The Beginning of the Story

A few weeks ago, one of my parents (who I won't name, but she probably wouldn't like that I'm telling this story) told me for the first time where I, well, perhaps I have to say we, were conceived. My whole emotional and psychological being screamed "TOO MUCH INFORMATION." I completely understand the relationship between sexual congress and conception, but for children, the spark of life is truly unreal until the parents drop that little tidbit into your lap. I'm can't even remember how we came to be speaking about how we came to be, but even speaking about it with my mother tells me how much life changes when you become an adult. Adults talk about adult things; we even laugh about the most important episodes of our lives.

My life began roughly nine months before February 27, 1973 in a place called...

I'm sorry, you'll have to ask my mother.

I shared spent my gestational months with two other people. Most fetuses have the luxury of introspectional time with their mothers during pregnancy. Mother's sing to their babies; they rub their bellies imagining where the head is; the father hopefully takes an interest in the mother's ever increasingly distended belly and tries to impart wisdom through the epidermal barrier. Not so during my time in the womb. I can only imagine that when my mother would sing, each one of the three of us would attempt to press our ears to the outer surface - perhaps near the bellybutton - straining to hear the songs of the 70's. Perhaps my mother was singing great classics like "Shake your Booty" or "Baby Don't Get Hooked on Me" by Mac Davis. I'm sure there was a tussle, a swinging of fists and Vikki would probably always have won since she didn't have to share the same placenta as Ryan and I.

I'm sure life was altogether different on the inside. For fetuses, that's all they know - they know 98.6 degrees, which at this point in my life is a little too warm. They know they are fed through a tube connected in their belly and the most satisfying part of the day is to suck on one's toes. How life changes; now I can't even touch my toes much less put them in my mouth. Supposedly my mother didn't know that she was going to have triplets until a week before we were born. Try to draw that fresco in your imagination - twenty-four year old mother, teacher, married less than two years, living in the frozen tundra of north central Iowa. In the last weeks of pregnancy, my mother went to live with friends in the town where the hospital was - my parents house was half an hour away from the delivery room. Imagine sitting in the doctor's office and he saying, "Mrs. Matthias, perhaps it's best if you sat down for a minute." For a woman having triplets, I think the most appropriate position is always sitting down. "Diane, we think there is another baby in there." Technology has certainly changed over the years. My mother knew twins were on the way but, Hello, how about finding another crib. The local newspaper, the Rake Register would declare, "RAKE POPULATION SWELLS BY 2 PERCENT: TRIPLETS BORN".

Every time I tell people that I was born as one in a set of triplets, inevitably - and I truly mean this, almost every person I have ever met has said, "Oooh, your poor mother." I, of course, cannot imagine carrying fifteen pounds of bouncing babies in my gut, nevermind suffering through hiccups and twelve appendages prodding all sorts of viscera that were never meant to be prodded. I cannot truly imagine going to the bathroom every seventy-five seconds because the bladder eventually shrunk to the size of a raisin. I can't imagine these things - but my mom had one thing going for her: instead of having a fifteen pound baby, she could break up the delivery into thirds; one baby girl 6 1/2 pounds - two boys, 4 1/2 pounds. So, mid-morning February 27, 1973, probably during the song "He Ain't Heavy; He's My Brother" the three of us witnessed our first day of life outside - Vikki first, then me thirty minutes later, and my brother taking his time five minutes after my arrival.

Linda Ronstadt wrote a song in 1978 called "Ooh Baby, Baby." For us she would have need to add an extra 'baby.'

People didn't feel as sorry for my dad but they should have. To this day, my dad has a phobia of strange smells and certain body functions. He gags when he sees baby poop. He scrunches up his face when a baby passes gas. He sticks his tongue out in distaste at spit-up. This is all so surprising because my dad was/is a doting father/grandfather. He loves kids and both my parents were exceptionally good at providing enough love to spread around that little triplet sandwich that they had brought into the world.

I'm not sure how much detail I should go into my first day on planet earth. Needless to say, and you will find out as I continue to write, I have difficulty writing in the first person singular. Rarely has there ever been an "I" almost always a "we" or "our". "We" had our birthday. "We" got Christmas presents. As Ryan and I are identical twins, I didn't receive my first individual gift that was different than my brother until I was married, I think. Perhaps I exaggerate a little, but I do remember racing to open presents on Christmas and birthdays because my aggregate set of presents was identical to my brother's. Whoever opened his present fastest was actually surprised - the other one was left to the ignominy of being the slower opener and unsurprised one.

Each story needs a beginning - an introduction to life, if you will, and so I have attempted to put our beginning into the open. (Notice, I wrote "our beginning" - it still remains.) In telling a testimony it's important to see where the roots are, just like looking at a tree or any other plant, if one can see the beginnings, sometimes it is evident what fruit will come forth.

The Little Things

"Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favorite things"

Some of you may recognize the lyrics. From one of the most beloved musicals of all time, "The Sound of Music," this song epitomizes finding the good things in life. As the nun in training, Maria, tries to the soothe the children during a thunderstorm, the words ring out to tense ears. "Finally, beloved, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you." (Philippians 4:8,9) Think about these things.

Christine and I have just returned from a holiday to the great Pacific Northwest. Spending time in Seattle and surrounding areas was an amazing experience. The grandeur of the crushing oceans, the grace of the orca whales, the magnificence of the volcanic mountains overloaded my senses to the point of glorious meltdown. If only it was possible to describe majesty.

Life, without reflection, feels somewhat meaningless, as if the very moments that pass in front of our eyes are simply stimuli to force us to breathe in and out. Reflection is the very essence of the human mind - you've heard it before "I think, therefore, I am." Think about these things, Paul says, in his epistle to the church in Philippi. I began to think about my vacation from the perspective of that which was pure and pleasing and commendable. Full of praise, I marvel at the very magnificence of the creation of God.

Two of our friends, Ben and Kendra (which, at times we have shortened their names to Bendra much to their chagrin, I think) drove us into the Cascade mountains for a hike. The vistas surrounding the drive were gorgeous. We bounded through forests, drove past lakes and watched the clouds separate the sky into fluffy quadrants. We passed one of the spectacular falls, Snoqualmie, to journey farther on. Nearer to our destination, Twin Falls, we once again gazed on the guardian of Seattle - Mt. Ranier. What makes Mt. Ranier so spectacular is it's singularity. As part of the ring of fire, the line of volcanoes that dot the NW coast of the U.S. like (excuse my vulgarity) pimples, Mt. Ranier stands like a silent, white headed sentinel. From miles away I could see the immensity of this rock. I'm absolutely positive that I was not the first one to glimpse Ranier, but when looking at the volcano, I felt as if I was the only one at that time.

We turned onto a gravel road, the tires and shocks making a rasping sound, as if the road wanted us to turn back. We wound our way to the trailhead and after visiting the local unloading place, the outhouse, we ventured towards the river to the falls beyond. Sometimes the knowing one's destination takes such overwhelming precedence that the path to get there becomes ignored. In my pressure to reach the beauty of the falls, I failed to notice many of the delicacies of creation. I will not, at this point, journey into the pithy and overused 'stop and smell the roses' writing, but to some extent I missed out on quite a bit of the hike simply because my eyes were hungry for the impressive. At some points it seemed as if we were running, stumbling, to the goal. We didn't have a lot of time so Bendra and we were hurrying towards the falls. In one interlude, a rest, we happened upon a wooden bench that gave us our first glimpse of the lower falls. At this altitude we could hear the roar of the beating water and it was mesmerizing to watch the mist float up and through the trees.

Stopping only to catch our breaths, we pressed on. Soon the roar was deafening and all talk stopped. The only communication was between creation and our senses. Then, suddenly, we were there. A bridge spanned the falls and we walked over to watch the water course through rocks and plunge fifty feet below. The rising mist cooled our bodies; the sun warmed them again instantly. It was all spectacular. These large falls were impressive - impressed upon my mind was the image of a never ending spectacle. The water had been falling for centuries, I would guess, and hopefully will be falling for centuries more. How long had those rocks been stranded on the precipice of the falls? How long had it taken for the stones at the bottom pool to be smoothed? How many days of sunshine had bathed this particular place?

As I continued to gaze across the dizzying falls, a flicker of movement scurried across my vision. A chickadee, or some other small bird (I confess that I am not an ornithologist) had alit on the branch of a nearby tree. Its little feet grasped a small branch avoiding the sharpened pine needles. And then it hit me: I had seen thousands of birds like this; I had spied thousands of pine trees; I have seen blue skies in my life - but how often do I notice the very details of creation that give it its spice? How often do I notice the little things?

Humans are notorious for wanting the biggest things. Commonly it's a status symbol. Christine and I often laugh about how everything is big in America. We've got big animals.. We've got big rivers. We've got big buildings. When we build houses, we don't build them for the amount of people that are going to live in them, we build them big enough to house how many people we can think about. There are more world records for being big than small. Just in case you wanted to know, the world's largest ball of popcorn is in Sac City, Iowa. It weighs 2,225 pounds.

12,000 people came to look at it in one state fair.

In 2006, the Clinton Station Diner in New Jersey created the world's larges hamburger. It was twenty-eight feet across and eleven inches thick. It weighed 105 pounds.

I could delve into the largest of everything, but it goes without saying that we have a fascination with big. But what I would like to suggest is, how would it be if we were fascinated with the medium to small. In the midst of a flock of eagles (if that is what it is called), does one ever notice the crow? In the midst of the redwood forests (need I even state that these are the world's tallest trees?) does anyone notice the little pine trees shooting up only a mere 100 feet? I am not suggesting that big is bad, but smaller is important also and as I stood and looked at the chickadee on its perch I began to notice the little things. We walked down to the pool, and as we stood in the water, I noticed small, brightly colored pebbles reflecting in the sun. As we walked back to the car, raspberries began to stand out against the canvas of green ferns. Moss on the trees offered a great amount of fascination. I began to walk much more slowly. I began to breathe a little deeper. I began to find the different scents of the woods - not just the big ones from the pine trees but the smaller ones like the smell of the mist and the moss. It was not so overwhelming.

As I have returned home, I am taking more notice of the medium and smaller things in life. I am walking slower even tthough life is going faster. I notice that Josephine has freckles on her nose now. I notice that Elsa's eyes are more of a golden color in the summer. I notice that Greta, my almost five year old, is stronger than I am. I noticed that there are more scratches on my car than I ever noticed before. And, I noticed that Christine is becoming more lovely by the day. (For those who don't want gush, I'm sorry, but it's our anniversary in two weeks and I'm trying to get in good.)

So, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence whether big, small or medium, think on these things and in the midst of your walk, slow down and the God of peace will be with you.

The Root of All...

Mowing my lawn has become somewhat of a fascination for me lately. I've never had my own lawn before. When Christine and I lived in Arizona, our lawn (and most of our neighbors') was made of colored gravel. Sure, when I lived with my parents, I spent part of every Saturday riding on a lawn mower around their two acre homestead. While listening to my Walk-man, Michael Jackson or Wham blasting through my padded headphones, I trimmed the grass, circled trees (as best as I could) and defied death trying to mow the ditches. For the most part, it was simply routine but I must confess, I wasn't really that worried about how straight my lines were or whether there was a little extra grass standing by the lilac bushes.

But now that I have my own lawn, I am a bit more meticulous. I must clarify. When I say a bit, I'm not confessing to murdering every strand of grass that grows against the fence, but I have been known to even mow the grass on a diagonal. In my own head I keep thinking that someone from the local baseball affiliate will come and ask me to mow their outfield. Talk about a great job. High stress, but great job.

In the last two weeks, though, I have let Elsa, my oldest daughter do some of the trimming in the front yard. My next door neighbor gave us his self-propelled lawn mower which makes it easier for her. But, it does tend to pull her forward like a dog on a leash waiting to find the next hydrant. She does a relatively good job except that the portion of the lawn that I have given her is full of roots from our maple trees. Over the years, the roots themselves still pass under the blades without being hacked into submission, but when the tires run over the roots, they cause the mower to go astray. Because I am a bit stronger than Elsa, I can keep the mower relatively straight. Elsa, being eight years of age, does not have the muscle to attack the roots. So, when she runs over them, they toss her and the mower to the side. Elsa's mowing rows look like waves on an ocean or some sort of pattern left by space aliens in a cornfield. I really don't mind the lawn pattern; I just like to watch her grow up.

But those roots intrigue me. From my little knowledge of horticulture, I always thought that tree roots should grow downwards. It seems as if every tree in our neighborhood has sent its hard tendrils onto the top of my lawn. Why won't they go down deep? Why don't they sink in to the water below?

I found the answer that question the hard way. Christine asked if I would dig a pit for the compost. No problem, I answered, but as my spade separated the grass and the topsoil, I noticed six inches down was gravel and hard clay. Flustered, frustrated and quite sweaty, I worked my way down a bit further. I gave up. It was too hard to penetrate deeper. I think my trees do the same thing. It's much easier for the roots to stay on the surface. Rain water is easier to collect on the top. The problem for the trees is, I think, that the reserves of water are deeper and when it is dry, the tree doesn't grow as fast.

This week a friend gave a newspaper article to me (and I have seen a few articles throughout the country in the last few weeks) regarding salvation and faith in the United States. It seems that throughout many of our denominations (and non-denominations) 70% of the people believe that there is more than one way to salvation, Jesus Christ just being one of them. Of course the statistics are based on a small minority of people interviewed but still frightening none-the-less. When I recall my Sunday School lessons from early on right up until today, I don't remember Jesus saying "I am the way, the truth and the life - for some of you" or "I am a way, a truth and perhaps the life for a small minority." But in our fast-food like culture, we want religion fast and easy. "C'mon, Pastor," some might say, "Just tell me what I need to get in to heaven and let me choose from whatever other spirituality to help me cope with my life." It's like a religious buffet: I'll take a bit of what I like from this religion, a dash of that, a healthy helping of grace and call it a meal.

It's all quite shallow, isn't it?

Seeking to send out spiritual roots, many of us (and I'll include myself at times) believe it's easier to stay shallow than to be changed. When things are going well, it's easier to to not dig through our tough clay-like hearts. It's easier to allow someone else to carry my cross. It's easier to drink quickly from the blessings than to dig deep and be sustained through the storms and dry seasons. We are a hard hearted animal, we humans. Constantly I pray that I can be taken deeper with God no matter the difficulty of breaking up my patterns of behavior or methods of thought. We, as Christians, need to struggle with the Word and what is says for our life. Will this be easy - I should think not - but the reward is what hopefully most of us crave for - an intense relationship with the living God, a flowing river into which we can sink our roots and be sustained.

May God grant you deep spiritual fulfilment this week.

Are You Dead Yet?

Unless you are 10 years of age or younger, a nap is a beautiful thing. Truly, there is nothing like falling asleep on my favorite sofa. Perhaps a nice comfortable spot on the floor, in the sunshine spread eagle as if to absorb every last moment of peace that a nap can bring. Some people collect memories of mountaintop experiences: climbing Everest, Bungee jumping a New Zealand Gorge, finishing a novel; I collect these things (not those exact things) but I also have a sorting house in my head of my favorite places that I have taken naps. Usually, I recall beaches or grass patches in front of a famous building (I know, I'm a bit of a dullard at times). One of my favorite naps I ever took caused me to wake up laughing. I was laughing, not because the dream was funny, but how I awoke.
Christine, the girls and I lived in Fort Smith, Arkansas for a year. The residence provided for my internship was large, airy and full of windows. The bedroom Christine an I shared was wood paneled and dark - perfect for night sleeping. But, my favorite room to nap in, though, was called the cloud room. Across the ceiling, a previous resident had painted it blue with cottonball-like clouds scattered across. Two whole sides of the room were panes of glass and as I would settle down for a nap, like a dog trying to find a comfortable spot, I felt like I was preparing to sleep outdoors.
Time doesn't exist during naps, but as I was swirling to the top to awake, I felt a tugging at my hand. I don't normally sleep on my back, but on this occasion not only was I on my back but one of my arms was hanging off the side of the bed. At first I thought I was dreaming - perhaps my arm had fallen asleep and was beginning to twitch. But, the longer I swam to the surface of reality, I realized this was no twitch but a constant pressure. Just before I opened my eyes I felt two little hands pressed on my face and a little push of air in my ear.
Then a voice, "Daddy, are you dead yet?"
I grabbed Greta, who was then two years of age, and began to tickle her. Not only was I awake, but when I tickle the girls, I feel and remember that I am alive. Greta, although perhaps she wondered if I truly had perished in the middle of a blissful dream, was simply asking me if I was ready to play - to be alive with her.
There are many who walk through life as if asleep. Sometimes I am one of those - days take on a monotony; hours lull me into passivity. At certain times, I am simply unaware of what just happened. Startled out of a strange reverie, I have blinked and the whole world has changed. I open my eyes and I am married and have three children. I own my own house (kind of). My children continue to stretch inches every day, it seems. I spend minutes, hours and days at work and sometimes I wonder if I will ever get close to catching up (in some ways, I hope not). I am no longer an impetuous child, a boisterous teen, a rebellious twenty-something or whatever I was a few years ago. I have those memories; I import them everyday to help me function with the world, I mix them with the dreams of the future but now, now! I must live - in the present. I am not dead yet. I am alive! Have you ever stood on the bank of lake and screamed at the top of your lungs "I AM ALIVE!"?
Yeah, me neither - but it's about time I do that.
Question for you - are you dead yet? When you open your eyes tomorrow morning or after a pleasant nap, how will your life have changed? Is there a piece open for rejuvenation in your family life? Is there a spot to meditate on what God is doing in your life - how the Holy Spirit will help shape your decision making to allow you move. Life is about movement - not just physical but emotional and spiritual also. Is there a place where you can be happy in yourself?
Question: Are you dead yet? Not yet. Not yet.
Move.