The best day of her life

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

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

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

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'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!