preachers do. He lived in a big house next to the temple, carried out his Sunday duties, kissed the kids when they went off to kindergarten.

Many of you already know that Paul was not married, had no real permanent home, although he was a Roman citizen. His preaching was not limited to temples either: he was perfectly comfortable sharing his gifts wherever he was. But, what many people don't realize about the apostle Paul, that his tasks - his profession - his road as an evangelist was pocked with pitfalls. 2 Cor. 11:23-31

"Are they ministers of Christ? I am talking like a madman - I am a better one: with far greater labors, far more imprisonments, with countless floggings, and often near death. Five times I have received from the Jews the forty lashes minus one. Three times I was beaten with rods. Once I received a stoning. Three times I was shipwrecked; for a night and a day adrift at sea; on frequent journeys, in danger from rivers, danger from bandits, danger from my own people, danger from Gentiles, danger in the city, danger in the wilderness, danger at sea, danger from false brothers and sisters; in toil and hardship, through many a sleepless night, hungry and thirsty, often without food, cold and naked. And, besides other things, I am under daily pressure because of my anxiety for all churches. Who is weak, and am I not weak? Who is made to stumble, and I am not indignant? If I must boast, I will boast of the things that show my weakness. The God and Father of the Lord Jesus (blessed be he forever!) knows I do not lie."

Paul had the weight of the world on his shoulders; not just the physical suffering, not just the emotional abandonment, not simply the horrifying circumstances, but he carried the cares of a burgeoning church like the yoke of an oxen. But even in his calling, he realized his reliance on the Lord. And so he pressed on - he was greater for it. The beatings and dangers made him stronger and he impressed that fact upon the Corinthians and those who read the letters - even to us today! His job satisfaction was at an all time high because he was weak in the Lord which made him strong. 12:9 "But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' So I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me."

His grace is sufficient. Even as we struggle through our job satisfaction (or dis-satisfaction) his grace is sufficient and in our weakness, God's power (which is his love) is made perfect. Reliance in him created the power of the Apostle Paul. If anyone was entitled to claim job dis-satisfaction, Paul could have. But, he simply claimed to be weak.

A few months ago, I met with a young man in his early 30's who had been stationed in some heavy combat in Iraq. Not only was he suffering from emotional and physical trauma from military duty, but when he returned, his life took a drastic turn for the worse as his spouse had not stayed faithful while he was serving his country. I met with him at his parents' house and, while sitting under an umbrella on the back deck, he revealed to me how he felt the need to be strong - the need to be in control. He needed to swallow all of his emotions so that he could be the powerful soldier that he was: no soldier would weep over the hand the life dealt.

He was struggling with a power issue. And as we met, I talked with him about this verse. Maybe God was calling him to be weak? Maybe God was calling him to let the power shift to the Almighty? Maybe true healing comes from our ability to be weak and let the Spirit take control.

The young man wept. His tears - his fears of failure, denial, rage, pain, agony came rushing in a torrent. It was a flood of emotion that I had never seen before - the dam broke and after everything had poured out an overwhelming sense of exhaustion rolled over his face. His body fell limp. He tried to apologize and then stopped himself. "I'm finally weak," he said. "I'm finally weak."

In our weakness, God does his greatest work. In our suffering, God loves us harder than ever. In our struggles with profession or con-fession, God works through us so that we can live in this world and love others.

We may or may not be satisfied with our job which earns wages, but we can be satisfied with our calling as Christians - to love.

Just to be satisfied with the job of loving.

Job Satisfaction - Part Deux

2009-05-15T11:35:00.003-05:00

The tree expert, the one from the far distant land of Moronia, from here-to-forth (I don't know if that's really a phrase) shall be called Ernie, placed his tool of choice on the ground. It was a blending of a pool skimmer pole and a chainsaw. I have no idea how it worked other than the fact that the blade moved from twenty feet away while Ernie could keep his feet planted firmly on the ground. Ernie moved with the fluidity of a natural athlete; his bare arms rippled when he held the chainsaw. I watched Christine out of the corner of my eye to see if she was noticing the physique of this young buck. Yup. I tried to place myself a little more in the path of her view so she would look at my be-muscled form. I flexed. Nothing. I cleared my throat while raising my own arms behind my head. She was transfixed. But who can blame her? For her to look at my arms at that point would be like a person going to the zoo to look at domesticated kittens while the lions are roaring in the background.

Ernie, with no verbal encouragement from his friends - in fact, there was not even a recognition that Ernie was going to climb the tree at all - put these spiky things on his shoes, draped some ropes over his head, I noticed he was looking our way to see if we were watching - he purposely flexed his muscles - I saw that! - and began to shinny his way up the now stripped down maple tree. Our tree looked as if it had been systematically disrobed; naked, it stood, as if on stage, very self-conscious, wanting only to disappear. It was at that point I felt the most sorry for it, if one can feel pain for a tree anyway. I think this is the way many people feel at the end of their lives, disrobed, naked - nothing left to cover them. They are painfully aware that earthly life is soon to disappear.

I worked in a nursing home for my clinical pastoral education. Through the first thirty-one years of my life, I had never been in the presence of any one who was truly in the last stages of dying. But, that changed when I met Catherine. She was smart as a whip; feisty, eighty-eight years old and weighed about ninety pounds. The opportunity arose for me to visit with Catherine a few times during a rousing game of Bingo. While most people in the nursing home were playing one card, Catherine was playing three and in the midst of the calls, she would quickly place her chips and go right back to her crossword puzzle. She saw me approach and squinted her eyes through her enormously thick glasses.

"Hello, young buck," she said. Most people in the nursing home dispense with any formalities about titles. They've earned the right, I believe.

"Hello, Catherine, how are we today?"

She waved her hand at me as if flushing a gnat from in front of her face. "Pshh. Shut up, Reid. Stop acting like one of the stiff doctors."

I took a chair beside her. "Are you winning?"

She looked over the table in front of her. An assortment of shampoos, stuffed animals, hand creams and quarters were strewn in front of her. She leaned over to whisper to me. "Some of the others get excited about this (excrement), but to me, it's just stuff to clutter up my room. I usually just give it away anyway."

"That's very kind of you, Catherine."

"I just don't want it in my room. There's nothing kind about it." She reached over and grabbed my hand. "Let's blow this popsicle stand."

We strolled down the hallway to her room, she in her wheelchair, I, ambulatory. As we turned in to her room, she motioned for me to sit in one of the last remnants from her home. It was an old, greenish-brown rocking chair circa 1965. As I sat down, she wheeled herself closer to me and immediately took my hand back onto the pillow on her lap covered by a blanket. Catherine always had a blanket over her legs. With liver-spotted hands, she stroked my hand like a cat.

"Reid, I'm getting ready to die."

"Don't say that, Catherine, you've got a lot of days left to live."

She gripped my hand tighter. With one hand she pulled back the blanket to reveal something that I had not known about her. She had both legs amputated. My first reaction was to pull my hands away from her. Holding on tight she said, "That's the reaction that most people have - fear. They want to pull away as if diabetes was contagious, or that death can be transferred through the air we breathe. Please don't do that."

I tried to relax. She pulled the blanket back over her legs. "I'm going to die," she repeated. "But that's not the worst part. What is the scariest, most hurtful part, is that I've been amputated from my family and friends. They come because they feel guilty, or responsible. They don't really want to be here; they just want to put in their time so that they can get their inheritance when I'm gone." I shook my head. "Slowly, piece by piece, my life is being lopped off just like my legs, and I am left just a small shell. It's horrible."

Catherine died two days after this discussion.

It was horrible to watch our tree fall. Piece by piece, amputated from the head to the roots, falling sometimes gracefully to the ground, sometimes crashing. Ernie dissected our maple tree until she was simply a stump sticking up from the ground like a giant's knuckle. As Ernie finished his dismantling, the other three scrambled around on the ground where the tree used to stand. Like ants searching for discarded crumbs from a picnic, the other three workers piled up limbs, branches and leaves. The youngest, who was also the smallest, seemed to be the guinea pig of the group. He got all the rough jobs. Mainly, it was his task to stack the largest of the cut logs, put them into a wheel barrow, and stack them once again around the side of our garage. I tried once again to strike up a conversation.

"So you get to be the strongback of the group?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'm the newest. I get all the jobs that the other (sphincter muscles) don't want to do."

"What's your name?" I walked with him to help him deliver his load of chopped limbs.

"Pete."

"Pete, do you mind if I make an observation?"

"Go ahead." He struggled to lift some of the biggest logs on to the pile.

"It doesn't appear as if your crew gets along very well."

Eddie looked at me out of the corner of his eye. Sweat dripped from his brow as the largest of the tree stumps thumped onto the red lava rock that covers the ground outside of our garage.

"Are you a fortune teller?" He smirked.

"Not that I know of," I said.

"The guys I work with are a bunch of (gluteus maximii). They show up, pretend to look busy, and boss me around. I'm fed up with it. I'm about to tell them to shove it (expletives deleted.)" He looked me over for a little bit and then continued. "I'm working two jobs, my girlfriend and I just had a baby, and I'm eight hundred dollars behind on rent. Those guys..." He shook his head.

From a distance I heard Pete being called back. "Pete. Get your lazy (bones) back here and keep working!" One of the others, who I assumed to be the leader of the crew had lit up a smoke and was waving to Peter. Peter mumbled under his breath and hefted his wheelbarrow back to the downed tree. As he made his way through the now trampled grass, the foreman began to lay into Peter. I couldn't here what he was saying, but body language spoke volumes. The foreman pointed his finger into Peter's face; his voice obviously raised, the capillaries in his face filled to full volume. After his verbal admonishment, the foreman walked over to where I was standing. With a stance of penitence the foreman said, "Sorry about that."

I raised my hand. "No problem." I had no idea what he was sorry about.

"He does this on most jobs. If he can chat up the owners, he'll tell them a sob story about his family situation. He hopes that the owners of the trees will feel pity for him and give him a secret bonus. This is his last warning. So, I truly apologize." If he would have been wearing a hat, it would have been in his hands, I think.

"Is his situation really as dire as he says it is?" I asked.

"Well, yeah," the foreman said. "But that's so unprofessional. Besides, if he gets tips on the side, where does that leave the rest of us." The foreman mumbled under his breath. Some form of curse against Peter, I think.

I waved him off over the chorus of chainsaws. "I hope you have a better day."

He didn't say a word.

Job Satisfaction

2009-05-14T15:58:00.002-05:00

This will be a multi-part story - I think most people like sequels, although generally the second installment often falls short of the mark. I will attempt in this coupling of weeks to produce some semblance of profundity, but if I fail, ah well, just a blog. Just a blog.

This is a tale of two Mondays. The first, I, Reid, an observer. The second, I, Reid, a character worthy of a Oscar nomination.

Monday #1:

The day blossomed brightly; the light shone through the cracks in the window panes of my bedroom between the shade and the wood. It splayed lightly on the hardwood floor of the bedroom, illuminating the dust that hangs suspended in the air. I rolled over to spy the alarm clock on the dresser and after glancing at the face glowing 6:27, I groaned inwardly calculating how many seconds I could postpone putting my bare feet on the cold floor. But, once my body was awake, and my brain sufficiently suffused with blood from the act of calculating, there was no going back to the glorious, blissful ignorance of early morning sleep.

I stretched my legs hearing the joints crack like a bag full of popcorn. I turned back to my wife, Christine, who had pulled the blankets up over her head like a groundhog returning to its darkened den. I looked up into the mirror that sits next to our bed and noticed the lines of weariness haloing my eyes. The nest of my hair poked out around my ears and I brought a hand up to attempt to tame the static charged follicles. To no avail; the savage hair fought back and stayed standing at attention.

Placing my feet on the ground, I felt the coolness begin to soak the warmth out of my body. Shivering, I reached for the clothes that I had discarded on the floor eight hours before and put them on. Twice I attempted to put my sweatpants on; the first time backwards, the second time both legs in one hole. What a great way to start a day.

I walked out into the hallway to roust the girls from their own pleasant slumbers. The youngest, eyes already opened but smile hidden by the covers, slipped out of bed and reached arms up wanting me to carry her to the breakfast table. I denied her the opportunity, but I always have to remember that the days of carrying my girls are rapidly closing and I want to continue to hold on to their last piece of childhood that I can. I looked at the middle daughter who caught my eye and then emulated her mother by snapping back into the darkened tunnel of her covers.

"Breakfast in 10 minutes, Josephine." I said.

I only got a muffled grunt.

I opened Elsa's door. Her light was already on and a book was open on her bed. "How long have you been up?" I asked.

"When does the sun start shining?" She smiled and pushed her glasses back up on her nose with one finger. Her brown eyes looked at me quizzically as if I had asked her the most inane question in the world.
"Elsa, you have to start turning on more lights when you read. That's why God made the sun so nine-year-old girls can wake up too early in the morning to feed their reading addiction."

Elsa rolled her eyes and said, "Dad, you're so weird."

"10 minutes, Els, 10 minutes." I could see her calculating in her own head how long it would take to get dressed and how many pages that would leave her to read.

Walking down the hallway I heard how the floor made the same sounds as my creaking bones did when I awoke. Maybe it's the same thing: the bones of the house, the floors and walls, creak when they are wakened? Flipping the kitchen light, I shuffled across the grainy, tiled floor of the kitchen noticing the dishes that I'd neglected the night before. Housework never seems to be over, have you ever noticed that? Is there ever a moment when you sit down, look at every corner of the house and say, "Great, now I can take a break."

After making the traditional breakfast and lunch for the girls, cereal and milk for the former and traditional Vegemite sandwiches for the latter (isn't that what all children have for lunch?), I perused my calendar for the day. It was my day off - or as 'off' as it gets. As an adult, there really is no such thing as an off day, no day to leisurely read a book or take a walk, I noticed a star by the calendar. Today was the day that the tree removal experts were coming. Over the years two trees in our front yard had gradually begun shedding limbs like chickens molting feathers and it was only a matter of time when one of those thousand pound feathers was going to pulverize the roof of the house. Well, that certainly would be an exciting way to spend a morning.

Christine had been having some back problems, so she, too, stayed home from work that day. After reviving ourselves with coffee for me and breakfast for her, we sent the girls off to their respective schools and waited for tree specialists to come and commit arbor-cide. We loved our trees but we loved our roof even more.

Not much later we heard the muffler of a truck pull up in front of our house. As I looked out the front window, the passenger door of the van opened and before any person exited the vehicle, a cloud of cigarette smoke preceded the person. It was like when a famous performer comes on stage and the smoke machines buffet out smog to hide the performer to the last minute. Well, the 'performer' finally emerged waving away the smoke from his addiction. He was of medium height wearing a sleeveless shirt exposing arms encircled by barbed wire tattoos. His compatriots were vomited forth from the van and it was apparent from the beginning that Monday had started off in a very negative way for these men. The four of them proceeded to avoid all conversation, eye contact and in general, communication. The one with a pony tail looked like he'd actually slept in the van over night; the tallest one ground his teeth so hard that the muscles in his jaws rolled back and forth like and earthquake. The smallest one took a long drag on his cigarette and flicked the still lit cancer stick into our yard. It was lucky that Christine did not see that - she would have made their morning even worse with a verbal tongue lashing and perhaps her own sermon on the dangers of cigarette use. It is somewhat ironic, though, that all the men who work with wood would all be smokers.

As they split apart to their respective responsibilities like neutrons splitting apart in a nuclear reaction, it became quite clear we were in for a very interesting spectacle. In fact, Christine and I pulled up lawn chairs to watch the show.

As we settled in, the tallest one, who, as far as we could find out was from the planet Moronia - at least that's what we gathered from the smallest one - began to hack off the limbs of one of the trees with the greatest of ease. With seemingly precise calculation he lopped off branch after branch away from the house. It was hard to watch, but he was such and artist, that I even stopped to praise him for his artistry.

"Wow!" I said as I walked over to him. "You have real talent." He stared at me without responding. Perhaps he didn't hear me. Perhaps he'd lost his hearing from being around chainsaws for a large chunk of his adulthood. Perhaps he thought I was joking. Either way, he started his chainsaw and raised it like Jason from the Halloween movies. I guess on the planet Moronia they have no expression for the word "thank you?"

Next blog I'll get to the other characters of the operation who had names, as far as we could tell, that resembled what most people would call a domesticated donkey - one of them was called by the others "Idiot", another "Doorknob" - I'm not sure any of them called each other by the name given them by their parents. All in all, this was the grumpiest group of working people I'd ever seen.

The Sliver of Hope

2009-04-28T11:33:00.003-05:00

Speaking of slivers, I'm kind of a baby when it comes to foreign objects lodged in the epidermis. As I was doing some home repairs a few months ago (which I am hopefully inept at), I happened to be filing down some metal and pushed a curled piece of aluminum under my fingernail. It hurt, yes, but I treated the episode as if I'd received a mortal wound. Not knowing the exact procedure for a wound of this sort, I lifted my hand high above my head and began to run around the house looking for the tweezers. I'm not sure why I lifted my hand above my head, but certainly if you lift something high enough eventually the pain will cease, right? So, with my left hand I rummaged through our bathroom drawer and located the floral bag that contains all the instruments of torture for removing a splinter. Of course there is a tweezers and some kind of cream that is supposed to suck out all of the infecting germs. Then there is the 'probe.' It's a nice name for a very sharp object that is meant to dig out a splinter underneath the surface of the skin. It is truly medieval just looking at it.

As an aside, did you know that in Rudesheim/Rhein, Germany, you can spend 25 Euros to view the instruments of torture from the middle ages? You can come to my house and I'll charge you nothing to see our splinter removing bag.

After finding the bag, I took it to Christine holding it in front of me as if it were a dirty diaper. "What's wrong with you?" she asked. "And why are you holding your hand above your head like that?"
Scrunching up my face in agony I responded, "Splinter." I was breathless. "I've got a monster metal shaving shoved all the way to my cuticle. I hope we don't have to go to the hospital. I don't want this thing amputated." I made that up, but worst case scenario always crosses one's mind.

Christine stood up and held out her hands, grabbed the bag and then pulled my hand down from the sky. "Let me look at it." Even as she touched the digit, I felt pain shooting down my arm. I don't know if it was from the splinter or just from having it over my head for so long. "Relax," she said in this condescending way - I already knew what she was thinking - Big Baby. "Easy," I said holding on to the painful arm with my good hand. "How does it look? Can you get to it?"

Christine didn't even look me in the eyes. "Hmmm."
"What does that mean, hmmm? Is it going to take surgery?"
Finally, she looked up at me. "It's in a little ways. I think the probe should do the trick."

The probe. The probe. Anything but the probe.

"Take a few deep breaths. This might hurt a bit." I began the sure process of hyperventilation. I retracted my hand from her and said, "I don't think I want to do this. Eventually it will get pushed out, won't it?"

"Yes, eventually, I suppose," Christine said, "But do you want to be in your agony-like state for a while, or get it over with. If we get it out, then you won't have to bother with worrying about infection. Give me your hand. Let's do this thing."

Christine really is a good nurse, although at this point, I wasn't quite sure about her bedside manner. She was hurting my pride as much as my finger. Which hurts more, bruised pride or slivered finger? I tentatively gave my hand back to her and the silver of the probe flashed in the sunlight. It looked like a surgeon's scalpel in a slasher movie. Then, it happened. She grabbed the finger and squeezed. "For goodness sake," I said, "Give me a wooden spoon to bite down on - or at least your miniature plastic whisk!"

"Hold still," she said while holding on to my finger like a bull rider on top of the wild toro.
"Why do you have to pinch it? Can't you just tweeze it out?"
"If I don't pinch your finger," she said, "The sliver will stay in. Like I said, it's going to hurt but when it comes out, you'll feel so much better."

Unfortunately, she was right and after the sliver was extricated, and my wounded digit appropriately creamed and wrapped, my pride bruised but healing, I thanked her and hoped that it wouldn't happen again. But, slivers are unavoidable obstacles of life. If you aren't getting any slivers that you aren't working at the beautiful, difficult things in human existence.

Working out slivers in relationships is just as touchy. Most people who are wounded are very careful about holding back the injury from healing. Because of careless words or actions, the injury is often unnoticed and we back away from healing because the healing process is usually quite painful. Many people don't want to talk about the feelings of injury for fear of offending more or the words they use will be misconstrued. People want to be 'nice' more than they want to be 'healthy.'

I asked a young man who was having problems with his brother if he had worked to resolve the feelings with his brother. He shook his head and said, "Are you kidding? If I let him know that he hurt me, something so trivial, he'll look at that as weakness and roll his eyes. I can't appear weak in front of him."

"So, how are you going to handle it?" I asked.

"I'm going to avoid him until I feel better about what happened."

"And when will that be? Will you just forget about it or let it fester until the next time he says something and then you get really mad?"

The young man looked up at me, "Thanks for the encouragement, Pastor."

"I am encouraging you. Encouraging you to build a relationship of trust and communication. If he isn't aware that you are hurt, whether intentional or unintentional, how will you expect to have a relationship with him. If you simply avoid him, you are taking the easy way out. You're doing what we call - self preservation. If humans are good at anything, they are good at avoiding pain."

"But what if it hurts? What if, after we're done talking, he doesn't want to see me again?"

"That's always the fear of the unknown - the 'what if'. But, if you can sit down and talk with him and tell him how you feel, not just rehash the events that triggered the hurt feelings, I believe that you'll get through this."

Truly, one of the most difficult parts of managing conflict, is to get beyond the event and deal with the feelings involved. The event is the visible part of the sliver - like the tip of the iceberg - that can be seen and you attempt to get a hold of it and pull it out, but the deeper, more painful part of the sliver are the feelings that are very close to the nerves. Care must be taken, but working in the midst of pain is the only way to extricate the sliver - to get rid of the that which is causing the pain. The root of the problem, if you will.

So, how is this done? Sometimes the two people can come together. If they are family members, one bold person asks the other one to talk (and listen). Sometimes the fear of confrontation takes over and the injured one tries to resolve the conflict outside of the two parties involved. This triangulation often will confuse the third part of the triangle and the injured one will attempt to 'persuade' the new member of the triangle to his or her perspective. Generally, triangulation is a difficult thing. Triangulation leads not only to misplaced feelings but the beginnings of gossip and as soon as gossip starts, the event is broadcast and there is no return from that excursion.

The bible gives us a few possible solutions. If, at first, the attempt to reason with your fellow family member alone does not work, then take someone trusted with you to the meeting. It is usually best not to take someone with a personal stake because it then feels like there is a ganging up. Perhaps someone not quite so close to the situation would be better - a mediator. This person is there simply to moderate discussion so that it does not become a personal attack, but a sorting out of feelings from a specific event. Have each person share how the event made them feel rather than how the other person screwed up. Start statements with, "I feel _______ when this happens." Talk about the root of the problem rather than the visible manifestation. This is not simply psycho-babble but an important tool for all family members to take hold of. Simply another tool in the tool box to promote healthy family dynamics.

It is not easy. It probably will hurt a little bit. But if done correctly, the brief amount of pain will bring forth growth and allow the pair to avoid situations where similar slivers might occur. To watch what one says - and, to watch how one says it. It's 5% what you say and 95% how you say it.

So, no that I've taken the scenic route to this blog, are there any slivers in your life that are coming to a head? Any moments for extraction? Any infections causing a great amount of pain? Can you find a way to head them off?

A sliver

2009-04-09T17:04:00.003-05:00

It's Holy Week - they all seem holy at some point or another, but this week is all about passion. Passion of the Christ. I watched Mel Gibson's rendition (re-enactment if you will), the glorifying gore fest of Hollywood weds strange biblical interpretion. I think more people talked about how gruesome the movie was than the actual content of the biblical narrative. Hollywood focuses on action rather than on dialogue, on blood rather than experience. I found myself cringing to watch the lengthy scenes of torture - not because it bothered me emotionally, but that I was thinking about the thousands of people who were going to watch this film because Mel Gibson's name was on it. He's come a long ways from Lethal Weapon, don't you think?

Western media has a fascination with gore. Our movies, newspapers, magazines, TV shows are awash with the ways that the human body can be hurt. Although most young people (and I included, at times) are immune or numbed to the display of blood, there are still moments when I have to avert my eyes. One such time that I did recently was while watching the TV show Survivor. I have to admit that I am a Survivor fan - I even tried out for the show a few years ago (I can't imagine why they didn't accept me - there must not be many Lutherans on the selection committee. If there were, I probably would have been sent to a subcommittee who would have passed me off to a task team of the subset of a committee. Anyway, I'm digressing farther and farther into the realm of losing even myself.) So, I was watching Survivor and one of my favorite players of all time, James, was enjoying one of the challenges. As he was running through a maze or something, he cut his finger a bit. James, an undertaker by profession, seemed to brush off the injury and proceed playing the game.

After a few days, the small cut on his finger, because it was not properly treated, became infected. The knuckle and surrounding skin began to swell. His pain was evident, but there was not possibility to take care of it without surrending his position in the game. Finally, a medic came to evaluate his injury and she, without hesitation, told him his options. He could continue playing the game and risk not only losing his finger but gathering a life-threatening blood infection - or leave the game and treat the finger. Wisely, James chose the latter, but I was frustrated. How could something so little take out the strongest player. I was imagining that if James would be taken from the game it would be for breaking a bicep or something. Not something little like that.

Maybe all of us have had something like that happen in our lives. Running your hand down a bannister or across a bare wooden wall - a sliver, finds its way under the skin. Sometimes I don't even notice it - not until it begins to hurt. Sometimes I assume that my body will simply just absorb the sliver, digest it and I will be none for the worse. I don't remove it right away, usually, because excising the sliver is almost more painful than the sliver itself - at first, that is. But gradually, the body knows that this intrusive substance will only cause sickness and pain and if left long enough, the poison seeps into the veins and heart; then, risk death.

All from a little sliver.

All from a little word. One word thrown casually gets under the skin of someone else. Or, a rumor that is just too juicy to pass by. Maybe a person who doesn't share the same ideologies, I just want to offer them a little barb - maybe a small, sarcastic remark. And there it is, that sliver of a painful word is lodged under the skin. It festers and soon the poison might seep in. Then, a word thrown back.

We as Christians - we as people - need to remember that we, together, are the body of Christ. What affects someone else, affects me also. When another member of the body is injured, in pain, or hurting, I am not immune to that. We can either treat the injury, even though the surgery process may be painful, or we can let it infect the whole body and the whole body will become ill. Churches are notorious for letting this happen. In the name of being 'nice' we try and let different words slide, but too often they become lodged too close to the pain receptors and soon we are passing on slivers to others in the church. That poison is what kills individual congregations.

When Jesus said, "Do to others as you would have them do to you," I think he truly meant, "When you do something to others you ARE doing it to yourself." We are intricately connected. We cannot separate ourselves.

Next week (it will only be one week, hopefully) let's discuss how to effectively treat the effects of infection in the body of Christ. How do we, as Christians, speak honestly and openly about things that may be hurtful?

That should be a fun sliver!

Midnight Ride

2009-03-26T11:28:00.002-05:00

George is getting frustrated with me. I have been sporadic at best. Writing blogs has taken a backseat to writing sermons but perhaps I can be forgiven as Lent has appeared in the blink of an eye and I am surrounded by the blanket of wondrous responsibilities of a pastor in the busiest weeks of the year. But, aside from my attempt at proclaiming an excuse, I met with a friend of mine, Karen who told me something truly blogworthy.

April 19, 1775 was a night that still 'rings' with history for the United States. Some historians (especially George who is a government teacher, I think) will remember this as the evening of the midnight ride of Paul Revere. His name, revered (sorry) throughout the centuries as the patriot who warned the Americans that the Redcoats were coming. As told in the story by Henry W. Longfellow in 1860, Revere, through difficulties and darkness, warned the people of Concord and Lexington about the upcoming surge of military men from England. What Wadsworth left out was that Revere was not the only one sent out to Lexington to warned Samuel Adams and John Hancock. There was another man - William Dawes.

Only the stoutest national historians know the name of Will Dawes. A shoemaker in Boston, he was one of the earliest patriots. Sent out on horseback to Lexington, unlike Revere, he took the long way. Then, when near arrest, he was thrown from his horse and escaped on foot. Eventually he reached the towns of Concord and Lexington, but Revere had already been there. Folklore tells us though that William Dawes would not have succeeded anyway. Dawes was not intimately connected with the people like Paul Revere was. Supposedly, Revere was out in the communities all of the time getting to know people, their schedules, their lives. People trusted him. Again, tradition tells us that Dawes did not know the people and when he came to warn people of the approach of the British, they either did not believe him or they did not listen to his voice. So, William Dawes has fallen off the cliff of American history as the silent partner of Paul Revere on his midnight ride from Boston to Lexington.

Perhaps as Christians we can learn a bit from the midnight ride. People trust the voice of a person they know - someone that is intimately involved in their lives. Like Paul Revere, we need to get out into the community and be a part of the lives of our fellow humans - not forcing ourselves, or intruding, but supporting and encouraging others in wending their way through life. If we, as the vocal chords of Jesus, show up simply proclaiming condemnation, or the approach of the end of the world, they either will not believe us, or disregard our voice. We are called to proclaim the Gospel, that the kingdom of God is drawing near, to love even if not loved in return. Then, those that we encounter will trust our voice - they know that we have their best interests in mind.

Jesus speaks these same words in John chapter 10: "The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep. the gatekeeper opens the gate for him and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes ahead of them, and the sheep follow him because they know his voice."

The sheep hear his voice and follow because of his voice, but he does not call from a distance, he enters the pen with them. He calls them from the midst of them and leads them to safety.

This is our calling - our vocation as Christians - to be in the midst of life and be Jesus vocal chords.

A few years ago, I was roused by a phone call. A youth from the church had called to tell the me the worst possible news: a teenager was killed in an automobile accident and the youth were gathering to meet at a house were they could commiserate and lean on each other in their grief. The voice on the phone cracked as she asked if I would come and sit in their midst.

Throwing on some clothes, I headed down to the car and began to drive to their house. What would I say? What could I possibly express to teenagers in the grief of losing a close friend? What if I said something completely asinine and they ended up throwing me out? (I have said some pretty idiotic things before). My worries were unfounded. The youth didn't want me to say anything - they only wanted me to listen and throughout the late night and into the early morning of my own Midnight Ride, those kids shared with me fears, sorrows, joys, loves - every possible human experience. And the word I spoke?

God's word at the end of the night. I got to be God's vocal chords.

What a ride.

Out of the Rut

2009-03-13T10:07:00.002-05:00

I was late for church on Sunday. For most people, that may not be a cause for alarm; when you are one of the pastors, well...

My tardiness was due to the infernal Daylight Saving Time. It is Daylight Saving - there is no 's' on the end, although most people will place it there because it sounds better, I think. Benjamin Franklin dreamed up DST so that people could take advantage of an extra hour of daylight during the summer months. Many people 'waste' that hour of sunrise, he said, so why not move that hour where it can be put to best use.

His encouragement would be to have people go outside, breathe the fresh air, play with kittens - I don't know - whatever people would do if they could stay outside an extra hour in the sun. In recent decades, DST has been kept continually to conserve energy; less lights used - less energy consumed; it all adds up to good stewardship of resources. But frankly, it leaves me baffled. Originally, the first thinkers of DST wanted to add 20 minutes every Sunday in April and subtract twenty in September. Imagine how that actually could have been accomplished. Half the people would be twenty minutes late for everything. Ah, now I understand what happens on Sunday mornings!

I don't like DST; but my ire is not as great as my wife's who loves to sleep in in the morning. A night owl, she is, and staying up late and arising late is the pattern, the rhythm that works best for her. We do develop our own patterns and ruts that correspond to the endless circling and spinning around the sun. And when those patterns of life are interrupted, it is a jarring slap to the face. And, if we don't adapt to the corresponding newness of time, we will miss something very important (in my case, worship).

In the book of Mark, the first chapter, Jesus is baptized by John in the Jordan river - then, he is led by the spirit out into the wilderness where it seems that he is brought to the realization that life from this point on will be much different. His baptism and subsequent testing are a preparation for his true life's work which he tells all of Israel in John 10, "For this reason the Father loves me, because I lay down my life in order to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have power to lay it down and I have power to take it up again. This command I have received from my Father."

Jesus' directive is to lay down his life for the all the sheep of the world and in this wilderness experience, in his testing, he finds the strength and power to understand the will of God. He is, I would think, jarred to his soul. The first thing he does after is his baptism is to go speak to the people. His first thought is to speak about the good news which is this, 'The Time is come (in other words, daylight saving has come; a new era of light has come into the world.) and the kingdom of God has come near! Repent and believe in the good news!"

The light has come into the world! Wake up! Don't miss it! Don't be sleepy while waiting for the savior. Wake up or the kingdom of God might pass you by (and for my own reference, the kingdom of God is not necessarily a place, but the person of Jesus).

But how is it that we wake up? How do we shake off the grogginess of the patterns of behavior that we are locked into? How do we scrape the sleep out of our eyes and climb out of the ruts that hold us entrenched?

Jesus says, "Repent." I think in many cases repent has become a very negative word. It usually is brought forth with a great pointing of the finger, a tongue wagging, someone much holier than me who looks at my sin, neglecting his or her own and shouts in my face, "Sinner! Repent! Say you're sorry for your sin!" My response is to look into to his or her eye and stare at the log that is jammed in it and turn back to myself. This pejorative interpretation of the word 'repent' has turned thousands of people away from Christianity and woefully caused a great amount of anxiety in a world longing to believe but one that can only see hypocrisy.

Jesus word, and the focus of his message, "Repent," is in the most positive sense. Repent means to turn back from the things that would cause you to miss the light that is rising. Turn away from that which hinders your ability to have life and to have it abundantly. 'Repent' is not just asking for forgiveness but acting as if you have been forgiven!

But we must also remember that we can never take Jesus words out of the continual sense of community that belongs in the body of Christ. When Jesus says repent, he is not talking to each person individually, but to the whole community. What we must always remember is that each one of our sins affects other people. We cannot isolate ourselves - insulate our lives - beyond the margins of life together. Thievery, adultery, coveting, killing - never affect only the person who succumbs but those who are injured. "Repent!" Jesus says - turn away from those things - live together in community - live together in life abundantly. Repentence is more about my neighbor than it is about myself. For the body to be healthy, the parts need to be holy.

And then believe in the good news. The light of the world has risen. Bask in it; breathe it in. Frolic in the freedom of an extra hour. Repent, not in the guilt of sinning, but in the loosening of the yoke - the weight is taken upon him whose burden is light. Believe this good news.

The Kingdom of God is near! Get out of the rut! Repent!

A Day in the Life

2009-02-27T09:43:00.002-06:00

Today is my birthday.

February 27th - I should say today is our birthday - we were born thirty-six years ago in the large metropolis of Blue Earth, Minnesota. Ryan, Vikki and I were born three days late; my sister, the largest, tipping the scales at 6 1/2 pounds and Ryan and I managing a mere 4 1/2. Imagine that - if you will - fifteen pounds of kids in one belly. It all seemed rather large until I saw the mortifying picture of the mother who was pregnant with septuplets. Her belly looked like a gasoline tanker; I had to resist my gag reflex. I did always tell Christine that she looked beautiful when she was pregnant, though.

As I reflect back on this life of mine, I'm trying to ponder what has changed most since the 1970's. Many would say it's the music - digitally compressed files packed with digitally enhanced voices paired with digitally enhanced videos; it all seems so fake now. Gone are the disco kings and queens who made us (perhaps I'll speak for myself), me, want to shake my groove thing, yeah, yeah, yeah. Although by the time the disco was closing shop, I was all of five years old and I didn't even know what a groove thing was.

Some might say that the biggest change is in how information is passed. I am just old enough to remember when there was an actual dial on the phone and it took approximately a minute to call my friends, especially if they had a lot of zeroes or nines in their phone numbers. The phones were connected to the wall by a chord - there was a large fascination for me to curl the cord around my finger as I talked on the phone. In my home town of Rake, we didn't even need to dial the first three digits; since the town was so small, we only had to dial four numbers. The computer has changed the world, I know. All that information at our fingertips. I can type in a word on Google and have billions of hits in less than a second. I remember in high school writing papers and having to finger my way through the encyclopedia to look up the gestational period for the hoary marmot (it took me most of one study period). I also distinctly remember when there were only three channels to be had on the television. Perhaps because we lived in a rather remote section of Iowa, and the airwaves were a bit thinner (that's my assumption), we could only get PBS and two CBS channels. People always talk about the Cosby Show, but I have no recollection because the NBC station was too far away. My television experience from the younger years bounced back and forth between Dukes of Hazard and Love Boat. Also the early morning Saturday cartoon experience watching "Cartoon Olympics" and "Superfriends." Now the cartoons are for mature audiences. What's happening in the wild world of sports.

Speaking of sports, they've changed a bit too. Instead of athletes making a decent living, many of them earn (I use that term very lightly) more than the GNP of many small countries. I just found out this morning that Manny Ramirez turned down 45 million dollars for two years because he feels that he would be underpaid. Everything about that situation makes me want to scream and boycott any type of baseball for the next fifteen years. But, I won't. I am addicted to baseball and I will only inwardly scream and then hope the guilt goes away while I watch the Mets blow another September lead. Our sports addiction is fed by the media. For twenty-five years we have had ESPN - imagine that, one whole channel dedicated to just talking heads talking about sports. In college it was so bad that I would watch the same ESPN program two times in a row just in case I missed something before it. I'd also even watch ESPN if they were broadcasting the national spelling bee. Sports? Not necessarily, but that doesn't mean it's not a competition for which I can yell for the underdog to win.

These things have changed, perhaps, but one aspect that has evolved the most (in a negative way) is community. Remember when there were block parties, or card parties, or simply picnics when a whole community was invited? Where have those days gone? Well, I think I have a few answers and you can disagree with me if you want to.

1. Kids are busier than they have ever been before. Parents place kids in dance, sports, music etc. so early now, that the family is simply left gasping by all the places they need to drive them. this problem is driven by the need to succeed and where the parents failed in the past; they live out their dreams vicariously through their children. "I never was able to make it to the state championship basketball game," one parent might say, so he has them dribbling a basketball obsessively when the child is four months old. It's the Tiger Woods syndrome, I think. Tiger started golfing when he was two - even on the Johnny Carson show - and now every parent wants their child to be a prodigy of some sort.

2. Information technology has destroyed face-to-face communication. It is now thought that seventy-five percent of youth are not able to carry on a conversation with an adult and look them in the eyes when they speak. The cell phone has slain any sort of communication. And now that text-messaging is rampant, youth and adults no longer need to hear the voice of the other person. Even if we want to, we no longer know how to talk to each other. Instead of talking about important events in our lives - to share kids birthdays, special events, even just a meal, it now seems like work to many people and it's much easier to stay at home and be sedated by our television sets or computer screens.

3. Eating together is non-existent. A recent study suggests that an average family will sit down to a home-cooked meal once per week. Throughout the ages, this is where most family communication occurs. Taking time to prepare a meal, taking time to sit and discuss the day - these things are passe. Because we don't eat as a family, most of us no longer eat as a community either, which is one of the main reasons a community of faith is so important - eating together reaches into our innermost self and reminds us that at heart, all of us were made to be in community together.

4. Lastly, we are what we earn. The more money we make, the more important we are. People spend more time at work so that they can spend more money on a house that they are never in. There is no such thing as a nine to fiver anymore. Our value is translated by our work habits not our connections. It is the appropriate time in human existence, I believe, to refocus the community back to its roots - the greatest things in life are not things but relationships.

There is a bit of soap-boxing on my 36'th birthday. I was in the mood to take a sentimental journey and am looking forward to attempting ways to counter-act the four anti-social points that I sometimes add to my own life. Keep strong and have an excellent February 27th.

The Way of the Dodo

2009-02-13T13:27:00.003-06:00

A few weeks ago, I ran across an article expounding on the different aspects of life that are becoming obsolete or extinct. Of course we can all think of a few that have occurred in the last ten years: typewriters, eight-track cassettes, manual transmission cars, but the list from the Washington Post was a bit more exhaustive. Here is a list of a few of the things that Anna Jane Grossman brings forth as leaving - the way of the dodo:

Maps: With new GPS technology, folding maps has become a thing of the past. No more expletives when trying to figure out which section is folded first or finding the most direct route to towns that might not even appear on the map itself. Plus, it's much more fun to listen to a GPS system tell you to 'TURN AROUND NOW!!!" I think they even come with GPS systems for men which tell us "Now you'll never again have to pretend you know where you are going."

Cash: This is a true head-scratcher to me, but our society may be in the last throes of money that folds in wallets or jingle lingle lings in your pocket. For the first time in history it now costs more to make the money than it is worth. So - plastic. But, fear not, plastic in the next ten years will also become instinct. Cell phone technology will probably increase so much that all banking transactions will be done on the phone. Another interesting detail about a cash-less society is that even the most iconic of games, Monopoly, has now switched to cash-less. Each person is given a credit card and the banker swipes the card every time a transaction is made. Only the banker and the buyer know how much money the player has left. And, instead of receiving $200 when passing 'Go', the player receives two million dollars. That's quite the increase in real estate value.

Blind Dates: What used to be the scariest of moments in a single person's life, is now a little more under control. Because we are a 'googling' society, we can find out exactly what our blind date is like even before we accept the uncomfortable pressure from our parents.

Short shorts: Although these shorts, thankfully, went out of style in the early 1990's, they actually weren't buried until John Stockton retired from the NBA. Although, as recently as 2006, at a retro-throwback game between the Lakers and the Celtics, the Lakers wore short basketball shorts. Here was the quote from Kobe Bryant, star of the Lakers whose team was losing dreadfully at halftime: "I don't know what it feels like to wear a thong, but I imagine it feels like what we had on in the first half. I felt violated. I felt naked." Ah, remember the days. My high school basketball uniform shorts were so tight, it looked like I was wearing only my underwear. No wonder we lost so many basketball games.

Cassette tapes: They went out of style quite a while ago; CD's took over and hadn't really given up the ghost. But not only were tapes popular back in the 80's so were 'mix tapes.' Perhaps all of you gen x'ers can remember waiting for the top 9 at 9 to hear your sweet love muffin in 7th grade dedicating a song by Chicago or Styx. By that radio you would sit and as soon as the DJ would start to announce the dedication, you would press record on your 'boom box' which was as big as a hatchback car. Then, after recording Richard Marx's "Hold on to the Night," you would try to add a few other songs that would help you get through the day. Maybe "Money for Nothin'" or "We Built This City on Rock and Roll." What about "Heart of Rock and Roll." Sheesh. It's like taking a stroll through music's hall of shame. I remember when I was about ten years old, while we were eating family supper, I would take out the tape recorder, set it in front of the television and record the music from "Solid Gold." It wasn't quite the same without the dancers, but I was unusually hypnotized by Dionne Warwick.

So many treasures of the past become useless or else simply irrelevant with new technology. One of the startling beauties of the past that seems to be going the way of the dodo is prayer. More and more I talk to people about prayer life and they say that they either find prayer outdated or useless, or else they just don't have time. They don't see the purpose and more than one person has said, "God already knows what I want and He'll give it to me if He wants to." Prayer has been relegated to a role of polishing Aladdin's lamp and expecting a handsome thirty-three year old Jesus to come dancing out of the spout to address the concerns of daily monetary conditions, not just daily bread.

The confirmation class and I were talking about this very question just this last weekend. They now wonder if God really listens or if we should just pray when we are expected to like bedtime. "Now I lay me down to sleep..." or the speed prayer at meal time. During the rest of the day we're on our own. But C. S. Lewis and others liken prayer not just to asking God for what we want but allowing God to share with us what we need most. Sometimes we don't' even know ourselves. Prayer is not changing God's mind but allowing God to change us so that we realize we depend on Him for everything. When we think about our relationship with parents or guardian growing up, often they provide all of our needs without asking or even thanking. But imagine the shock if a child were to ask and thank their parent for everything that was given to them? What would happen if my own children were to thank us for the roof over their heads, the meals in front of them and the books that grace their rooms? Imagine my delighted shock and then my willingness to give even more to make them happy.

Isn't it so with God? If we were to ask and thank God for all the things to come, imagine how much more blessed we are in realizing that God does this simply because He loves us. Just through prayer. And the more we pray, the easier it becomes - the conversation is not limited to bedtime or mealtime, but lifetime - one long dialogue between the holy one of the universe and a minuscule human like me. It is hard to imagine.

So, if the option arises for you, don't let your prayer life go the way of the dodo. It is not obsolete; in fact, it is so incredibly important, that living without it is like living with shortened breaths. Pray, my friends. Pray.

Sleeping Beauties

2009-02-05T10:46:00.002-06:00

I have a friend, Roger, who called and complained to me that he has yet to end up in one of my blogs. Roger, by nature, is neither a complainer (nor a frequent caller, for that fact) but an excellent friend who is delusional about his basketball abilities. He's into old age now; in his fifties - old enough to be my father, or at least older uncle. Roger is one of those unique people in life that bring memories alive - not that he is a living fossil, I would never say that - at least not to his face, but the memories he brings forth are opportunities for us to smile and remember that life really is connected by moments of joy.

Roger is the principal of elementary schools in Waverly, Iowa. He is of average height, skinny, but not stick figured; my memories of him still picture him with brown hair but as of this age, I would guess salt and pepper is more likely. He has a smile that starts on one side of his face and then spreads to the other, kind of like the sun rising; the way he speaks is a constant sort of amusement to me - sarcasm, but not the biting kind - more like the bouncing kind (it bounces off me like water on a duck). His intelligence is apparent and kindness is evident (I'm stroking his ego a bit here). To put it simply, after years apart, Roger doesn't change - and that's a good thing.

Roger, as we were talking the other day, brought up his disastrous summer last year when the flooding of the Cedar River ravaged Waverly and the school district. Irving Elementary School lay underwater; its bathing produced devastating effects and Roger was left trying to relocate all of the children in his school to some other place. When disaster occurs, of course the first thing that is sacrificed is sleep. From what I hear from another friend, Roger seemingly didn't sleep for two weeks; his eyes looked like empty walnut shells - his body language suggested walking death. But like many Iowans last summer, Roger simply rolled up their sleeves and did what he had to do to save life as he knew it.

Even last night as I spoke with my spiritual practices class that one of the things that I take most for granted is sleep. I never really think about how great I feel after a good night of dreaming (or sometimes not dreaming), but when I don't get any sleep it feels as if the world may indeed come crashing down around my bed headed hair. Sleep is truly a gift - doctors might say it is the most necessary element to healing.

Even in one of the most famous fairy tales of all time, Sleeping Beauty, the main character, is put under a spell so that she might sleep instead of succumbing to illness and death. It gives new meaning to the phrase "getting some Beauty Sleep." Roger could really use some of that.

But we live in a society that seems to call a good thing bad and a bad thing good. I heard the other day a group of people bragging about how little sleep they get. One man said, "I average about six hours of sleep per night." "Oh yeah," said the woman, "I'm lucky if I get five. I go to bed at midnight and get up at five o'clock and begin work." The last man in the group looked at them with derision, "Four hours. That's all I need. I guess I'm blessed." It sounded like a demented episode of name that tune: "I can name that tune in four notes..." We consider ourselves blessed if we can get by on less sleep so that we can 'work' more. But, the studies show that the less sleep we get, the less productive we are. More hours of work does not necessarily increase productivity. It usually only lessens job satisfaction. But, we are a society that worships at the altar of work and bows down to the idol of ergomania. Those that work more are lifted up as ideal citizens; those that work 'only' forty hours per week are considered slackers.

Sad, really.

Many cultures around the world emphasize the need for rest - the need to replenish resources. Of course the traditional afternoon siesta in Spanish culture speaks to this. When Christine and I were in Germany in the mid '90's, some towns would shut down for two hours after lunch. A nap, at times, is not a luxury, but a necessity. Sleep is for healing and refreshing the soul. Take, for instance, Jesus modeling of retreating silence. Mark 1:32-34 Jesus spends his day having the sick and the demon possessed brought to him. After healing from the beginning to the end of the day, Jesus needs to retreat. So, in spite of the fact that not every person was healed, he gets up early in the morning to spend time in prayer - to be silent. Luke 8 also speaks of Jesus' need for sleep. The disciples have put out onto the Sea of Galilee and Jesus descends into the boat simply to sleep. Even the Son of God needs to rejuvenate.

My encouragement to you this week; in the midst of connecting joys in life - in the midst of stress and tragedy - look for sleep; look for rejuvenation; look for time in silence with God. Prepare for the days ahead.

Go ahead. You deserve a break today.

The Phone Call

2009-01-21T09:32:00.004-06:00

I hadn't talked to Aaron since his wedding which was about a year and a half ago. When the phone rang last night, I was on the treadmill, running, sweating profusely and trying to lie to myself saying it was all worth it. The insistent harshness of a phone is a burden to my sanity; it tears into my ear drums - interrupts all train of thought. In short, the phone generally puts me in a bad mood. One ring. Two rings. I ignored it (I just assumed Christine would get it as I was in the midst of something). After finishing my 'workout' (I always wondered why it was called that) I traipsed up the stairs, legs shaking, holding on to the railing for dear life and asked Christine who was on the phone.

"I don't know. I didn't answer it." She responded.
"Why didn't you answer it?"
"I was in the middle of something." I looked and saw that she was in her favorite reclining chair wrapped up in a blanket reading a book. She was caught up in the wonderful world of imagination, like good ol' Mr. Rogers used to say, and the insistence of the phone would not persuade her from her reverie. Annoyed - I noticed how I had placed more importance on my pastime than hers (I'm a selfish little beast sometimes), I went to check my phone and a blast from the past came up.

Aaron.

When I first met him Aaron was a long-haired, surfer dude, guitar playing, Minnesotan who had spent quite a bit of time in California. Almost all of his sentences were added with an emphatic word: "Man." For example: "You should have seen the great waves I saw in California, Man." or "I love these beans, Man." And my favorite "Yeah, totally, Man." I didn't actually know what that meant but it was usually stated after something positive happened in his life like playing an exciting guitar riff or eating at McDonalds.

Aaron and I hit it off instantly. He was the kind of 'rock star' that I had always wanted to be. As we were preparing to travel the country playing Christian rock and roll music, it was nice to have someone on our band that had actually played rock and roll music before. Oh wait, our drummer did, too, but the ladies and I were ignorantly unaware of what it meant to play rock music. My idea of rock in the early 90's was to throw some guitar into an MC Hammer song. Too Legit, Too Legit to quit - squealing guitar and then a few dance moves. I digress.

I joined the band as the bass guitar player having played all of three months for my jazz choir in college - now that's true rocking out. After a week of training, the three men on our team staying up late every night getting to know each other, we traveled to a place in South Dakota for even more team bonding and training. Our team, Watermark (truly a rock and roll name if you've ever heard it - but I suppose it's better than Captive Free - I hope I don't get accosted for saying that. I suppose it's like having a rock band called Savage Garden: that's a real scary name.) we all rode in the same 8 passenger van laughing and talking for the 12 hour drive to the remote western parts of South Dakota, Lee Valley ranch to be exact.

As we entered the ranch, the sun greeted us. It was almost like taking our own personal vehicle into the Garden of Eden. All the teams (12 teams about 80 people) exited the vans and glanced around in dropped-jawed wonder. The smell of pine trees was overwhelming; it was quiet except for the groaning, grunting stretching that was emanating from disembarking passengers. The director of the camp told us that we would each be staying in our own personal tents on wooden flats with mattresses. He happened to say that not all mattresses are equal and forgetting one of the greatest of Jesus' sayings "The first shall be last and the last first" Aaron looked at me and said, "The first shall be the first to get the best mattress, Man." And off he sped across the valley toward the little white abodes in the trees.

We secured for ourselves two of the best and, it so happened,we were right next to each other. After staking our claim we went back to the van to retrieve or things and placed them in the tents - setting up tent, if you will, placing our bags and necessities in proper positiosn. We were going to be there for a week.

As it so happens, there were so many things to do at Lee Valley that at times I forgot to do things that had been natural for the first 22 years of my life. I forgot to brush my hair, I forgot to change clothes (I had a perpetual pair of overalls that eventually stood up by themselves) and I decided that bathing was optional. I justified it by telling myself I was preserving the environment by not using so much water.

Throughout these days of, what now seems, bliss, Aaron and I decided to play some practical jokes on each other. First there were venial sins that could be forgiven with great ease - pine cones in the sleeping bag, dirt in the orange juice - easy stuff. But then, trying to outdo each other, Aaron ramped up the 'sin' and went directly to mortal. I didn't know this until that moment, but if you put raisins in someone else's toothpaste, the raisins absorb the toothpaste and get stuck in the tube thus denying the owner a chance to cleanse ones chompers. Well, Aaron snuck into my tent one afternoon after procuring a few raisins from lunch. When I went to brush my teeth at night found that I would be borrowing toothpaste from someone else. As I went to borrow from Christine (we hadn't been romantically involved yet, but there was still a stirring somewhere in the pit of my stomach), I could hear Aaron giggling away with his braying, donkey like laugh.

I vowed revenge.

The next night before sleep, Jill, another one of our teammates, and I dug up some earth worms and placed them under Aaron's pillow. As Aaron went to bed that night, we silently waited outside his tent and then the sound, "Aaaaah!!!" a rustling and then the giggling started. I can't actually tell you what he mumbled under his breath, but it was funny to hear him deal with his own conflicting emotions. Jill and I covered our mouths and headed back to our own respective tents thinking that I had finally gotten the best of him.

All was forgiven in the morning and a few days past. Every once in a while I would catch Aaron staring at me, expectantly as if waiting for something. Finally, when he could contain himself no longer, he approached me sniffing the air. "Don't you ever take a shower, Man?"

As the rules of my life had changed, and laving had become optional, I said, "I'll get to it soon."
"You stink, Man."
"Fine, I'll go and shower." Off to the barn I went (strangely enough, the showering area was in an old shed). After washing off the dirt and grime from the week I went back to my tent and I happened to notice Aaron sitting in his tent peeking out the zippered door like a prairie dog examining the outer world from his burrow.
"What are you looking at?" I asked.
"Nothing, Man." He was smiling like a fox in front of a chicken house.
I entered my tent and proceeded to change. Then, I took my deodorant from my toiletries bag and took off the cap. There, to my horror, was one of the worms that we had put under Aaron's pillow. The worm had absorbed the chemicals from the deodorant and turned a beautiful aquamarine color. The smell was revolting.

"AARON!!!!" I shouted. All that I heard from the short distance was the hyenic laughter and zipper being opened quickly. I showed him the corpse.
Through his laughter I said, "You've committed murder. That's one of the commandments, Mister. You've just purchased a one way ticket to hell." Aaron held up his hands. "Nuh uh. YOU committed murder. If you would shower more than once this week, the worm would have been saved." I smiled at him. He smiled back.

There truly is nothing like a good friend.

We gave the worm a proper Christian burial with music and prayers.

So I got a call from Aaron. It had taken him a long time to settle down and get married; and when it finally did, he married a wonderful woman, Beth, from Wisconsin.

I called him back and even the way he answered brought back a flood of emotions of every memory from almost fifteen years ago. The same cadence to his voice, the same inflections - the same laughter. His voice was almost like being wrapped up in that old blanket that you've kept in a drawer for a while. Good friends are people who, when you talk to them after an extended period of time, never forget where the conversation stopped. I realized that I'd missed him without realizing I'd been away from him. In some ways, all good friends and family take up residence inside your heart and arrange themselves in their own personal tents. They set up shop, placing favorite memories within easy reach. My memories of Aaron keep getting better after all these years. I would guess that all of you have specific people that keep getting more beautiful with age. And that is one of the rare beauties and mysteries of life: the imprints of other people on your own soul.

Aaron called to say that he and Beth are expecting a child. I am so happy for the world to get a replicate of a good friend of mine.

Sometimes life really is good.

A Fairy Tale

2009-01-15T09:52:00.002-06:00

Josephine and Greta were sitting in the bath the other night having a merry old time a-splishing and a-splashing. After fifteen minutes or so, a blood-curdling scream emanated from the bathroom. Christine ran to the bathroom, opened the door, noticed the sopping wet floor and shouted, "What's wrong?" Her fear had her imagining the worst.

Josephine's face was bloody and Christine hurried over to her. No crying, but she and Greta were frantically searching the through the water. Josephine looked up at Christine and said, "I lost a tooth." As she smiled, the gaping hole in her lower bite gave evidence to the fact that incisor was indeed lurking somewhere in the water.

As is our tradition, each of the girls has a small, tooth-shaped felt container that holds the tooth that has been freed. The night of ortho-dopsy, the girls will place their tooth in the toothholder and then place it under their pillow in hopes that the Tooth Fairy will come during the middle of the night to place a little present where the tooth was.

The Tooth Fairy is debatably an American character. Interestingly, the idea of hiding baby teeth after they have fallen out is customary world wide - and from much earlier traditions. I'm adding a few that really piqued my interest.

In Europe, mothers and fathers would bury the baby teeth outdoors in hopes that in its place adult teeth would grow. But, they also buried the teeth to keep it out of the hands of witches. If a witch were to get their hands on a baby tooth (or fingernail clipping or hair, for that fact), they would place a curse on the previous owner of the body part. Nice. Nothing like scaring kids witless when they lose a tooth. It's bad enough trying to convince kids that they are not dying when they recognize their first bowel movement.

In other parts of Europe, specifically France and Italy, the Tooth Fairy is not a 'fairy' (think Tinkerbell) in the traditional sense but a mouse. As the story goes in French "La Bonne Petite Souris" (the Good Little Mouse) a wonderful queen decides to punish an evil king by placing a mouse under his pillow where thereby the 'good little mouse' will torture the evil king and knock out all his teeth. In lowland Scotland, it's not a mouse, but a white, furry rat that hides under children's pillows to wait for them to go to sleep. Then, after the youth is fully asleep, the rat will produce a coin or treat from somewhere to replace the lost tooth. This is where our American tradition comes from, although I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea of telling my kids there is a rat underneath their pillow.

Lastly, in parts of certain Asian countries: India, Korea and Vietnam, the child who has lost his or her tooth will take the tooth and place it somewhere in (or on) the house. According to tradition, if the tooth is lost from the lower jaw, the tooth is tossed onto the roof of the house. If, from the upper jaw, the tooth is placed in a crack in the floor. As it is hidden, the youth will shout into the air "bring me a mouse's tooth instead." Strange. But for good reason. Everyone knows, of course, that rodents' teeth do not stop growing. If you have mice teeth in your mouth, they will never get worn down, right?

You know what, I'm pretty comfortable with establishing a nice little 'fairy' tale about a man who comes in the middle of the night to take the old tooth and put a nice present under their pillow. Whether the man is wearing a tutu or a muumuu, whatever it takes, is a perfectly acceptable way to help kids deal with the pain of loss. But the visual is good for me in a different way.

If you are anything like me, I, many times put my thoughts beneath my pillow at night. All the worries and the cares that have stacked up, have worried me through the day, are placed beneath my head. In my prayers, I often will ask God to come take away the old, the distressing, the cares that seem too heavy and replace them with gifts like peace, joy, patience, kindness, - you can look up that list. Of course, God is not the tooth fairy, and not a fairy tale for that fact, but the results for me are similar. When I wake up, usually I will feel refreshed, not just be sleep, but the ability of God to take something of my immaturity and turn it into maturity. I love the fact that I still say the prayer with the girls, "Now I lay me down to sleep..." At night, I place everything into God's hands including the deepest recess of my soul. Even if that moment comes and life as I know it leaves, well, what a gift waits for me under the pillow.

Enjoy life - tomorrow has enough worries of its own.

My Gift

2009-01-09T09:46:00.003-06:00

C. S. Lewis writes eloquently about his thoughts on Christmas:

"Three things go by the name of Christmas. One is a religious festival. This is important and obligatory for Christians; but as it can be of no interest to anyone else... The second (it has complex historical connections with the first, but we needn't go into them) is a popular holiday, an occasion for merrymaking and hospitality. If it were my business to have a 'view' on this, I should say that I much approve of merrymaking. But what I approve of much more is everybody minding their own business. I see no reason why I should volunteer views as to how other people should spend their own money in their own leisure among their own friends. It is highly probable that they want my advice on such matters as little as I want theirs. But the third thing called Christmas is unfortunately everyone's business.
I mean of course, the commercial racket... I condemn it on the following grounds:

It gives on the whole much more pain than pleasure. You have only to stay over Christmas with a family who seriously try to 'keep' it (in its third, or commercial, aspect) in order to see that the thing is a nightmare. Long before December 25 everyone is worn out - physically worn out be weeks of daily struggle in overcrowded shops, mentally worn out by the effort to remember all the right recipients and to think out suitable gifts for them. They are in no mood for merrymaking; much less (if they should want to) to take part in a religious act. They look far more as if there had been a long illness in the house.
Most of it is involuntary. The modern rule is that anyone can force you to give him a present by sending you a quite unprovoked present of his own. It is almost a blackmail. who has not heard the wail of despair, and indeed resentment, when, at the last moment, just as everyone hoped that the nuisance was over for one more year, the unwanted gift from Mrs. Busy (whom we hardly remember) flops unwelcomed through the letter-box, and back to the dreadful shops we go.
Things are given as presents which no mortal ever bought for himself - gaudy and useless gadgets, 'novelties' because no one was ever fool enough to make their like before."

C. S. sounds like a bit of Dickens' Scrooge, but in many aspects, he has nailed the very head of my feelings about the Christmas traditions of presents. But, when I was young boy, my attitude was much different. Giving a gift, no matter how small or insignificant, to someone else was a source of great joy from me. And receiving a gift - that was true pleasure. Gifts, not necessarily at Christmas, and not necessarily gift-wrapped, are a symbol of love. Christmas gift giving may have turned into a symbol of corporate greed and fiscal insanity, but the gift giving without hope for recompense makes the world go round.

The other day, a very close friend of mine received a package in the mail. The address from the sender was from her 'boss.' My friend (who we will name "Kristin") happens to sell kitchen cookware and accessories for the company of this 'boss.' Anyway, inside the package was a letter and a 'gift.' The letter congratulated Kristin for selling $15,000 worth of products and for her reward or 'gift' Kristin received a small, silver colored, one-half inch plastic cooking whisk that could either be affixed to Kristin's coat or worn as a necklace. (Why anyone would put a chain through a plastic cooking utensil and wear it around her neck is beyond me, but I'm also clueless why someone would push a perfectly good earring through their tongue)

I looked at Kristin and said, "Are you joking? For selling $15,000 of product they give you something that came out of an arcade gallery. You know, those little machines that have the claw - it makes a growling noise as you move it around and then drops on top of a yellow, plastic ball once every ten times. That is your reward for serving and selling?"

Kristin held up the little plastic whisk with a smile on her face. "Silly boy. This isn't about the gift; this is a symbol of me being proud of my accomplishment. My boss didn't need to send me anything."

"So do you have to send her anything in return - a piece of Tupperware or maybe spoon she can wear for a hat?" Nothing like sarcasm in the winter.

Kristin simply rolled her eyes.

"Won't you feel guilt if you don't send her something in return? Isn't that the point of thank you letters? To even out the balance - gift for thanks?"

"I might do that," Kristin responded. "For all gifts, thanks ensure good relationship."

"Next time tell her you want the gift that fits in your wallet. Maybe a %5 increase in your commission."

Kristin put the whisk down. "You don't get it. The gift is enough. And, by the way, this better not end up in one of your blogs."

I took the half-inch sized whisk from her hand and tried to scramble my eggs for breakfast.

I think many times God gives us gifts and we tend to treat them more like C.S. Lewis' understanding of the unfortunate side effects of capitalistic Christmas, than Kristin's thankful response for enjoying the job she's been given. Sometimes when God gives us gifts we feel like we must exhaust ourselves finding the perfect way to pay him back. If only I could do enough good things for other people, then God would be thanked enough. Or (this is my thought process usually) if I do enough for God, then the gifts are going to keep coming. Like the "Gift of Jafar" or whatever that book was a few years ago that spoke of asking God for whatever you want and if you're faithful enough, He'll give it to you. "Prayer of Jabez" - that's it. Give to God and he'll multiply it so you will be rich, have a great big house and be the envy of your sub-division.

Or, when God gives us some gifts, its almost an invitation that God wants us to help in a way that is outside our comfort zone. A friend of mine just learned how to play the guitar. She was really enjoying it (this is not Kristin, by the way - I have more than one friend, remember George?) but once she got the hang of it, someone asked her if she would play for church. Then, my friend politely stopped playing the guitar because she couldn't envision actually playing for someone else (which in my opinion is perfectly fine) but perhaps God can use her even in the midst of her fears of failure.

Lastly, sometimes a gift of God is what we deem gaudy or useless. I have often heard people say that they have no talent - that God hasn't blessed them with anything. But often, when people say that they are talent-less, they are simply comparing themselves to others who have talents that are promoted as more desirable. All gifts from God are useful and can be utilized in a way that only God can show us how. But, it's a matter of discerning in what way God can use our usefulness.

Our Savior's is in the process of trying to understand the gifts that God is giving each one of us. "Finding Your Place" is what it is being called. In the body of Christ, our gifts are used to promote the greater good. Not everyone can be teachers or preachers, musicians or leaders, sacristans or ushers - but all gifts need to be utilized to help the Body of Christ to be a moving, living entity. A wise man once said, "If it doesn't move, the odds are, it's probably dead." His name was Captain Obvious.

So, here is my encouragement this week: take a few moments this week - be silent and listen for the expression of the gifts of God in your life and hear how He wants you to use them. Read, pray and if you want to, let me know what gift God is pressing into your hands. Find your place to serve.

Have a great week.

reid

Again! Again!

2009-01-02T08:45:00.003-06:00

C. S. Lewis writes, "Many religious people lament that the first fervors of their conversion have died away. They think - sometimes rightly, but not, I believe, always - that their sins account for this. They may even try by pitiful efforts of will to revive what now see to have been the golden days. But were those - the operative word is those - ever intended to last?

It would be rash to say that there is any prayer which God never grants. But the strongest candidate is the prayer we might express in the single word 'encore.' And how, exactly, should the infinite repeat Himself? All space and time are too little for Him to utter Himself in them even ONCE.

And the joke, or tragedy, of it all is that these golden moments in the past, which are so tormenting if we erect them into a norm, are entirely nourishing, wholesome, and enchanting if we are content to accept them for what they are, for memories."

Lewis' words almost always convict me - they find me in my little hiding space, content with where I am, and push me out into the open. His gift for choosing the most appropriate at the most opportune time astounds me and I am left with a feeling that I need to do some serious thinking about my life. Do you ever feel like that? After reading, or hearing a piece of music, perusing a painting - do you ever feel like your perception of life has been tweaked, even just a bit?

For example, how many times have I said to God, "I realize that you were very close to the people of the Old Testament. Visually, you were in their sights; vocally, you were in their ears. Why can't you do that for me? Why don't you show yourself, sound off - especially with regards to all the evil that occurs in the world. Just SHOW YOURSELF and take out all the unknowns for the world!"

Jeremiah says it best (chapter 12) You will be in the right, O Lord, when I lay charges against you; but let me put my case to you. Why does the way of the guilty prosper? Why do all who are treacherous thrive? You plant them, and they take root; they grow and bring forth fruit; you are near in their mouths yet far from their hearts. But you, O Lord, know me; you see me and test me - my heart is with you.

So often, I speak to God is I should always be first and foremost on his list of people to listen to. Like Jeremiah, I am quick to point out anyone else that I feel is affronting God. It is as if I see myself as God's most trusted advisor, whispering in His ear what He should be doing next. If you've ever seen the Lord of the Rings, I am like Wormtongue speaking into the king's ear. Ugh.

So, all my yammering is about me. I want to see God. I want God to show Himself so that I can be convinced. I want God to speak to me - very vocally - so I am sure what He wants me to do this year. I want God to come in the form of (almost Wondertwinnish) any sort of conquering hero to break down corruption (which seems to be prevalent in the state of Illinois), murder (which is showing itself all over the world) and sin in general - which I want to be the definer of the term.

Therein is my sin and I haven't read my Bible anywhere near as closely as I should have. Even though God continued time and again to reveal Himself in many different ways, did the Israelites (or any others, for that fact) continue to take God seriously? Do our their senses, and our senses, realistically lead us to a greater faith in God? Maybe for a little while, but then it all starts to fade and we question once again, "Are you really there God? Did I just imagine your presence?"

Similar to the writing of C. S., when we first encounter the almighty in an almost physical way, whether seeing or hearing, we reach the mountaintop experience - a physical feeling, a manifestation of God who is very near us. But then the feeling fades, and we are left with a yearning for that gloried time, or place, and go back to it time and time again and ask again, "Encore, God. Encore. Do it again."

Christine and I went to some friends' home a few days ago. They have a daughter who isn't two yet and a son who is four. Evie, who previously looked at me as if I were a giant ogre, discovered that I was an excellent jungle gym. I would toss her in the air, over my shoulder, bounce her on my knee - whatever it took to make her happy - I love hearing the sounds of kids squealing with delight (reasonable decibel levels are always appreciated).

Evie, after having enjoyed my jungle gym-nosity, began to shout, while holding her arms in the air, "Again! Again! More magic tricks!"

It is the time of year, at the very beginning, where we have once again looked at the past year and assembled our little blocks of guilt. We resolve to dissemble the castle of guilt built so fastidiously the year before, and build up a new fortress of faith. Many people promise themselves that they will draw closer to God in 2009. Many yearn for a connection to the Almighty so that they can see the will of God in a very personal moment. Usually, though, those (myself included) people want God to come in a way that is easiest, or most palatable, which is usually conjuring up images of the way God came to them in the past. It is a resolution for God to act in the same way that brought us to the mountaintop and showed us the vastness of the good that is in God. But this year, is it possible that God will show up in completely unexpected ways? What would happen if we all let the memories be those 'nourishing, wholesome and enchanting' memories and let God break all boundaries? What if Jesus Christ, freshly re-energized in our hearts after Christmas, was given freedom to speak to us in word, sound or picture - perhaps especially in the voice of a loved one? Would this new year bring us closer to the faith that we all long for that is not connected by puppet strings to our past experiences?

Again! Again! I shout to God - but simply to love me again in a way that might be different - a new experience in these short trips around the sun. Again! Again! What are you going to show us this year, God?

The Little Drummer Boy

2008-12-23T09:06:00.004-06:00

It has been almost two months since I blogged (funny how that word has forced its way into the English language). One of my friends, who will remain unnamed, but I will give him the name George, wrote to me, "You had a nice Christmas letter, but that didn't make up for the fact that I Reid has been vacant for two months. Slacker."

Nothing like a nice little slice of guilt cake for the holidays, topped with a inch thick icing of sarcasm. Thank you, George.

George is one of my good friends and it pleases me to no end (perhaps even inflating my ego more that it should even though George, if he looks closely, could spell the word 'ego' out of his own name - I digress once again) that people are reading the blog and even more than one person has said they enjoyed it. What a nice little Christmas gift.

Another woman e-mailed me this week and asked about the history of the song "The Little Drummer Boy." Her question was, "I don't ever remember a story in the Bible about a young boy bringing a drum to play for the baby Jesus." Well, here is the rest of the story.

As the shepherds were tending their flocks by night, lo and behold an angel of the Lord appeared behind them, scaring them witless and said - "Go to the city of David and there you will find this day the Savior born, the one who is to be the Messiah." Of course the shepherds were extraordinarily frightened, but then a whole company of angels appeared in the sky playing their trumpets and singing loudly, "Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those he favors."

The youngest of the Shepherd boys, George, said to himself, "Himself, that brass section needs a drummer!" So George decided it was time to make for himself a drum, but what should he use? He couldn't very well use one of his own flock - the owner might not feel that was a good use of resources and surely he couldn't use tree bark. But then, as the angels were singing, he heard the sound of a ram caught in a thicket behind him. The ram's voice miraculously morphed into human, "I waaaant to be a baaaasssss drum." Thinking that this ram was heaven sent, young George took the ram and sacrificed it, taking the best parts for himself and his fellow sheep herders. George said, "Now that we are full, let us go to the town to see what thing has occurred."

The shepherds ran as fast as they could, over the rivers and through the woods. George stumbled once and fell, but the little drum stayed intact. His friend Richard helped him to his feet and said, "Hurry up, the Christ child doesn't have all day."

And so they ran faster until they reached the place that the angels had told them. A star shone high over head casting down a beam of light on the strangest of places. In the midst of the squalor and noise of a tiny town like Bethlehem, the rays of the moon came to rest on a stone cave, where, at the entrance, a mother and a new born were watching the festivities of the night. George and Richard pushed their way through the human mass, passed the animals in the streets and stood at the feet of mother and child. George looked at Richard and said, "Do you think this is the right baby?"
Richard said, "The baby would be wrapped in swaddling clothes so this is a pretty good bet."

George asked the woman, "Shall I play for you?" The woman smiled, not saying anything even though she secretly did not like percussion instruments. George said, "I call this song, 'Pa Rum Pa Pa Pum.' I'm not very good at lyrics, Miss. When I get some good words, I'll come back and play for you again." So, young George the shepherd, played his song "Pa Rum Pa Pa Pum" for the mother and child. The people of the town began to grow agitated and began shouting for an end to the one note symphony. "Be Quiet!" But George shouted back, "Go to sleep! I'm playing for the Christ child." George continued his monotonous bass beat until the baby Jesus became disturbed by his playing and began to cry. Mary wished that George would not play his drum any more but George and Richard had lulled themselves into a trance. So, the baby Jesus took matters into his own hands and reached out for the drum. George noticed that Jesus wanted the drum and he was very honored. So, handing the drum to Jesus, the savior reached out and touched the drum and it was once again turned into a living ram. All were startled except for Mary who pondered this in her heart.

Thus the little drummer boy lives in legend.

Thus this, of course - and hopefully very cheek full of tongue - is not legend or fact but hopefully a humorous way to introduce the most wonderful time of year - Christmas. The real message behind the littlest of percussionists is that a gift is not truly about volume but about substance. Jesus is faithfully committed to receiving all gifts even if they are not gold, frankincense or myrrh. What is important for me to always remember that the greatest gift that God wants of us is our hearts - for the essence of our love to be placed at the foot of the manger - that our lives are gathering of breaths that expel forth the air that proclaims "Glory to God in the highest!" And, from the knowledge that we are no longer subject to darkness of this world, we realize the light has come and we receive peace. Peace that passes all understanding. We don't need to place a Wii at Jesus feet, nor the newest thing in the catalog - not even a nice polo sweater for the little baby Jesus on a cold winter's night, even if those swaddling clothes are dirty and threadbare. No, just your heart. Just your love.

Return to the manger this Christmas and remember the gift of the Little Drummer Boy - it was not his drum playing, but his heart.

Trust Factor

2008-10-30T15:56:00.003-05:00

I have been doing some deep pondering lately about the idea of trust. Animals, by nature, are designed for distrust. They have sensors which allow them to always be prepared to fight or flee - they are wary that anyone, or anything, could be a predator. Some animals can't even trust their mates. Take, for instance, the praying mantis - imagine the male praying mantis spending his wedding night with his wife, they, in delirious joy consummate their marriage. He wakes up in the middle of the night and she is devouring his leg. He should have seen that coming. He should have put out a midnight snack for her. Alas, he just becomes part of the big circle of life.

Or what about certain crocodiles. The mother crocodile lays all the eggs, protects them from danger, watches them crack open and out spew the little crocodiles. Imagine her frustration when her mate comes round the corner whistling, "Boy, am I hungry," and grabs a few of his children for breakfast. Brutal. Animals are brutal. In a survival of the fittest world, most animals will go to extreme efforts to stay alive even if it means devouring the related competition.

There are certain animals that I don't trust. Take spiders, for example. The exterior of a spider is unappealing, for sure. Fangs, prickly legs, some of them even have the appearance of hair. Their fat, little bodies promise hidden grossness if they remain too long near me. Egg sacks hanging from the ceiling; spider webs drifting across my face as I go out to get the mail. Ugh. Some people would call my arachnaphobic lack of trust for spiders as irrational, but I find that almost all of my fears have a rational episode in my past for my lack of trust.

When I was ten years old, my family and I went camping with my grandparents. We had a glorious time running around in the outdoors; the trees smelled like dirty suitcases. The grass felt like a bed of scratchy softness. The air whisked through my hair as I ran, stumbling to play catch with my uncle and my siblings. It was so nice to get down and dirty.

At night, my parents told me to go to the bathhouse to take a shower. I grabbed my gear and gingerly crossed the gravel road in barefeet, the rocks seeming to poke holes in my soles. The cicadas were serenading me to the showers and I took my time - whistling, sometimes singing - looking around to see if there were any young ladies, you know how it is. I opened the swinging door, screeching, it slammed shut behind me. The showerhouse didn't have any lighting except the natural stuff that God creates. I showered, basically in the dark. Taking my time, I washed the grunge off the day and prepared to add more the next.

After the shower, I dried off and headed to the mirror to make sure that I had the part of my hair directly down the middle 80's style. Just as I was about to finish, I noticed something in my hair begin to move. Then, like a horror movie, I noticed that it was a daddy-long-legs spider dripping its way down my hair and then...then...it's... first...leg...hit...my...cheek...bone. I was revolted but I couldn't move a muscle - there this thing was taking its merry time going for a walk about my face.

The next thing that I realized was that my mouth was open and that I was screaming like a young lady. From that moment, I have learned not to trust any spiders and specifically those that want to use my face as a racetrack.

Our past informs our level of trust for things. I have a friend who was bitten by a dog when she was younger. Now she cannot even come near them. Another friend fell off a ladder; he cannot even stand near ladders now. Someone else I know saw the airplanes flying into the Twin Towers - she cannot even think about flying in an airplane.

Our lack of trust is not limited to animals or inanimate objects. Often, there are moments when we have been hurt emotionally, physically or spiritually by those closest to us. Whether intentionally or accidentally, our psyches and souls remember and carry scars and we are wary of repeating those incidents as coming close to a pot of boiling water. So I ask the question, "Why do humans trust at all?" If we are so prone to hurting each other, if we carry within us the ability and predisposition to harm others, why do we open ourselves to vulnerability?

That is the question I have been wrestling with lately. Someone once told me I had to earn their trust - they weren't just going to give it to me because someone else told them that I was trustworthy. So, I have taken that to mean that trust is somewhat of a commodity - something that is given away. Trust can be hoarded, kept to yourself. But what are the benefits of trusting someone else? Well, you are invited to write to me and let me know if I am way off base, but I view the benefits of trusting others are that four sets of eyes are better than two. When we trust others, we are trusting that they are looking out for our interests as well as their own. When we trust, we are allowing the other person to stand at our back and take care of us without fear of being stabbed. When we trust, we open up that box inside of us that allows others to become part of our being.

God created us to be in community. It is very difficult to be in community without trusting at least some of our fellow human beings. Without trust, we are individuals in a divided world. Without trust, our hearts begin to grow a hardened shell around them and some spark of life cannot light the fire - the ache to be special to, and protected by, someone else.

It is a hard thing, to trust. I invite you to pray about those whom you trust and those whom you mistrust this week and think again about the episodes in the past that don't allow us to trust and which create the hardened shell around our hearts.