November 2010
Thanks Giving
25 11 10 20:36 Filed in: Reflections | Grief Notes
We have so much to be thankful for. I have both heard and used those words countless times, but as I heard them again this morning, they carried a deeper than usual impact. They are, of course, true. The Giver of every good gift has given, and I have received. In abundance. But I was neither the speaker nor the subject of those words this time.
This Thanksgiving Day began with a phone call. I had officiated at her husband’s funeral two decades ago. I had tied the knot when she remarried. I had heard the stories of assorted family tragedies and walked through deep waters with her family whose waters seemed deeper than most. This morning she had called to tell me that her adult daughter had died early this morning. She asked me the obvious gut-wrenching question: Why did God take my daughter? I have asked the same question, but I cannot answer it. The only adequate answer to why is Who.
Her Thanksgiving Day had begun the same way my Fathers Day had ended, with news of the death of a child. How does one give thanks against the backdrop of such a loss? While the loss is raw and the pain is deep and the tears flow, can one give thanks? Sometimes thanks giving is easy, but not for her, not today. And yet the words are hers: We have so much to be thankful for. Such thanks are a costly gift, a gift that gives meaning to the phrase a sacrifice of praise.
I like Thanksgiving, and I like thanks giving. It is a time for counting blessings (as if they could be counted), and it is a time for counting losses. And it is a time to discover afresh the wonder that no matter how deep and painful the losses, they do not eclipse the thanks-prompting grace of God.
This Thanksgiving Day began with a phone call. I had officiated at her husband’s funeral two decades ago. I had tied the knot when she remarried. I had heard the stories of assorted family tragedies and walked through deep waters with her family whose waters seemed deeper than most. This morning she had called to tell me that her adult daughter had died early this morning. She asked me the obvious gut-wrenching question: Why did God take my daughter? I have asked the same question, but I cannot answer it. The only adequate answer to why is Who.
Her Thanksgiving Day had begun the same way my Fathers Day had ended, with news of the death of a child. How does one give thanks against the backdrop of such a loss? While the loss is raw and the pain is deep and the tears flow, can one give thanks? Sometimes thanks giving is easy, but not for her, not today. And yet the words are hers: We have so much to be thankful for. Such thanks are a costly gift, a gift that gives meaning to the phrase a sacrifice of praise.
I like Thanksgiving, and I like thanks giving. It is a time for counting blessings (as if they could be counted), and it is a time for counting losses. And it is a time to discover afresh the wonder that no matter how deep and painful the losses, they do not eclipse the thanks-prompting grace of God.
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Remedial Trust
23 11 10 13:50 Filed in: Reflections | My Life
It’s an eight mile drive between our house and the airport. In ideal circumstances, it’s about a fifteen minute drive. Yesterday was not ideal. Suzanne had gone to pick up friends who were flying in for Thanksgiving. The snow was supposed to be over before their plane arrived. That was the plan, but the One who controls the weather apparently had a different plan. About the time that their plane arrived, the main highway leading from the airport became a dangerous, down-hill ice slick, and the state patrol shut it down. The trip home, involving a circuitous detour that those who know Seattle’s topography would understand, took over six hours and involved dodging countless abandoned vehicles. I spent most of those six hours doing the nervous father routine and worrying about things I could not control.
Which was strange, given that the Sunday sermon we had both heard focused on Jesus’ gentle reminder, do not worry. She remembered and reminded me: “Remember Dad, ‘do not worry.’” I didn’t remember, and my answer had only honesty on its side: “I think it’s too late for that.” I was already well into worry.
Eventually two words on the refrigerator caught my eye. They were placed there three years ago (we don’t edit our refrigerator door very often) during Joan’s irreversible decline. We had prayed for God’s will and ours; ours was healing. God’s consistent reply was the two words I had put on the refrigerator door: Trust Me. My response - I can trust God for healing - was significantly narrower than God’s invitation: Trust Me. Seeing the words again stopped me in my tracks and sent me back to Sunday’s text.
Do not worry. Trust me. Do not be afraid. There were no limits other than the ones my untrust had imposed. There are two problems with untrust. First, it obscures the character and unchanging love of God. And second, it is easily learned - and difficult to unlearn. I’m pretty sure that Suzanne, Katy, and Bob didn’t need a six hour Seattle ice adventure. But God being God didn’t waste it; He gave me a six-hour course in remedial trust.
I wish I hadn’t needed it.
Which was strange, given that the Sunday sermon we had both heard focused on Jesus’ gentle reminder, do not worry. She remembered and reminded me: “Remember Dad, ‘do not worry.’” I didn’t remember, and my answer had only honesty on its side: “I think it’s too late for that.” I was already well into worry.
Eventually two words on the refrigerator caught my eye. They were placed there three years ago (we don’t edit our refrigerator door very often) during Joan’s irreversible decline. We had prayed for God’s will and ours; ours was healing. God’s consistent reply was the two words I had put on the refrigerator door: Trust Me. My response - I can trust God for healing - was significantly narrower than God’s invitation: Trust Me. Seeing the words again stopped me in my tracks and sent me back to Sunday’s text.
Do not worry. Trust me. Do not be afraid. There were no limits other than the ones my untrust had imposed. There are two problems with untrust. First, it obscures the character and unchanging love of God. And second, it is easily learned - and difficult to unlearn. I’m pretty sure that Suzanne, Katy, and Bob didn’t need a six hour Seattle ice adventure. But God being God didn’t waste it; He gave me a six-hour course in remedial trust.
I wish I hadn’t needed it.
Derailed Express
The waitress came by a few minutes later to pick up the check, glanced at my card, and said, “I’m sorry, sir; we don’t take American Express.” I think I probably stopped smiling. I looked at the card and the logo on the holder; they both said American Express, and it seemed like a perfect match to me. Before I could ask the obvious question, she continued: “I know; we were just talking about that. We need to cover those logos with something else.” Or get holders that Visa helped pay for instead, I thought. “Do you have another card?” she asked.
It occurs to me that sometimes the various labels we stick on our lives are misleading. And sometimes that doesn’t bother us. It should. Phoniness is always uncomfortable, both for the phony and those who encounter it. Ask the waitress.
I’d rather have known up front, but smiling again, I replaced the AmEx card with a Visa. After all, settling for air miles instead of a rebate isn’t all that bad.
The Electric Life
16 11 10 08:40 Filed in: Reflections | My Life
It shouldn’t surprise me, but it always does.
I was returning home last night from a Bible study, looking forward to enjoying late dinner, sending a couple of emails, and reading a few more chapters in the current library book. The house, however, looked a bit different as I approached it. It was dark. So was the street. And so were the other houses in the neighborhood. It turned out I was coming home to the first wind-whipped power outage of the season.
I have gotten used to the plugged-in life, and when the electricity ceases to flow, so do I. Late dinner options narrowed considerably: peanut butter? cold pizza? (I suppose I could try warming it over a candle.... Maybe not.) I was briefly grateful for my laptop’s fully charged battery until I realized that my modem required a power source. There was a time in my life when reading by flashlight or candlelight was a reasonable choice, but that time seems to have melted into my personal history. Almost everything I wanted to do required electricity. But it’s not all bad. There is a pleasant quietness to being disconnected. I was blessed by my daughter who had thoughtfully lighted my way with candles. And fortunately, prayer and sleep are possible without a plug.
Nine hours later the power is back on, and I am reconnected with the ordinary. I have a briefly freshened appreciation for power and a deepened desire to see the powers that be spend millions to underground the utilities for the sake of my convenience, but I am not hopeful that it will happen anytime soon. Or ever.
There will be more windstorms and more trees knocking out more power lines. There will be more days when I come home to darkness. It shouldn’t surprise me, but it will.
I was returning home last night from a Bible study, looking forward to enjoying late dinner, sending a couple of emails, and reading a few more chapters in the current library book. The house, however, looked a bit different as I approached it. It was dark. So was the street. And so were the other houses in the neighborhood. It turned out I was coming home to the first wind-whipped power outage of the season.
I have gotten used to the plugged-in life, and when the electricity ceases to flow, so do I. Late dinner options narrowed considerably: peanut butter? cold pizza? (I suppose I could try warming it over a candle.... Maybe not.) I was briefly grateful for my laptop’s fully charged battery until I realized that my modem required a power source. There was a time in my life when reading by flashlight or candlelight was a reasonable choice, but that time seems to have melted into my personal history. Almost everything I wanted to do required electricity. But it’s not all bad. There is a pleasant quietness to being disconnected. I was blessed by my daughter who had thoughtfully lighted my way with candles. And fortunately, prayer and sleep are possible without a plug.
Nine hours later the power is back on, and I am reconnected with the ordinary. I have a briefly freshened appreciation for power and a deepened desire to see the powers that be spend millions to underground the utilities for the sake of my convenience, but I am not hopeful that it will happen anytime soon. Or ever.
There will be more windstorms and more trees knocking out more power lines. There will be more days when I come home to darkness. It shouldn’t surprise me, but it will.
12 Words
03 11 10 10:36 Filed in: Reflections
Someone called them the twelve most powerful words in the English language. Unquestionably they are words everyone wants to hear. But they are hard words to say because they are dangerous to a person’s own misplaced conviction of their own infallibility. They are words that make possible uniting the divided and healing the hurting. They are powerful words, and they are rare.
I was wrong. I am sorry. Please forgive me. I love you. People have a hard time hearing the end if they haven’t heard the beginning. It strikes me today as I listen to the president’s response to yesterday’s election that what is so clearly true in human relationships is also true in the political realm. And I wonder about the power that might have been released if those twelve words had been included in today’s press conference.
Some of you read the title of this blog entry and hoped that I had finally learned to tweet, limiting myself to just a dozen words. I guess I misled you. I was wrong. I am sorry. Please forgive me. I love you.
I was wrong. I am sorry. Please forgive me. I love you. People have a hard time hearing the end if they haven’t heard the beginning. It strikes me today as I listen to the president’s response to yesterday’s election that what is so clearly true in human relationships is also true in the political realm. And I wonder about the power that might have been released if those twelve words had been included in today’s press conference.
Some of you read the title of this blog entry and hoped that I had finally learned to tweet, limiting myself to just a dozen words. I guess I misled you. I was wrong. I am sorry. Please forgive me. I love you.
Dino, Patty, and Jesus
02 11 10 23:25 Filed in: Reflections | Hmmm...
I can probably start answering the phone again, not that it will ring that much now that the campaign season is history. For the last several days, callers have had to put up with a message on my answering machine. My voice on the message is preceded by tones designed to signal automatic calling programs that my number has been disconnected. The automatic callers take the hint and hang up immediately. Political volunteers, on the other hand - the human kind - don’t; they hang on and leave a message, convinced that I am (or soon will be) one of them.
It will be a while before we know whether Dino will replace Patty in the Senate. The vote counters will do their thing, and King County Elections will try to avoid yet another scandal. I just glad not to be getting calls from either campaign. It is axiomatic that politics and religion as conversation topics are bound to start an argument, and so for much of the year, civil people often seem to avoid those topics. Except, of course, during election season when it is fair game to urge everyone in sight (and thousands who aren’t in sight) to support the candidate or cause of one’s choosing.
Don’t get me wrong. I love the freedom we enjoy to engage in vigorous debate about politics, and I can be just as passionate about my views as others. Freedom is a precious thing. But I sometimes wonder if our passion is not misdirected. Maybe we need an election season for Jesus, a time when it is not politically incorrect to share one’s convictions and passionate support for the Lord. Maybe that season is now. Maybe it’s okay to risk disagreement.
I voted for Dino in spite of the woman who called three times to urge me to mail my ballot voting for Patty. If Dino loses, I’ll get by, and so, I hope, will the country. But I’m pretty sure I won’t make it without Jesus. And that’s worth a little passion.
It will be a while before we know whether Dino will replace Patty in the Senate. The vote counters will do their thing, and King County Elections will try to avoid yet another scandal. I just glad not to be getting calls from either campaign. It is axiomatic that politics and religion as conversation topics are bound to start an argument, and so for much of the year, civil people often seem to avoid those topics. Except, of course, during election season when it is fair game to urge everyone in sight (and thousands who aren’t in sight) to support the candidate or cause of one’s choosing.
Don’t get me wrong. I love the freedom we enjoy to engage in vigorous debate about politics, and I can be just as passionate about my views as others. Freedom is a precious thing. But I sometimes wonder if our passion is not misdirected. Maybe we need an election season for Jesus, a time when it is not politically incorrect to share one’s convictions and passionate support for the Lord. Maybe that season is now. Maybe it’s okay to risk disagreement.
I voted for Dino in spite of the woman who called three times to urge me to mail my ballot voting for Patty. If Dino loses, I’ll get by, and so, I hope, will the country. But I’m pretty sure I won’t make it without Jesus. And that’s worth a little passion.