To know me is to...

Years ago I joined the local Toastmasters Club. I thought that by learning some skills and challenging myself to speak publicly I could develop confidence and ultimately, perhaps, overcome my stuttering. That was my plan. After a couple of meetings where I participated in some minor, spontaneous speaking activities they scheduled me for my introductory speech. I was given a few weeks to prepare a short speech that I would deliver to the club as a way of introducing myself to the other members. I knew immediately what I would say in my speech, I just had to put it down on paper and make sure it was not too long.
I have heard that most people are more afraid of public speaking than they are of death, but I have thoroughly enjoyed the few opportunities I’ve had to prepare and deliver a speech. And this speech was my first ever.
What I said was that anyone who knows me very well knows two things about me: my father died when I was a little boy and I stuttered horribly when I was young. And I still believe that, but it’s ironic because the two things that have most defined me as a person are the very things that prevent me from being confident in who I am and expressing my identity to others.

Bald Spot

When I was like 22 years old I worked for the City of Scottsdale, Arizona, and one of the ladies I worked with was admitted to the hospital. Everyone liked her a lot and we did not expect her to ever return to work so we took a group picture to give to her as a reminder of our friendship and affection for her. There were dozens of us and we stood together on a little hill in the park-like setting surrounding City Hall and posed for our picture. Our photographer snapped several candid photos of our group as we dispersed into the manicured landscape and days later, after they were developed he passed them around for all to see.
I noticed someone in the pictures who looked a lot like me and was even dressed like me and I wondered out loud who the guy with the big pink spot on the top of his head could be. Then I realized that guy was me! I confirmed this reality that evening when I went home and looked at the back of my head in the mirror. And I guess every since that day I’ve been absorbing and deflecting bald jokes. Bald jokes don’t really bother me, though because when I look in the mirror I don’t see a bald person. I see an awkward, confused teenage boy with an unruly mass of coarse waves and curls. Granted that teenager lost most of his hair (and never actually had visible eyebrows), but that reality does not define who I am.
Is it just me or does everybody want the people in their world to know and understand them for who they really are?

The Lovely Alarm

You may think my question about the voice of the crow is ridiculous and my whole attitude is selfish and juvenile. And I agree about the attitude. Because when I hear songbirds in the spring I find it very easy to celebrate God’s revelation of himself. But when I hear the raspy, staccato caw of the crow I am not so sure that God is the author.
The cardinal gets your attention with the confident and measured beauty of his call. He is letting the world know that this is the time and the place where new life will begin under his care and defense. The robin sings a happy song that proclaims the release of our world from the cold, dark night of winter. Every day you awaken to his song is a day that promises to be softer and warmer than the day before. In the simple little world that revolves around me and my experience this is how God speaks. These are the messages that he communicates.
My world needs to grow and mature to hear God in the voice of the crow. When I see the big black bird perched atop a denuded tree branch I see a prophet, not a soloist. And when I hear his voice it sounds like an alarm.
So if I believe that God lives and speaks and reveals himself to me in the caw-caw of the crow as well as the lovely notes of the songbirds I accept that all is not well in my world and God knows it. There is an end to the springtime and God wants me to know this. If he is speaking to me I must learn to understand his message and gather the courage to respond.

Camping with the Crow

We went camping last weekend at Westwood Lake near New Castle, Indiana. We camp at Westwood a couple times every year with many of the same families in a large group campsite. Our family has grown in tune with the rhythms of the lake and the woods and the wildlife. And we’ve grown increasing familiar with the families we camp with and over the years we’ve created a comfortable camp-out culture.
Our culture includes staying up very late around the campfire trading snacks and stories and feeding the flames. We sing songs, play games, roast marshmallows and consume choice beverages. Watching the weather radar and identifying constellations with smart-phones are relatively new amusements. Repelling fearless raccoons and calling spooky hoot owls is the stuff of our legends.
The unruly children are the first to be wrestled into bed, followed by the ones who finally crash from their high on s’mores. Some of the adults succumb early to the fresh air and fatigue, but many of us are only driven to bed by the mesmerizing peacefulness that radiates from the campfire in the wee hours of the morning.
Waking up in the tent is one of reasons I am drawn to the camping experience. I find it strangely exciting to burrow into the mummy bag with a rolled-up sweatshirt for a pillow and wonder what I’ll wake up to, and how I’ll respond to it. Many times I’ve been awakened by distant thunder and lain awake trying to convince myself to go pee in the woods before the rain comes. Sometimes I wake up to the sound of a gentle rain on the tent. I feel so warm and happy in my sleeping bag knowing how precious this time is before I have to unzip the bag and face the reality of life outside the tent.
Last spring at Westwood I remember waking up to the sound of songbirds in the trees above me. They started singing and calling just before the dawn. I fell asleep for a few minutes and awoke again to see the leaves and boughs of the trees overhead projected on the sides of the tent, trembling and waving in the gentle breeze.
Last weekend at Westwood we were rudely awakened by a flock of crows. I think one old crow perched above our camp and cawed in his most annoying crow voice until all the crows around the lake flew in to join him. He would caw some command or insult from his perch and then a group from across the camp would respond with an escalated tirade. Then would come his rebuttal and apparent rebuke, followed by the cawing challenge and castigation from yet another group. Maybe they were just sharing about the bounty of dry corn available or the location of fresh roadkill, but it certainly made sleep impossible and seemed completely impertinent to us campers.
And as I lay there in my down-filled sleeping bag on my softly-sprung cot I began to wonder if God gave the crow his voice. I mean in the Garden of Eden, before the whole snake-and-apple episode, did the crows perch above Adam and Eve as they lay there in their connubial bliss and make the same sound that they made at our campsite in the morning?
My hypothesis is that they did.

Tail of the Dragon

A couple of weeks ago I took a little motorcycle trip with some friends. My best friend invited me to go with him, his Dad, his Brother, and a few of our other mutual friends and ride the “Tail of the Dragon” in North Carolina. If you Google “Tail of the Dragon” you will find that it is a stretch of US 129 in North Carolina that has 318 curves in 11 miles. Motorcycle and sports car enthusiasts from all over the eastern part of the country pilgrimage to the dragon to prove their skill and get a thrill. Several people die on the “dragon” every year.
I’ve done several of these interstate rides with my friends now, often spending a couple nights on the road. I always get nervous and anxious as the day of departure approaches. It’s dangerous out there on two wheels. The wind, the rain, the fatigue; distracted motorists, gravel, deer, the police…all serious threats to safety and security. And then, in my case, there’s the vintage motorcycle factor. My bike is a 1977 Honda Goldwing. This bike was new when I was a junior in High School! But it’s a very reliable machine. And since I’ve owned it I have rebuilt or replaced almost everything down to the engine block with my own hands, or with the help of my best friend Steve, who I’ve ridden with every time. A couple of weeks before the trip I went over to Steve’s garage one night and we mounted a new front tire on the wheel. It takes a real man to change a motorcycle tire with hand tools, but we've done it before and we make it look easy!
So I spent the next couple of weeks in anticipation of the trip. I took off work a day early so I could pack all my gear. Rain gear, tool kit, spare parts, mess kit, sleeping bag, sleeping mat, food, snacks, toiletries, socks and underwear, warm gloves, do rag, cell phone charger, Bible, notebook, 3 flashlights; everything I need and nothing I don’t need. Strategically packed in the left saddle bag, right saddle bag, tank bag, trunk box, glove box, jacket pocket, strapped to the seat…a place for everything and everything in it’s place.
I had a last minute repair to make. I bought a new part and installed it the morning before we left. Then I checked the oil level, coolant level, battery level, rear drive gear oil, brake fluid and tire pressure. I cleaned the windshield, topped off the gas tank, visited the ATM, checked for my spare keys…
I was ready to go with an hour to spare. So I said goodbye to my family, met my friends and rode off to adventure on the open road! Then it happened. The repair I made that morning didn’t work. As soon as the motor got fully warmed up I lost spark on one cylinder and knew I couldn’t go on to the dragon. So I turned around in Shelbyville and limped back home. I felt like such a loser. I had missed out on a Mission Trip to New Orleans just a couple weeks earlier because my back hurt and I was afraid it would get worse. Now I was missing a pilgrimage to the Tail of the Dragon because I couldn’t keep my bike on the road. I grabbed my shaving kit and personal items off the bike and went indoors to watch TV. My hero, Horacio Cain, wasn’t even on that night to console me. I sat there and felt really sorry for myself and sorry for my family for having to live with such a loser for a husband and father.
A couple hours later Steve called me from Lexington, Kentucky and told me to get on one of our other friends bike and ride down to meet them. It’s not a very big bike, and it’s not my bike. It needed some very minor repairs but it had proven itself to be roadworthy and it was available. Part of me really wanted to go for it. A three-hour solo trip down I-74 to Cincinnati and I-75 south to Lexington. I could be there before the campfire went out! Another part of me wished he had never called. Just leave me alone to sulk and cry. Two things I happen to be very good at. I wavered back and forth on what to do. Why did my beloved Goldwing have to break down on me? Why was my friend challenging me like this? What would I do with myself tomorrow if I didn’t go on the motorcycle trip, just go back to work? But it’s cold and dark out there and I’d be all alone on the Interstate. What would a wise man do? What would a courageous man do? Why don’t I have anybody I can talk to about stuff like this? I don’t want Brenda to see how weak I am, but I don’t want to make a bigger fool of myself, either. So I went to bed. But before I fell asleep I decided that if I could wake up at 3:00 a.m. I would go for it. That would give me enough time to get to Lexington before they broke camp. And with any luck the bike wouldn’t start or couldn’t be fixed and I would have a good excuse to come back home and go back to bed where it’s always warm and comfy.
I awoke the next morning and the clock said 2:58. I got up, drank a cup of coffee, kissed Brenda goodbye, and rode my Goldwing over to the garage where my friends bike was. I used a part off my bike to fix his. It started hard and ran kinda rough, but seemed to be alright. So, while it warmed up I transferred as much of my gear as I could to this smaller bike. I put some air in the back tire, filled up the gas tank and headed down the cold, dark highway to the Interstate and on to meet my friends.
We never made it to the Tail of the Dragon, but that’s another story for another day.
And my motorcycle is still in pieces in the garage, but I think I learned something. What would a wise man do? Place my faith not in my possessions or abilities, but trust in the Lord, my family and my friends. What would a courageous man do? Act wisely and put one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, regardless of the peril that is always at hand.
The Apostle Peter had periods of profound wisdom and episodes of deep folly. He was a bold man, but is perhaps best remembered for one episode of fear. To this day I think Jesus is the only one who ever cut him any slack. In a letter to the Christians of his day he wrote these words:

Wherefore gird up the loins of your mind, be sober, and hope to the end for the grace that is to be brought unto you at the revelation of Jesus Christ. 1 Peter 1:13 KJV

Leaning Harder

I haven’t had much to say lately. Or perhaps more accurately, haven’t made the effort to get in touch with how I’m feeling. The weather has been nice lately and I want to be outdoors. I’ve spent time tuning up my bicycle and riding it. And I’ve spent time wrenching and riding my motorcycle. It’s the motorcycle that takes me away from my journal, my sketchpad and my computer.
When I first bought the motorcycle in June of 2006 I had no idea what I was getting into. My oldest son, Ben, bought a nice little Honda CB450. I really didn’t want him out riding a motorcycle while I was sitting at home, so I bought a little Honda CL350. I thought Ben and I could knock around Indiana a little on the weekends and maybe do an overnighter now and then. There’s much more I could say, but I’ll save it for another time. Long story short: Ben traded up to a Yamaha XS650 hotrod kinda bike and I could never get the 350 to run right so I sold it and used the money to buy a ’77 Goldwing off a neighbors front porch. Several hundred dollars and 30,000 miles later and all I want to do is ride that bike. I’ve been to the Upper Peninsula on it. Been to Niagara Falls and across Ontario to Windsor and Detroit. Been to Knoxville, Tennessee and beyond several times and all over Indiana. I sometimes get up before dawn and ride a couple hours before work.
One thing I know and sometimes loathe about myself is that I am addicted to security. I’ve taken very few risks in 50 years of life. I haven’t missed a bi-weekly paycheck since I was 15 years old. I had a motorcycle once before when I was in my 20s but soon concluded that I was not a “motorcycle kinda guy” so I sold it.
Ben and I took a motorcycle safety course together when he first got his bike and I learned about leaning into curves. When you are going into a curve on a motorcycle they say you should slow down as you enter and accelerate as you come out of the curve. You should never hit the brakes in a curve. If you get scared you lean harder. If you hit the brakes you will probably crash, but if you lean harder and roll on the throttle you’ll probably be fine. That really captures my attention. I’ve never yet come to that moment of truth where I had to instantly forsake panic for risk, but I am increasingly confident that I will.

Memory Album

Brenda and I made our first home in Scottsdale, Arizona. We attended a church where a dozen or more other “young married” couples also attended. We formed a Sunday School class and fellowship group that we called “Jointly Committed” and for several years in the mid-to-late 80’s we joined together in many active, ambitious and exciting events. Mostly we had fun. Brenda and I look back very fondly on those days. We made friends that we still cherish, and we set our lives on a path that we still travel today because of the relationships that we were blessed with in those days.
I’ve connected with some of the members of “Jointly Committed” on Facebook and one of the guys posted a picture album of some of our activities. It was a picture of a Maundy Thursday drama that caught my attention and while looking through the album I was reminded of something I wrote years ago:

My wife and her sister like to make memory books. They’ll take all their pictures with a certain theme, like ‘summer vacation at the beach’ or ‘Christmas Day at Moms’ and mount them all in a book, just like a regular picture album, but then they add their own characteristic brand of humor to their creation. They’ve been known to take broad liberties with their editing techniques. Like inserting clever little thought balloons above people’s heads, or writing silly captions under your pictures, or even creating a cartoon from a series of otherwise very ordinary snapshots.
These two sisters have a lot of fun making and sharing their memory books and we all enjoy looking at the pictures and reliving all the good times that we’ve shared together.
One of my sisters made each of us a framed photo collection for Christmas last year. She got a bunch of old family pictures from my mom and mounted them in the same setting with pictures from our more recent family events.
There’s something that just really stirs my emotions when I look back into these pictures of my parents before they had babies, and of me with my brother and sisters when we were just innocent little kids. And then to see recent pictures of ourselves laughing together knowing the things that we could never have imagined back then.

Wouldn’t that be something if Jesus had a sister who made a memory book for him? Wouldn’t you just love to sit down with your family and take a look at that?
I can just imagine opening to the first page and viewing a photograph of this beautiful, young woman, nine months pregnant, sitting on a little donkey with her handsome young husband, his face turned away from the camera, tugging on the lead rope and walking all the way to Bethlehem. (Can you picture the thought balloon above his head?) Then a page or two later there‘s a curly-headed little Jesus, smiling up at the camera with a front tooth missing, proudly holding up his latest woodworking project. And everybody is wondering what it’s supposed to be.
The wedding at Cana would fill a page in Jesus’ memory book. With pictures of children dancing, old people nodding and smiling in approval and Jesus kissing the bride. On the next page are panoramic landscapes from the day he fed the five thousand. Dramatic clouds on the horizon: the profile of the hills sloping down to the sea. Thousands of people, seated in groups, blanket the ground like a tremendous patch-work quilt.
Right in the middle of the book his sister created this artful montage of candid portraits. A long shot of Jesus, on his knees in prayer, silhouetted against a glorious sunrise, a close-up of the Savior, his head on a pillow, peacefully sleeping in a boat.
Palm Sunday is the last event I imagine seeing in Jesus’ memory book. And these are some good pictures! They are all outdoor shots. It’s springtime. The sun is shining. The disciples are just beaming; they’re the grand marshals of an impromptu parade! Children are waving palm branches and singing. A bright carpet of clothing draws your eye to the subject of each photograph: Jesus Christ, riding on a donkey, as the crowd shouts, “Hosanna, blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”
As your eye is drawn further into the picture, you realize that Jesus is the only one who is not really smiling. And in your mind you travel back to Palm Sunday and to the events that followed and you realize that the people in that picture, despite their religious fervor, did not grasp the significance of the event, even as they were living it. They never imagined that things would turn out the way they did.

Our oldest child is now nearly as old as I was in my friend’s pictures. I wonder if there are any insignificant moments or events in our lives? Do we spend enough time imagining our future?

Hope in the Rythms and Agenda of Life on Earth

Rain was falling one morning last week when it came time for me to go to work. I’d call it a serious sprinkle. Just the kind of precipitation event that I normally revel in. Pick out a hat that you don’t mind getting wet - actually my coon-skin cap works pretty well – turn up your collar and go for it! It’s only water! Besides I know what path to take to stay under the trees and avoid the biggest puddles. It’s kind of exciting, actually, to take a brisk walk in the rain. And as an indoor office worker I’ll take a little excitement wherever I can get it. I scoff at the people who make painful faces and scurry across the street on rainy mornings! I don’t scurry. I see other people walking with umbrellas and congratulate myself. I’m not an umbrella kind of guy. I enjoy participating in the earths rythms and agenda!
If you’re starting to hate me for my arrogance and pride, take heart! My youthful flexibility and mobility were seriously impaired that morning. My hip and back are really sore and I’ve been walking slowly and carefully. I heard the rain falling as I got up that morning and began to wonder if I should drive the suburban to work. The motorcycle and bicycle were definitely out of question.
I was debuting my new back brace at the office that morning. I tried valiantly to tuck in my shirt, pull up my oversize drawers and cinch up my belt over the velcro and elastic monster. I finally gave up. “Wear it proud” I told myself. When the time came to grab the car keys and go I stood at the door and looked out at the “serious sprinkle”. And then I grabbed a big blue and white umbrella and walked out on the porch where I popped it up with a confident snap. Pretty neat little device, really.
And so, off I went with my umbrella over my head. My hip and back still hurt a little so I made some painful faces but I did not scurry!
As I write this I’m reminded of these words from the book of Romans:
I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us. The creation waits in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed. For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God. We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what he already has? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently. In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express. And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God's will. (Romans 8:18-27 NIV)
Can I find joy in the earths rythms and agenda when I’m walking with a limp and carrying an umbrella?

Reading Glasses

It all started with the reading glasses. I woke up one morning and realized I could no longer read without holding the reading material at arms length and shining a very bright light on it. So Brenda started me out with a brand new pair of 1.25s. For Christmas she got me one of those little lights you clip on the bill of your ball cap. Now, when I’m wrenching on something out in the garage, I wear my little light on my hat and hang the 1.25s on my nose and I’m good to go.
My back started hurting last fall and I ignored it like I have always done. Even when I could hardly put my socks on in the morning I told myself it would get better soon, like it always has. Even when we got a foot of snow that hurt me to shovel, I figured sooner or later it would heal up and be as good as new.
One day last week I woke up in the night and it was not bladder related (maybe that is actually where it all started). My back hurt really bad and now my hip hurt and my leg hurt! Brenda had been encouraging me to go to the chiropractor. I finally made an appointment and hobbled over to his office. After the first treatment I felt so much better! A day later I was working outdoors and made a one-handed snatch and grab maneuver on something heavy like I’ve always done. The pain shot through my back and leg like a bolt of lightning and really got my attention. I was reminded of the C.S. Lewis quote:
"God whispers to us in our pleasures,
Speaks to us in our conscience,
But shouts to us in our pains;
it is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world."
I was also reminded of my recent debate with my imaginary antagonist: "can life-change occur without crisis?" This pain was a crisis. I was hurting and in danger of missing the mission trip that I had been preparing for.
I hobbled and winced my way back to the chiropractor for my follow-up visit a few days later and got a little relief. I also got a back-brace. That was a pretty humbling experience. I’m standing there shirtless in this guy’s treatment room with my drawers down around my knees when the doctor reaches around me and installs this big black elastic and velcro thing around my waist, then helps me pull up my pants. So now I’m wearing supportive garments! The doctor tells me that a little exercise is good, but to avoid sudden or strenuous movements. On the way home I’m imagining myself taking therapeutic walks around the block under the supervision of my nurse. The back brace has forced me to discover something I’ve occasionally wondered about but never before investigated: the fly on my briefs is actually functional (barely). Brenda told me the back brace would be more comfortable if I wore sweat-pants instead of jeans. So now I’m shuffling around the block wearing sweat-pants? What’s next?
So this crisis has forced me to acknowledge something that the sudden flood of AARP literature in my mailbox did not: I’m getting older. I may, in fact, have encountered a significant milestone.

Crises and Blessings

I once heard someone say that life-change can only occur as the result of a crisis. I don’t remember the argument or the supporting evidence, but it sounded and felt like truth so I believed it . And maybe I still do.
A couple of weeks ago everyone in our church was challenged to begin daily readings and exercises in a book titled "One Month to Live, thirty days to a no-regrets life". The point of this book is to discover how you would live differently if you knew you had only one month left to live, and to make the indicated changes.
At first I rejected the idea of the book completely. “You can’t pretend to have a crisis or imagine what a crisis would feel like,” was the argument that I presented to my imaginary antagonist, “that would be too easy.”
My opponent in this debate made several very compelling arguments that I was forced to consider objectively. “But every Bible story I can think of from Adam and Eve, to Abraham and Sarah, to Christ in Gethsemane is about a crisis!”, I countered, “there’s never an easy path to a significant result.” “Nothing is impossible with God” was the trump card that he played to end each successive round of our dispute.
I was walking home for lunch one day recently, arguing both sides of my debate and making no progress at all. The noon-time sun, shining through the leafless treetops caused me to shed my heavy coat. I instantly thought of Aesops Fable: The Contest between the Sun and the Wind. And that made me think of how gradually and gracefully the seasons change. And it wasn’t a crisis that persuaded me to shed that heavy coat, but a blessing.
Maybe I should read the rest of the book.

Turdus Migratorius

I awoke one recent morning to the voice of a robin. And as I lay in bed listening to his cheerful song I was reminded of a triptych that I’ve dreamed of painting. The first panel would immortalize the North American Robin, with his warm orange breast standing tall in the grass. When you first hear the robins singing and see them patrolling your yard for earthworms, you know that winter is losing its death-grip on your world and springtime is not far away.
In the second panel I would paint a broad, green field glowing with bright yellow dandelions. I get excited when I see the first brave and unapologetic dandelion pop up because then I know that warm weather is here for certain.
On the third panel of my triptych I envision a scene that glorifies the firefly, or "lightning-bug" if you prefer. When you hold a lightning-bug lightly in your fist, or drive by a soy bean field after dark and marvel at the bioluminescent display of a million fireflies, you may actually forget that winter ever happened.
So those few musical notes, sung by an intrepid little bird, transported me, in my mind, from a late winter morning with the covers pulled up to my chin, to a midsummer night riding my motorcycle down a country road helmetless and in my shirtsleeves.
All that mental exercise stimulated me biologically to the point where I had to get out of bed and answer a very real call of nature. My second necessity was to make the coffee. As I stood at the kitchen window in my robe and slippers, measuring the water and coffee grounds, my attention was drawn to the big maple tree in our back yard. Another harbinger of spring had arrived – starlings! Starlings (sturnus vulgaris) live in the holes and open crevices of our big maple tree. They invade the dog’s dishes and make a mess on the patio. The voice of the starling does not sound like music to me. It seems very monotonous and annoying. But they are God’s little creatures and they seem to enjoy the warmer days too. And they have an uncanny ability to recognize a BB gun!

Earthquakes and Assurance

On April 18th, 2008 at 5:39 a.m. an earthquake shook the ground at our home in Greenfield, Indiana. I was on my knees in prayer at the side of our bed when I heard the closet doors rattling. I heard the things on our dresser and night stands rattling as if something was shaking the floor. Startled, I looked up and searched the darkness of the room, expecting to see our dog scratching herself vigorously as she often does. But almost instantly I realized that it was an earthquake.
I had awoken earlier that morning and was too restless to go back to sleep. I got up, made the coffee, ate a piece of toast and came back to our bedroom. Then I did something that I don’t do very often, but regularly do when I am troubled or anxious about some event or circumstance in my life. I got down on my knees at my bedside and began to pray.
In the days and weeks before that morning I had become acutely aware that my prayers, especially my bedside prayers, always began with the words “Lord Jesus, I”. And then I began crying out to God about my trials and failings as a husband and father. Or pouring out my heart about the difficulties facing me at work, or about my disappointment and anxiety about our finances. And I know that God wants to hear about my struggles and fears and heartache. I absolutely believe and trust that he cares for me and wants to hear my voice, but my prayers were always about me and my feelings and my needs. I determined to begin my prayers by focusing my heart and mind on Jesus. Every time I began my prayer with the words “Lord Jesus, I”, I would stop and restart by praying “Lord Jesus, You”, and then devote some time praising him for who he is. And I know that he knows who he is, but I take comfort in remembering his love and sacrifice for each of us and his promises to all who call on his name. His blessings and provision and calling are such a marvelous reality!
And on that particular morning as I knelt in prayer, restless and burdened with some object of guilt or grief or pain I began with the words “Lord Jesus, You” and even as I began my prayer of praise and adoration, I paused a moment in my mind and thanked God for turning my heart to him and the glory of his personality and character. And as I focused on him and what precious little I know about him my problems and pain shrunk away.
Before I finished my prayer that morning I arose to embrace the day with the blessed assurance that the God who shakes the earth is the same God who calls me to my knees.

Saplings, Brambles and Woody Weeds

I was “mind-surfing” while driving home from my mom’s house recently. I was browsing memories about the few precious minutes spent with my brother the day before. I remembered shivering as I helped him unload feed for his cattle and store it in the old pump house, which was the headquarters for my early morning chores 40 years ago. I was searching for topics to write about in my blog. And I was out of my body exploring the shallow ravines, frozen creekbeds, and brushy fencerows that populate the landscape along the northern Indiana highway. In the winter you can see the elegant and intimate details of the unmown and uncultivated margins and corners. The saplings and brambles and woody weeds stand exposed to the elements with last summer’s leaf cover shriveled around their frozen feet. But if the stories told by these minor members of the plant kingdom are light poetry, you can read a novel in the form and structure of the old trees that stand alone at the edge of a wood or in the middle of an abandoned farmstead. Some of these trees are tall and majestic. Their trunks split into several balanced limbs. And these limbs subdivide repeatedly until they end in the tender little vessels that interact directly with the atmosphere and process the elements of life. Every season of their life has been another chapter in an epic of progress and endurance. Storms weathered with grace, pestilence repelled with impunity, new life thrust forth and supported from within. Other trees are characters in a much different story. They may have a limb that was scorched and permanently stunted by a random stroke of lightning from a sudden summer storm. Some bear the deep and indiscriminate gouges of chain saws claiming canopy space for power lines. Others have branches that are irreparably broken or grotesquely twisted by the dreadful weight of ice and snow. The underlying character of every tree is exposed by the harsh realities of winter. Majestic strength and organic symmetry are on display for all to admire. But your eye may also be drawn to the cruel scars and violent damage that many of the trees display. I praise God, the creator of all living things for the grace and beauty of the tall, straight and majestic citizens of the wooded landscapes. When he made them on the third day of creation he called them good. And I praise him for the ones with deep scars and twisted limbs. The ones who have endured the effects of sudden storms and dreadful burdens have a unique nobility and they remind me that Gods grace is sufficient for me.

Wheat Straw, Cracked Corn and Rabbit Fur

Winter was my favorite time of the year when I was young. With a hot breakfast in my belly I would bundle up every morning and go outdoors to do my chores. We always had some combination of chickens, rabbits, hogs, and maybe cattle that needed water, feed and bedding. The air was so cold that nothing weak or dirty could live in it. The morning darkness held no fear for me like the darkness of nighttime did. And the sun always came up from behind the denuded woods in a spectacular display of brightly blended watercolors shining through the pen and ink forms of trunks, limbs and branches.
The small stock were always reluctant to be handled, but would tolerate my touch while they took their first long drinks of water after a long night of frozen thirst. The larger animals would initiate contact in their eagerness for fresh water and food. The hogs were always vocal and almost articulate in the morning as they roused themselves from their slumber piles.
The hardship of winter, the beauty of sunrise and the fellowship of farm animals, combined with the morning solitude to provide refuge for my adolescent anxieties. The colors and textures of sunrise, snow, wheat straw, cracked corn and rabbit fur fueled my foraging imagination. I experienced a great blessing of joy and peace in those fleeting moments between breakfast and boarding the school bus. But that was a long time ago.
In my Freshman year of High School I wrote an essay describing my great love for winter mornings outdoors. My English teacher submitted it to the local newspaper without my knowledge. I remember being more embarrassed than proud when they printed it. I had embellished just a little for effect, added some multi-syllabic adjectives that weren’t completely necessary and described some things about myself that I never expected anyone but the teacher to read. My mom clipped it from the newspaper 36 years ago. She gave me the clipping, along with some other “treasures” recently.
That little essay was the first and last thing I ever had “published”. I’ve got a great deal of catching up to do.

Vulgar Insults and Other Nonsense

One of the reasons why I hesitate to do so many of the things that I want to do is because I think about it so long that I imagine so many things that could go wrong and then I decide that I better not do whatever I was thinking about doing. Pathetic, I know. But that’s why I thought about writing a blog for so long before I finally began.
I’ve been thinking about my last blog entry and wondering if something worse than I had imagined actually happened. I feel like I often observe or experience something that connects with other stuff or fills in a place that I didn’t actually know was empty. And that’s fascinating to me. I just don’t often know what it means. I’m sure it means something but I’m afraid if I fill in the blank or connect the dots I’ll move on to something else and someday revisit the topic and find out I was wrong. And I know that sounds like nonsense, and maybe it is, but what I’m trying to say is that I see more value in questions than in answers. And that’s not an original thought; I once heard someone else say something very similar and it made a lot of sense to me.
Many people I know agree that God speaks to us. I have told some of them that God speaks to me in object lessons. My gps was as reliable, and as correct, when I thought I knew best, as it was when I acknowledged my ignorance. The conviction that struck me first, when I realized that, is that I treat God the same way. I am obviously an idiot. I get all giddy and sing happy songs when I turn to Jesus in my despair and he “sets my feet upon a rock”. But then I ignore him and insult him when he bids me continue to follow him.
I drove for another hour that day wondering how many times I’ve taken the long way or done laps around a strange little town when I could have trusted my way to the expert navigator and map maker. How much further down the road would I be today?
And as I write these words I realize that all this introspection and self-castigation is vain indeed if I don’t come to repentance and submission.

Onboard Orientering Companion

My friend got a new mobile gps unit for Christmas; so he gave me his old one. I was especially grateful for this fine gift recently when I took my family on a Holiday road trip across northern Indiana. The shortest route to our destination took us through a town that I always get lost in. Every time I drive through it I’m determined to apply my prodigious wit to the problem and self-coach my way across this little town to the connecting highway. But I was like 0-for-3 on that fateful morning when I exited the interstate and headed for the next round of this navigational contest. The gps unit was glowing bright with cartographic images and navigational icons as I approached the pivotal intersection. I anticipated the confident and persistent voice of my onboard orienteering companion but she was strangely silent. So was my wife. The gps unit indicated that I should proceed straight ahead. But my instincts told me that I should follow the highway and turn left. Suddenly it was my turn to go, so I went straight. The road I then found myself on had a 35-mile per hour speed limit. And after the second or third stop sign I was having serious doubts about this gps thing. But I stuck with it and after several minutes we came out on a four-lane highway. The gps instructed me to go left on the highway and then turn right in 500 yards. So I did. And without a single wrong turn I had successfully traversed this little town for the first time ever and was now speeding toward my destination.
And so I’ve been singing the praises of this little electronic marvel that knew a shortcut no human could possibly have figured out. Only an intimate familiarity with local streets or a thorough study of detailed maps could have produced this knowledge. And now it was mine to command!
Yesterday I headed out on a three-hour road trip to my mom’s house, a journey I have made at least a hundred times. I stuck the gps to the windshield just to see what it would tell me. I am confident, as I depart, that I know every possible way to get there and have determined the quickest route. At the first critical junction the gps has to recalculate. Just as I suspected, how could it possibly know all the things I’ve discovered over the years of driving these roads? An hour and a half into the trip the gps is at it again. Telling me to turn left and leave the highway. I’m thinking it must be broke. I know these roads and there’s nothing over there that can work for me. At every junction it wants me to turn left, so finally I give in and make the turn. Now I’m doing 30 on an unfamiliar, narrow county road and I almost ran a stop sign. I start scolding myself for not trusting my own knowledge and good sense. But up ahead I see cars and trucks cruising at highway speeds on a road I will soon intersect with. “Wow, so this is where I am”, the voice that scolded me a minute ago now exclaims! A few minutes later I’m doing the speed limit plus 5 and now I’m recalculating.
This is the part where I avoid the urge to identify all the metaphors I see, or to show you my paper so you can see how I’ve connected the dots. I can think of at least one proverb and one hymn that could make a neat, pithy little application and wrap-up statement for my story. But I’ll leave all that to you. Let me know what you come up with.
DonaldD

Happy Birthday to you!

We have this Wednesday night Middle School ministry at our church; we call it “FRED”. I know that FRED is “in transition” and I thought they were looking for speakers, so I volunteered. They told me that they already had all their bases covered. Imagine that, they were doing just fine without me! “Oh well”, I thought, “I’ve got plenty of other projects to work on”. A couple of days later I got a call from the middle school guy saying he made a mistake in his scheduling. He has an opening he wants me to fill. He says I need to talk about leadership.
I started thinking of what I could say to a group of 60 to 70 middle schoolers about leadership. I need examples. I need a story. And then I thought about my friend Terri. Terri goes to my church and that’s were we met, but not long ago she took over as my boss’s administrative assistant and receptionist in our office. And that’s where my story begins. You see, my boss, Mike, keeps track of everybody’s birthday in the office. He gets a card for everybody to sign and brings in a cake on your birthday. And near the end of the day we all get together in the break room and have cake. But we never sing the Happy Birthday Song. Some people have started singing but were quickly hushed. Others have threatened to sing but were immediately counter-threatened. Usually someone will jokingly announce, “last one in the room has to sing”, and the last person in the room will turn around as if to leave and forfeit free cake rather than sing. All sorts of good-natured work place jocularity, but no singing. And that’s okay, but Terri is new. And she’s a leader.
Well, last Wednesday was Mike’s birthday and we got him a card and a cake, and at three o’clock we assembled in the break room. Mike was the last one in, because he is the boss and has important things to do all day. As soon as he entered the room, Terri started singing the Happy Birthday Song, loud! She seemed completely oblivious to our consternation. Most of us eventually found our voices and joined in with all the enthusiasm we could muster at such short notice. And then we ate cake and resumed our good-natured work place jocularity.
And maybe that’s not as big a deal as I have made of it. But I thank God for Terri. One day, not long after she came to work at our office she and I were at the same table in one of those “Character-of-the-Month presentations. It was kind of like a Sunday School lesson, only without mentioning Jesus or referring to the Bible. And in our discussion time Terri whipped out her notes from a recent sermon at our church and, with her characteristic passion, exclaimed that our preacher made a very similar point the day before in church, and that it was very practical and meaningful to her. And then she turned to me for confirmation and comment. I agreed and expounded, but in a much less passionate tone.
Since then she has quite naturally drawn me into the conversation as she frequently tells our office-mates about some exciting truth she learned or a particularly meaningful moment of worship she experienced while at our church. And I suppose that everybody knows that I go to church, and that I try to present a reasonable level of sanctification at work. But the truth is that I have deliberately kept a low profile as a Christ-follower at work. But Terri is new, and she doesn’t know that I don’t actually sing the Happy Birthday Song. I just eat the cake.
I’ve got a birthday coming up soon. Let’s see what happens!
DonaldD

the Sacrament of Hospitality

I went to a funeral last Thursday. One of my friends had an 84-year-old grandfather who passed away at home and a couple of us guys took a road trip to attend the funeral in honor of our friend. When we pulled in to the parking lot at the Old German Baptist Brethren church we realized we were guests in a different culture. Most of the people we saw outside the church were plain-dressed folk, much like the Mennonites or Amish. There were groups of men; thin, handsome and bearded with their black, wide-brimmed hats standing and discussing the important things that men must be concerned with. There were family groups; holding the hands of toddlers, carrying the babies, and strolling toward the front doors. The ladies, with their hair up in bonnets, ankle-length dresses and long, sleeveless over-garments were entering through one door, while the men were moving toward another. And there were a few others who, like ourselves, were dressed in our strip-mall and super-store wardrobes.
My friends and I hung out in front of the large, plain, immaculate meetinghouse to enjoy the midwinter sunshine before the service began. A young man, wearing a black felt hat and black dress coat buttoned at the neck, welcomed my friends and me and engaged us in conversation. He was the first of many to greet us warmly and express genuine interest in how we came to be in their fellowship on that day.
When we entered the building, through the door that the other men were using, our new friend caught our eye and invited us to sit with him. For the next hour and a half we sat on plain, wooden, hand-made pews and listened to heartfelt sermons centered on the glory of a life lived in God’s will and the comfort and encouragement that our Lord and our religion provides when a loved one passes into eternity. And we joined our voices with those of the Brethren in singing acapella hymns. As soon as the first hymn number was announced the men around us handed my friends and me their personal hymnal to use. The gentleman who sat in front of me turned, and with a silent gesture offered me his hymn book. It was both well worn and well preserved, obviously a prized possession.
The sky had grown overcast while we were in the church and a stiff breeze blew across the snow at the graveside. After another, shorter sermon we sang many more hymns as the casket was sealed in a vault and lowered into the grave. Many of the men came forward and shoveled dirt into the grave until it was completely filled. And with that we were dismissed to the church basement for a meal.
In the church basement were many long wooden tables already set with table service and family-style dishes of food. Warm ham sandwiches, water and coffee were distributed until everyone had more than enough to eat. As the meal ended and folks got up to go their separate ways my friends and I visited with many more of the church members, and finally had to persuade one another that we needed to go home.
On the trip home we talked at great length about all we had experienced and what we observed and thought about the culture of the Old German Baptist Brethren we visited. But the one thing we kept returning to was the tremendous hospitality that the people expressed to us. We were three men from a much different community. Our culture and customs were fundamentally different from theirs. They have forsaken so much of the technology and conformity that we religiously embrace. But we hung our hats on hooks right next to theirs and shoveled dirt into the grave of their patriarch alongside their young men. They shared their hymnbooks and dinner table with us and warmed our hearts with the stories of their lives.
And so I find myself reflecting on the events of that day from my current perspective several days later. I am so moved by the hospitality and Christ-like love that these people expressed to me because so many people who I am much more familiar with treat other people, including me, the same way. I don’t have to look any further afield than my own home to find one who gives unselfishly, of the things most dear to her, to anyone God places in her path. No matter how their lifestyle or personal choices may differ from hers.
I have good friends who will accept me and include me and show me the way without expecting anything from me in return. I have an extended family and a church family who set a place at the table for me even though I do not always conform or contribute.
I thank God for taking me on a road trip to an Old German Baptist Brethren church to show me this.

"H" is my hero!

Last night would have been a good night for me to publish a new post to my blog. We got home from our “small group” meeting a little early, I was still full of coffee and dessert and it was at least an hour before my bedtime. But I watched CSI Miami instead.
I was really excited about our small group meeting. I was scheduled to be the leader. I had rehearsed a little monologue that lead into the hymn I had picked out to sing. The hymn I picked out provided me with a tidy transition into a prayer time and then I was prepared to present a lesson based on 2nd Samuel chapter 20, a classic Old Testament cousin-stabbin’, guts-in-the-mud, action-drama story complete with the villain’s head flying over the wall.
So right after work I ran over to the church, crawled up in the attic, parted the cobwebs, blew off the dust and grabbed a dozen old hymnals. If I’m going to single-handedly revive the ancient sacrament of hymn singing I’m going to need more than my collection of four mismatched antique hymnals.
Then I visited a friend, attended an impromptu business meeting, picked up Brenda, and headed for the “Small-Group” Bible study and fellowship meeting. After we ate and everybody sat down in the living room, I got their attention and began my “monologue”. Before you judge me, let me just say that I am a much better speaker when I plan ahead what I’m going to say. Some people speak to think. Others think before they speak. I just can’t think and speak at the same time, so I try to be prepared. I got through my little story despite several interruptions and then discovered that the hymn I wanted to sing, “Tell it to Jesus” was not in the hymnal I had gotten from the church. So I had to substitute with another, “Take it to the Lord in Prayer”. That ruined my tidy little transition to prayer time. And then no one got excited about my lesson. I had taught this lesson two times previously and felt pretty good about it. The “20-Something gang that I teach ate it up. The “Young-Married” couples that we hang out with had a lot of fun with it. The “middle-aged” couples and singles in our small group just didn’t get excited about the action and the drama. I always try to do this “Socratic” thing and when I find a subtopic that resonates with people, just try to fuel the fire a little and steer them towards some point of application. They weren’t buying’ it and I got nothing if people don’t participate. Tough crowd.
These people are all awesome people. They are my best friends and I share life with them. I love them as brothers and sisters and they don’t patronize or flatter me. But all the way home I was feeling sorry for myself and wondering why the little program I had prepared seemed to fall so flat. So I sat down in front of the television and watched CSI Miami. “H” is my hero. He possesses the twin super-powers of telekinesis and mind reading. And he can transfix his audience without even making eye contact. Plus he never has to deal with anything as gauche as a winter coat or man-mittens.
I was still kind of disappointed and confused (angry) when I walked to work this morning. I went over the material I had prepared in my head. One of the points of application in the story is about how Joab’s name is mentioned repeatedly. He gets to do all the cool stuff. The “Wise Woman of Abel” is anonymous, yet God uses her to save her people. That made me think of one of the supporting Bible verses I had somebody look up last night: Matthew 6:1 (NIV) Be careful not to do your acts of righteousness before men, to be seen by them. If you do you will have no reward from your Father in Heaven. And then I had to ask myself what my motive was last night. What was the condition of my heart? Who was I trying to please?

Wonderful Grace of Jesus

I have a very small collection of old hymnals, four to be exact. I love the old hymns. I usually refer to them as “the Great Hymns of our Faith”. I think we should sing hymns more often because they hold an untold wealth of passionate and practical theology, and they rhyme. Because you sing them, the music carries the lyrics along a wide path to a special place in your brain. I could say much more about this, and someday I will, but I must get to my story. Our “Small Group” from church met recently at the home of a couple that have a piano. I know that the man of the house enjoys hymns as much as I do, so I brought along my hymnal collection. I was somewhat afraid to do so because I have no clue how to form any specific note with my voice and I knew that if I brought the hymnals I might be called on to lead. But I brought the hymnals and we gathered around the piano and sang several of the “Great Hymns of our Faith” lustily and with great joy! A couple weeks ago “Bub”, the man with the piano who loves singing hymns, was in the hospital for a serious surgical procedure. I went to visit him and, after debating with myself at some length, I brought two of my hymnals, thinking that he and I might sing a little. I got off my motorcycle in the parking lot and took several steps toward the hospital, leaving the hymnals in the trunk box. You see, I really cannot sing. I sing at lunchtime when I’m home alone. I sing in the car when no one is with me. But I don’t sing very loud in church and I don’t want anybody to hear me sing. And I certainly don’t want to accept the monumental responsibility of sounding the first note in an a cappella choir. But I turned back to the bike, retrieved the hymnals from the trunk box, and went in. Bub spotted the hymnals as soon as I entered his room. He seemed eager to sing. Our friend, Mike, was there too and he was not quite reluctant, but seemed less enthusiastic. But I had come this far so I pressed forward and suggested we sing “O, How I Love Jesus”. It’s a pretty simple tune and I know all the words so, in a safe monotone, I began to sing. Bub joined in and Mike’s lips seemed to be moving so we sang all four verses. Then we sang “Near to the Heart of God”. Bub was lying down so he couldn’t really get his diaphragm behind it or see the words. Mike is a great friend, but one hymn may have been enough for him. By the end of the second hymn I was trying so hard not to laugh! It reminded me of those painful, comedic out-takes from the American Idol tryouts! On the blessed final note we gently closed the hymnals and congratulated one another on our “joyful noise”. Just then Bub’s parents walked in. I forget their names, but they are a beautiful couple. They were well dressed with joyful faces and happy greetings. “Well here comes our Tenor!” Bub greeted them. “We didn’t mean to break up your hymn-sing” was their reply. We assured them that we were quite done unless they cared to join in, and they began to express how much they love to sing the hymns. I wasn’t sure if they were eager to sing with us, or just being polite. But I assured them that if they were serious we would love to have them join us for a final number. Bub’s Dad took a hymnal and searched the index for his favorite song, “Wonderful Grace of Jesus”. Bub’s Mom and Dad stood side-by-side holding the book and I stood beside Bubs Dad. Bub lay back on his bed with his eyes closed. (Mike’s hymnal didn’t include that particular hymn so he, sadly, had to decline.) Bub’s parents sang like members of the Gaither Homecoming crew! His Mom in a splendid Alto and his Dad in a glorious whatever-it-is that men sing in. I could see that Bub was worshipping in song and I harmonized with my signature style. By the time we sang the first verse and completed the chorus I was fighting back the tears!

Sacred Mud Puddles

Vulgar Sacrament: Just an attempt at an edgy title for a lame blog? Or does it really mean something? I’m wondering about that myself. When I use the word “vulgar” I don’t mean jokes or gestures, usually, although I am familiar with several of each. I mean more like how before the Reformation people had to go to church and listen to the Bible in Latin instead of their own common language. If you were not a priest or a rich or educated person you spoke in a “vulgar” language. Poor, uneducated and even working class people were assumed to have no high aspirations and to be interested mostly in common, unrefined, or even ugly pursuits. You were vulgar. Like when the Apostle Paul wrote to the church in Corinth and said: “Brothers think of what you were when you were called. Not many of you were wise by human standards; not many were influential; not many were of noble birth." (1 Cor. 1:26) When I use the word “Sacrament” I may be handling it a little roughly, or stretching it across a bit more broad an area than its fabric normally covers. What I mean by sacrament is any action we employ or behavior we exhibit that illustrates or demonstrates the Spirit of God in our hearts. So now I hope you understand a little more completely what I hope to talk about. When I walk to an office building every day across the same potholes and mud puddles, startling squirrels and angering dogs on the end of their chains, that’s vulgar. If I lift up my eyes to the leafless treetops and bless God for his immutable covenants, that is a sacrament. If I can deliver an honest day of work and treat my officemates and others with respect and humility, that too is a sacrament. DonaldD

Familiar Footprints

Coming home from work today I could see the previous tracks of my footprints in the snow. They led back and forth across the sidewalks, parking lots and grassy intervals along my path to home. Often mixed together with many others or merging with my own, sometimes tracing a solitary path. And I began to wonder how many times I had walked this same path and how many times I would do so again. Are the destinations on either end of this path as static and predictable as the pathway between?
They say it's gonna snow tonight. Might get 4 or 5 inches. I'll welcome the snow for a change. It'll give me a chance to make some fresh tracks.
DonaldD

Original Post

in the winter I walk to work every morning, walk home for lunch, then walk back to work and home again at the end of the workday. I look forward to these little 12 to 15 minute periods of solitude. I imagine the life I would have if i fearlessly pursued all my goals. I imagine what I would say to my audience if i was invited to speak at a graduation ceremony or staff retreat or conference. I imagine where I would go if I could travel at will or what I would write or paint if I could quit my job and spend my days in a studio or motorhome or tent. I may have some thoughts that others would be interested in or even enjoy. I may just be a dreamer. I'd like to find out and this may be a way to begin. I hope so. It's been really cold lately so i walk fast...may be short on posts until it warms up a little and I can take my time walking.