Santa Claus

Being Santa is not easy.

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

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

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

It's a tough thing to be Santa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be born in our hearts again.

At Christmas.

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

He is here. Christ has come.

O come let us adore him.



Merry Christmas,

Santa

History

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

"What are you doing?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

Just call it a history test.

Something Olde; Something New

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Head Scratching Fun

It was supposed to be an easy task.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's all good, head-scratching fun.

The best day of her life

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.