The Weeny Roast

 

When I was a boy at home, years ago, our family calendar revolved around activities at Eagle Creek Church. Week by week we were grounded in the regular worship and prayer services. And as the seasons changed we enjoyed special events with our church family. The Eagle Creek Youth Group met every Wednesday night in a basement classroom to sing praise songs, study the Bible and conduct Youth Group business. Our annual schedule of events included fun activities that always encouraged a spiritual or relational focus and also service projects that always turned out to be fun.

One of our regular service projects was a community leaf-raking service. On a frosty Saturday morning in October we would meet at the church and form several teams. An adult driver, usually one of our parents, would be assigned a carload of kids. We would load our rakes into the trunk of the car and off we’d go to the home of one of our local senior citizens. We’d jump out of the car at our first destination and make short work of raking the leaves into big piles to be burned, carried off in a truck, or left to decompose along a fencerow. Each itinerary would include several locations and our initial enthusiasm naturally eroded as the day progressed. But our youthful spirits were invigorated by the promise of a hearty and sumptuous weeny roast back at the church when we were finished.

It was late in the afternoon one year as the leaf-raking teams returned to the church parking lot after a day of hard work and teenage shenanigans. We were instructed to rake up the leaves around the church as the leaders set up the charcoal grill and other supplies for the long-awaited weeny roast.

Junior and Cleo Berger were our faithful Youth Group Leaders. They had families and other responsibilities of their own, but they joyfully poured hours and days of their time into the lives of a bunch of teenagers from the church. They were a wonderful example of love and devotion for their little flock of awkward and immature pre-adults, and they seemed inseparable. But on this particular Saturday, Junior had to work at his Gas Station and Cleo was left to lead the activities with a few other adults.

Us kids finished our final raking job and then hovered around the adults to pester them as they made the preparations. We were prepared to pounce the moment the plump, sizzling hot dogs were served. But the designated grillmaster didn’t seem to be making much progress. The charcoal briquettes had been mounded up and doused with lighter fluid, but after the initial flare-up nothing but a tentative thread of smoke arose from the cold coals. Another liberal dousing of lighter fluid was applied by the frustrated grillmaster. A match was thrown onto the mound of charcoal resulting in a minor flare-up, but within a few minutes the briquettes were as cold and black as they were at first. The grumbling teenagers tightened their circle around the frustrated adults and their reluctant charcoal grill. The security light flickered on as darkness descended upon this scene of hunger and desperation.

The beleaguered leaders moved the stubborn charcoal grill closer to the outside light over the doors of the church. The dauntless grillmaster carefully dribbled the last of the lighter fluid onto the crumbling briquettes and held a flickering match up to the coals. He then blew little puffs of his own air into the quickly diminishing flames in an attempt to fuel the fire without blowing it out. Finally a few of the coals were actually turning white on the edges and the big round grate was fitted to the grill and lowered to the surface of the coals. With the aroma of lighter fluid lingering in the cold night air, the leaders decided it was now or never as they arranged the dozens of cold, pale hotdogs on the grill. If you listened closely you could detect a faint sizzle.

The teenagers were in full grumble mode by now and some were making disparaging remarks that seemed very clever to their peers. My parents were not in attendance, so I was treating the audience to some of my best smart-alec material. This behavior, of course, only added to the frustration of the adults. It was then that our attention was drawn to the headlights approaching the church, hoping that perhaps someone had come to rescue one of us from this scene of escalating hunger and despair. A big silver Chrysler rolled up and the man who disembarked was none other than Junior Berger! All eyes turned to him as he approached the group. “Well look who finally shows up when it’s time to eat”, I said, expecting everyone to laugh. Cleo Berger fixed her eyes on me and delivered a sternly righteous rebuke that ended my comedic monologue.

Junior Berger didn’t say much. Rubbing his hands together with a tight-lipped smile he strode purposefully to the door of the church and disappeared within. We all wondered what he was up to. A few minutes later he reappeared with an old round canister vacuum cleaner trailing a cord that he had plugged in somewhere. The hose dangled from the rear end of it. We didn’t have time to laugh at him or make any more jokes. He pointed the hose at the tepid bed of coals and hit the switch. The clamorous blast from the vacuum cleaner produced an instant “Fa-Woosh!”; an explosion of ash and smoke! And when the dust settled the flames burned hot and bright. “WooHoo”, the crowd cheered as Junior Berger rolled up the hose and followed the cord back into the church.

By the time he reappeared the charcoal was white and hot. The grate was reaffixed to the grill with the hotdogs already in place and within a few minutes there was a genuine sizzle and the grillmaster was turning the hot dogs and calling for Junior to grab a bun!

For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God, which is in you through the laying on of my hands. For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline.

2 Timothy 1: 6&7 (NIV)

The Man From Heaven

Dad was a carpenter. He made a living with his hand-tools and he took a great deal of pride in the work that he did. From fixing broken rocking chairs to building pole barns he did it all with his hand-tools. When I was a little boy Dad set up a workshop in our little one-car garage. Sometimes after supper he would go out to the garage to build or fix something. Mom would encourage me to follow him so I could watch and learn.

One of the tools Dad often used was his handsaw. He had a couple different ones and he always kept them sharp. I remember him sitting at the kitchen table and filing each tooth. The sound of that little file being drawn across the teeth of the saw made a sound that sent shivers up Mom’s back. She couldn’t help shrieking like the girl that she was and Dad would laugh! Us kids would shriek with Mom, then laugh with Dad.

Anyway…out in the garage, Dad would place the board across a low bench and take his pencil from behind his ear. Then, with his T-square, he’d make a big mark on the board. With one knee up on the board, Dad would make those first, light strokes with the saw to start the cut. And then I would look up at his face, because I knew that he’d draw that saw back and just as he plunged it down, he would make a face like this.

Dad was so intent on his mark and making those long, rhythmic strokes that he would make that face the whole time he was sawing. I can still see his perfect, brilliant teeth and the intensity in his eyes. And then, when the end of the board dropped off, his face would relax. And I would feel my face relax too. Because without thinking about it and without even trying, as I looked at his face and as I watched him work, I made the same face he did. It was only natural, kind of a spontaneous reaction. And it felt good!

Another important tool for a carpenter is his hammer. Dad would slip his 16-ounce hammer into the loop on his jeans, then tie on his nail apron behind his back and put a big fist-full of dark, shiny nails in one of the pockets. When Dad drove a nail he would tap it one time to make it stand up. Then he would hit that nail hard three or four times and drive it down flush. That hammer made a big noise in our little garage and every time he hit the nail I would blink. My Dad never blinked. Sometimes I would hold my eyelids open with my fingers and look right into his bright blue eyes. And he never blinked.

I hardly ever use my handsaw and I’ve certainly never sharpened it. And I don’t drive many nails, but I can still be just like him. Because Dad was determined, with his occupation and with everything else that he was, to follow Jesus Christ. To learn from him and be like him. And when you follow him to his workshop; when you look into his face and watch him work you can’t help but admire and imitate him. That’s what love does.

As was the earthly man, so are those who are of the earth; and as is the man from heaven, so also are those who are of heaven. And just as we have borne the likeness of the earthly man, so shall we bear the likeness of the man from heaven. 1Corinthians 15:48-49 NIV 

THE HOMEMAKER

 

Mom invited me to come up to her house this weekend. She still lives on the place where I grew up and it’s the setting for so many of the memories that I write about. I’ve announced several times that I’m going to start spending more time up there, and I’ve made the trip several times this year, but it still seems like a long time between visits. One of my sisters and her family are coming up from Kentucky, so Mom wants the rest of us to come, too. “I’ll make some food” was the last line of her text. Well, that sealed the deal! I imagine, with some of the aches and pains that she has, that cooking and baking are exhausting efforts for her. But I know she enjoys it.

Mom has always been a dedicated homemaker. For many years she spent a large part of each day in her kitchen cooking breakfast, dinner and supper for her husband and four or five kids. She was our alarm clock. We would often wake up to her soprano serenade. She’d be singing a hymn, and old standard or even a classic show tune as she cooked breakfast. And sometimes, later in the day, she would bake cookies, a pie or even a cake.

Every cake Mom made was an expression of her love for her family, but her birthday cakes were the best of all!  She would let the birthday kid pick what kind of cake they wanted. Then she’d go to the store and get the right cake mix if she didn’t already have one in the cabinet. And she’d make sure she had plenty of powdered sugar on hand, because a Birthday Cake called for a big batch of frosting.

Us kids would be drawn to her presence in the kitchen by the sweet smell of a cake baking. “Don’t bump the oven!” she would sternly warn us, as our kinetic friction would escalate. Her second or third admonishment and her eventual threat to ban us from her kitchen would usually be enough to settle us down a little. We knew that eventually there would be a bowl of frosting and we didn’t want to miss out on that.

As the cake cooled on the counter, Mom would take her small mixing bowl from its place in the cabinet and, with her native intuition, add the four ingredients required for chocolate frosting: butter, powdered sugar, cocoa from the brown tin with the little round lid, and milk. These were precious commodities in her kitchen and she doled them out judiciously, being especially careful with the milk. She’d splash a little out of the jug into the bowl and if, “oops!”, too much came out she’d have to add a little more of the other ingredients. That didn’t happen very often. When the rich, sweet confection was just the right consistency and the cakes were cool, she would begin spreading on the frosting.

The first big gob went right on top of the cake. Mom had the rapt attention of her eager little brood as she turned the cake back and forth on the counter, picking up a little frosting from a thick place to spread over the thin places, until all the bare spots were covered up. She’d dig more out of the bowl to spread around the sides until the whole thing was lavished in a layer of rich home-made frosting. “Who wants to scrape the bowl?” was the question her audience was waiting for. All this was high drama at our house when we were kids.

Then came the good part. Mom would dig deep into the bottom cabinet for her special frosting tool with its clever little plunger and the variety of interchangeable tips. Then she had to make another batch of regular frosting for the decorations. “I hope we’ve got enough food coloring!” she’d say. But those tiny little bottles seemed to last forever.

She was always a little nervous then, as she loaded the fancy frosting into her decorating tool. “Now don’t bump me”, she’d warn us as she spelled out a birthday wish and made little curlicues all around the top edge of her creation. And nothing says “I love you” more than a Happy Birthday wish and the name of her birthday child in flowing cursive frosting font. “Let’s see if we’ve got some sprinkles”, she’d say from her tip-toes as she peered into the top cupboard.

How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called the children of God! And that is what we are! (I John 3:1 NIV)