A Different World

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.