My Life
Tempus Fugit
01 01 15 15:14
Happy new year.
2014 is over. I’ll leave it to you to decide whether that’s good news or not. For our part we’ve been thanking God as we remember the blessings and recall God’s work amid the challenges. And we’ve been wondering again where the time has gone.
After I retired I started telling people that I no longer lived by the clock. Such an attitude sometimes frustrates other people who don’t seem to understand when my answer to their “What time is it?” question is Thursday. There is, however, some blessed freedom in not being tied to the minute. I can remember with nostalgia a classroom bell ringing at 11:18 or some other equally odd time, but I have no longing to return to that kind of slavery.
I am, however, ready to embrace the clock again. It is not that I am repenting of my relaxed approach to time; it is rather that I now own a clock (thank you, Suzanne) that reflects my retirement values. I like this clock. I might like it even better if it showed months instead of days, but I can live with it. So today it’s Thursday; happy new year.
2014 is over. I’ll leave it to you to decide whether that’s good news or not. For our part we’ve been thanking God as we remember the blessings and recall God’s work amid the challenges. And we’ve been wondering again where the time has gone.
After I retired I started telling people that I no longer lived by the clock. Such an attitude sometimes frustrates other people who don’t seem to understand when my answer to their “What time is it?” question is Thursday. There is, however, some blessed freedom in not being tied to the minute. I can remember with nostalgia a classroom bell ringing at 11:18 or some other equally odd time, but I have no longing to return to that kind of slavery.
Comments
Buried Treasure
28 06 14 17:21
Ah, the memories! It turns out the treasure is not in the buried stuff; it’s in the memories.
Being Heavenly-Minded
16 09 13 22:50
Ted achieved that status 25 years ago when my dad passed away in Scotland at the end of a wonderful anniversary trip. My brothers and I were thousands of miles away, but Ted was on site and came alongside my mother, helping to care for the necessary arrangements until I could get there just barely in time for the memorial service. Though we didn't see each other often, I will miss him, and his death has me thinking again about what is and what will be.
Such thinking, I have decided, is healthy in spite of the fact that it may be rare. My train of thought was pushed further along the track this morning when I came across a quote from C. S. Lewis (Mere Christianity) who observed that "the Christians who did most for the present world were just those who thought most of the next." It is an observation that flies in the face of contemporary wisdom. It is a difficult truth that I cannot fully know heaven until I get there; whatever it will be, it will be better than I can imagine. But even with an incomplete and imperfect knowledge, focusing on what will be makes me more effective in handling what is.
I don't much like funerals, but they have an undeniable value for me whether I actually attend them or not. They confront me with the need to think about what will be and not just about what is. Lewis went on to say, "It is since Christians have largely ceased to think of the other world that they have become so ineffective in this. Aim at heaven and you will get earth thrown in; aim at earth and you will get neither.
He was right. Lord, keep me aimed at heaven.
Please Don't Send Me to Africa
06 08 13 11:15
The first time I heard the song, I thought I could have written it. "Missions" (whatever that word might include) has held a special place in my heart for a long time, and there was a time in my youth when I considered whether God might recruit me for some kind of cross-cultural mission endeavor. There were places in the world for which I prayed, but quite honestly, Africa wasn't one of them. I don't think I ever actually prayed the lyrics of that song (I didn't want to give the Almighty any ideas), but I could have; the words expressed what I thought and felt:
Please don't send me to Africa
I don't think I've got what it takes
I'm just a man; I'm not a Tarzan
Don't like lions gorillas or snakes....
I suppose it is evidence of God's sense of humor that last year I married a woman who spent two decades of her life as a missionary in Africa. We've talked about that chapter in Valerie's life, and I think she actually agrees with those lyrics; she's not sure I would have had what it takes either! Africa is out there; it is a needy mission field, but it is a field for others. Or so I thought until I read this morning's email.
The email was from a colleague with BEE World in Colorado Springs. A couple of years ago I completed the writing adventure that became The Christian Life, a part of BEE World's training curriculum. I remember submitting the last revisions, breathing a sigh of relief, and praying that it would produce fruit for God's kingdom. Attached to this morning's email was a note addressed "To the author of Christian Life book." The email explained, One of our ministry partners is involved in... training pastors from various African countries and the note is from one of the students from that group. We want you to be able to share in our joy at how this course is touching the lives of students all over the world.
Apparently God did send me to Africa. I just didn't know it.
The Blog Is Back
29 07 13 13:29
It's been a year. When I got married last year, I began joking about the Biblical one year honeymoon. The basis for such a radical idea is in Deuteronomy 24:5, and it seems pretty clear to me:
When a man takes a new wife, he is not to go out with the army or be given any business or work duties. He gets one year off simply to be at home making his wife happy. (The Message)
I will readily confess that I know nobody who has actually taken a literal one year honeymoon. However, even in the absence of precedent, it seemed like a good idea to me.
In fairness, I admit that it took me a couple of months to actually lay down the writing, but once I did, I managed to avoid blogging for a whole year; the last entry was July 28, 2012. I'd give myself a pat on the back, but it seems a bit awkward to take pride in something that I didn't do.
It turns out that the harder part of a one year break is restarting. So much has transpired in the last 12 months - almost all of it good - that it is tough to know where to start. So perhaps that difficulty IS the best place to begin, because God has been consistently faithful. We've had all kinds of adventures, and God has been at work. Among those adventures in the last twelve months, we have
...bought and moved into a condo in Kent...
...visited more cousins than I knew it was possible to have...
...introduced Malcolm to Niagara Falls...
...discovered some surprising Gospel Recordings connections...
...sold a condo in Abbotsford...
...helped Val's mom celebrate her 95th birthday...
...filled out lots of forms (some of you KNOW how form-challenged I am)...
...secured permanent resident status for Valerie...
...laughed a lot, and not always at each other....
We're well into year two of this marital adventure, and though the honeymoon may not be over, the blog is back. Occasionally you'll find me here reflecting on life and reminding myself (and perhaps you) that in the midst of life's changing circumstances, God's deep love is unchanging.
Borderlands
28 07 12 19:52
On May 6 I married a Canadian. Our travels back and forth across the border give us plenty of opportunities to notice some of the cultural differences between these two children of a common mother. Let me point out a couple of examples. Val believes drivers on the US side are a bit more conservative than Canadians, and I have to agree. For several years I have maintained that the most dangerous drivers on I-5 in Washington are Canadian truckers. It sometimes seems to me that defensive driving is a concept that has never caught on in Canada. I think I understand why her car insurance is almost twice what mine is.
Spelling is an adventure north of the border. The Britishisms that were lost long ago south of the border remain entrenched on the Canadian side. Canadians write cheques instead of checks and might visit a civic centre to attend some colourful programme. Even as I write, my US English spell-check wants to correct these Canadianisms. To further confuse matters, everything appears in two languages, English and French, in spite of the fact that I have yet to meet anyone in Abbotsford for whom French is the primary language.
It's hard to find a store that doesn't sell bags and/or require a 25 cent deposit to use a shopping cart in Abbotsford. (In fairness, some Seattle stores have started charging for paper bags since the city in its unfathomable wisdom banned the plastic ones.) Charging for shopping bags seems to me to be akin to a restaurant adding a plate rental fee to the cost of meal.
Like most other nations both of these siblings are proud of what they are, sometimes to the point of fierce sibling rivalry that would make one question the accuracy of the Peace Arch's inscription. Occasionally we notice that when we cross the border. But we are blessed to belong to two nations that, at least for the time being, let us call them home.
What are some of the differences you have noticed between these two sibling nations??
The Inside Scoop
20 06 12 23:04
The letter began "Just for you - The Inside Scoop." It was both a letter from a youth pastor to his senior pastor and a letter from a son to his father. For four years I was blessed to be yoked to my son in pastoral ministry, a partnership that benefited both of us, and the congregation as well, more than any of us knew and one for which I will always be grateful. We shared with each other and with the Lord the joys and challenges of ministry, and Matt continued that sharing, this time by mail from the other side of the world where he was leading a youth missions team.
And so this afternoon I read again the letter I had first read fifteen years ago. Matt was discovering that the building they were constructing, while significant, was secondary because God was engaged in a major building project in the lives of his teens. I won't share the details since I don't have the permission of those now-grown teens, but a couple of excerpts will give you the flavor: "It has been an incredibly intense week for me. God has been busy and I am just trying to keep up with him..." And a bit later: "I'm just watching God do what he does - change lives."
"That's the inside scoop, Boss..." Today marked the second anniversary of the life-shattering phone call that brought Suzanne and me the news of Matt's death. Thanks, Matt, for showing up again in a fifteen year old letter and stimulating thankfulness by reminding me again that God is still full of gracious surprises.
Those Three Words
11 06 12 21:43
Pretend you were there 36 days ago. It was a serious moment. We were reciting our vows, pondering the meaning of what we were declaring to one another when those three unexpected words appeared. But you need some background.
Valerie is a minimalist; she really likes small and simple and is radically committed to downsizing. I, on the other hand, have a much more normal approach to stuff. (At least it seemed normal to me.) If I acquired it, it must be good, and if it is good stuff, it must be worth keeping. It will help you understand the difference between us if I tell you that the dominant topic of conversation over our first lunch was how many books I had. It was not a topic that I brought up! We've had a lot of subsequent conversations about stuff (mostly my stuff since Val has much more ruthlessly freed herself from accumulated clutter than I have). It's become one of those ongoing jokes between us.
At least I thought it was between us. Then I heard those three unexpected words that I was being asked to repeat: ...forsaking most stuff.... Forsaking most stuff??? How did that get into the vows? Even though it was a very small wedding, it didn't seem to me to be a good time to argue. So I didn't; I gulped and made a promise, hoping that there was enough wiggle room in the word most.
It is hard and time-consuming, but it is a promise I intend to keep. It turns out that those three unexpected words that showed up in the vows are connected to those other three words -- the wonderfully powerful ones that I mentioned earlier. In this new season of Malcolm's life, forsaking most stuff is just one more way to say I love you. ♥
One Month Later...
06 06 12 20:30
It was a life-changing day. It's been a month since Valerie and I began this new chapter of our lives as a married couple. You probably weren't there for the ceremony; there were just nine of us that gathered for that sacred event - an intimate crowd if there can be such a thing. We gathered at the home of a retired pastor-friend who had joyfully agreed to officiate. (In an attempt to limit the crowd even further, Val had earlier asked me if I could officiate at my own wedding; not only is that not legal, but I would have messed it up!) We're grateful for the folks that shared that day with us.
There is a profound simplicity to a wedding ceremony, and taking the kind of simple approach that Val wanted helped us focus on what was truly important. We shared our vows (more about vows in a later blog; there was an unexpected moment there...), exchanged rings, and celebrated communion with our family and friends. We want Christ to be consistently central in our lives and relationship.
We signed the certificate, and took a few pictures. Then it was time to change and head for the dock to embark on a cruise to Alaska. The cruise lasted a week, but I think there is Biblical precedence for the honeymoon lasting a year. (See Deuteronomy 24:5; it might be my new favorite verse.)
People ask us where we are going to live. The short and blunt answer is that we don't know (though that is not the answer we give at the border). We're looking for a condo in the Seattle area, but we already have one in Abbotsford, BC. So for the time being and until we figure out which side of the border will be "home," we're doing a lot of commuting.
So here we are one month later. We're still smiling (a lot), we're still marveling at what God has been doing in our lives, we still don't know where we're going to live, and I'm finally rediscovering the blog. It's a good life!
I've Been Distracted
03 03 12 21:19
I’ve been distracted. The blog has waited patiently for an update for too long, and I’ve been too distracted to pay it much mind. Sometimes being distracted is a bad thing. Some of the students I taught were easily distracted when they needed to be focused. That kind of distraction was not good – for them or for me. But sometimes being distracted IS a good thing. Very good.
I’ve been distracted, and it is very good. She is a Canadian retired missionary named Valerie. I first met her 43 years ago, and then promptly forgot that she existed for the next four decades. Through a friend who was forwarding my email updates to her, we reconnected. Over the last several weeks and months, and with no intent that a romance might develop, we began to realize that God was doing something quite unexpected in both of our lives. And so this spring we will be married. It’s okay; you are no more surprised than we are.
So that’s why I’ve been distracted. If you’ve missed the blog these past several weeks, I’m not terribly sorry, because some distractions are good. Very good!
I’ve been distracted, and it is very good. She is a Canadian retired missionary named Valerie. I first met her 43 years ago, and then promptly forgot that she existed for the next four decades. Through a friend who was forwarding my email updates to her, we reconnected. Over the last several weeks and months, and with no intent that a romance might develop, we began to realize that God was doing something quite unexpected in both of our lives. And so this spring we will be married. It’s okay; you are no more surprised than we are.
So that’s why I’ve been distracted. If you’ve missed the blog these past several weeks, I’m not terribly sorry, because some distractions are good. Very good!
The Trouble with Snow
16 01 12 21:40
Like a lot of other folk in the Northwest, I have a love-hate relationship with snow. The problem, I suppose, is not the snow itself. After all, I know Who created and controls the stuff, and I wouldn’t want to be in the position of declaring as bad that which God has given. There is a quiet beauty to snow that I enjoy.
But it can be a treacherous beauty. I have seen the power of snow to incapacitate all kinds of things dreamed up by human genius. Including our schedules. And I have a healthy respect for the power of what God creates. I personally have no trouble avoiding skis and snowboards; my feet are big enough and flat enough as it is. I have outgrown my need to prove that I can navigate ice. The truth is I like my snow at a distance. And when it gets too close for comfort, I remind myself that sooner or later, it will melt. Because that’s the way God made it.
But it can be a treacherous beauty. I have seen the power of snow to incapacitate all kinds of things dreamed up by human genius. Including our schedules. And I have a healthy respect for the power of what God creates. I personally have no trouble avoiding skis and snowboards; my feet are big enough and flat enough as it is. I have outgrown my need to prove that I can navigate ice. The truth is I like my snow at a distance. And when it gets too close for comfort, I remind myself that sooner or later, it will melt. Because that’s the way God made it.
Remembering
09 01 12 22:04
Today was a day for remembering. It’s been four years since Joan passed away, four years since she met the Savior face to face. It was a much calmer day today than it was then. We stopped briefly by the cemetery and went up to the Calcutta Grill, one of her favorite restaurants, for a “Joan memorial” lunch, and it was fun. In spite of the clouds, the view was great, in spite of the occasion, the mood was upbeat, and the food was great, too. Suzanne brought along a Joan album, and we leafed through it, looking at pictures, smiling at memories, telling a few “Joan stories,” and thanking God for her.
Remembering is a good thing. Building memories is important. I’m thankful today for the priceless memories I have -- and for the memories yet to be built.
2011
31 12 11 23:18
Goodby 2011. You’ve been a good year, which is a blessing since not all years are. Sometimes you have enchanted me; sometimes you have surprised me. Occasionally you’ve kicked me in the backside. Some of your moments have been painful, but many of them have been joyful; a few have been both. A lot of folks in these tough times will bid you farewell the way a bouncer would toss a drunk out of a tavern. They haven’t quite figured out that the tough times aren’t your fault. I’m looking forward to meeting your baby brother who will be here soon. I’m praying that he’ll be carrying an abundant supply of joy. Goodby 2011. You’re leaving me happier than you found me; thank you.
Ebenezer
22 12 11 21:42
It should go without saying that Christmas is not about lights, shopping, Santa, Rudolph, the Grinch, Elf, Frosty, trees, or even Scrooge or Charlie Brown. It’s about Jesus. But much of the culture in which I live has lost sight of that reality. And sometimes I can, too. I need an occasional ebenezer, a stone of remembrance that points me to the Who of Christmas.
Each year I need to discover afresh the staggering magnitude of the miracle of the incarnation. God becoming flesh; the Creator stepping into creation. And I need to remember why. I’m thankful for the ebenezers that serve to remind me of the reality beyond the tinsel.
Whatever your ebenezer, I hope you are looking beyond it to the Christ who is at the center of a truly happy Christmas.
"The Christian Life"
06 12 11 14:21
Consider this an invitation: While there is space available, you can join the adventure - and it will cost you nothing but a bit of time and commitment. But whether you join the class or not, I’d value your prayers for this first facilitated offering. Click on The Christian Life page for more information about what it is and how to get involved. It will be an adventure, and I’m looking forward to it.
Finding Felicity
02 12 11 22:11
The tree trimming was briefly interrupted by the lighting of Renton’s clam lights at Coulon Park and the arrival of the Christmas ship. We went outside for a bit to listen to the music across the south end of the lake, and then came back in the house, retreating from the cold, but we left a window open for the music.
I know for some folks it’s a season of stress, but I want the traditions of Christmas to help me stay focused on its unchanging message of God’s grace. It’s been a very good day; after all, it’s December, and some traditions are worth keeping.
The Journal
22 11 11 20:40
For us the trip had been one of both discovery and ministry. We had visited six countries, interacted with scores of missionaries and national believers in three of them, and I had taught for a couple of weeks in Cebu. And Joan recorded the trip in detail. I stayed up beyond midnight reading it halfway through, remembering events I had forgotten, and seeing again people and places that were burned into our hearts.
I picked it up again this morning and finished reading it, savoring every page of the journal and every day of the trip. Joan missed nothing of importance. In fact if we shared a meal with you on that trip, Joan probably recorded what we ate (and whether we needed Pepto Bismol later). I found myself joyfully thanking God for people I haven’t seen for years - and for a few who, like Joan, are now in the presence of the Lord.
Three months ago I attended a “Creating a Legacy” conference and came away convinced of the importance of telling one’s story. In the last couple of days I have experienced (again) the value of that first hand. It’s been almost four years since she passed away, and Joan is still blessing me.
Faithful
18 10 11 12:45
I had wondered why I was traveling to California. When I bought the ticket, I knew why; I was going to the fall adult conference at Mount Hermon. It would be good, though probably not quite as good as the Creating a Legacy conference a couple of months ago. At that conference I had wondered if the scheduling would impact registration for the fall conference, but nobody else seemed concerned. Then I got the letter: The fall conference had been cancelled due to low registration. It would have been good, I thought, to have that information before I bought a non-refundable airline ticket.
For the last two weeks, I waffled. Should I go and visit family, or should I pay the exorbitant change fee and go somewhere else. After all, I’ve never been to Hawaii. The Scot in me won out - just use the ticket. So there I was this morning at SeaTac, wondering why I was flying.
Just before I boarded, my cell phone rang. It was my daughter calling to pass on a sad message. Pastor Wiley Hoyle, who had married Joan and me, had died. I called his wife Cleo in Santa Rosa, an hour and a half from where I will be staying, His death was not a surprise; cancer and hospice care had become a familiar part of life. But I know too well that the awareness of the impending death of a loved one does not diminish the pain of the loss. I can sense what his family is experiencing because I have been there, and the loss of a friend scratches at the scars of my own grief.
I recall years ago talking to Chuck Swindoll, who summed up Wiley Hoyle in one word: faithful. The word fits.
The plane will be landing soon. I hope to give Cleo a hug on this trip. And I no longer wonder why I am going to California.
Mushrooms
14 10 11 11:18
We ended up focused less on leaves and more on fungi, which I will admit doesn’t sound all that appealing. I can understand gathering leaves with which to decorate, but I don’t know anyone who hunts mushrooms for the same purpose. The beauty of mushrooms seems far greater when they are in their natural setting, and we enjoyed walking through the woods, wondering at large mushrooms with upturned edges, holding rain water like a cup.
I have never before thought of mushrooms as beautiful. Tasty, yes, but not beautiful. In fact they have always seemed somewhat ugly. These tree-hugging conks changed my mind. Ironically they are evidence of decay, the wood-rotting fungus often entering the tree through a wound. I wonder idly how it began and marvel at the miracle that by God’s grace even decay can produce beauty.
I’ll look elsewhere for leaves and will celebrate the stress that produces their riotous color. This week was a time for mushrooms.
Donald and the Truth
17 09 11 23:20
When I was four or five years old in England, my brother and I each had a pet tortoise. Mine was named Donald; I don’t remember the name of his. I have no idea whose idea it was to have tortoises as pets or where they came from. They were pretty low maintenance pets, content to wander the back yard and munch whatever vegetation treats we provided - and they hid a lot.
After several days of the tortoises being in hiding, we found Donald nestled in a tortoise-created nest with a tortoise egg, a discovery that created no end of family excitement. Gender apparently had not been a consideration when the beasts were acquired. Others may have found it amusing, but my young mind was not bothered by the incongruity of Donald’s name and gender. (How do you tell with tortoises, anyway?) A parental phone call to the London zoo provided the needed information on the proper care of tortoise eggs. The egg was carefully placed in a box of sand, almost fully buried, and the box placed near the water heater where it would be warm.
My older brother, who loved all things living, took a proprietary interest in the egg. Never mind the fact that it was MY tortoise that had laid the thing; he was determined to care for the egg until it hatched - and probably long after. He checked the egg two or three times a day and ordered me to keep my clumsy fingers away from it. Which I didn’t. I regularly checked the egg as well, though never when my brother was around; I knew better.
It wasn’t long until the inevitable happened. I broke the egg. It was a disaster of major proportions. Fortunately, I knew exactly what I needed to do. Cover-up! I flushed the egg remnants along with some wet sand down the toilet without being discovered. Now all I had to do was find a substitute egg. A convenient ping-pong ball was the right shape, size and color, and I buried it carefully in the box of sand, smoothing the surface and leaving only a tiny bit of the ball showing. Nobody would ever know! Yes, I know that ping-pong balls don’t hatch, but at that tender age I had mastered the art of living in the present.
Days passed; I don’t remember how many, but it seemed like a lot. My brother continued faithfully checking on Donald’s egg and regularly reporting no progress. Then one day he exploded. Each time he checked the egg it rotated just a bit until finally the day arrived when he discovered “Made in Japan” stamped on the egg. He was livid; I was the picture of phony innocence. No, I had no idea how a ping-pong ball had gotten into the box. Maybe it had always been a ping-pong ball and never an egg! The truth hurt, and so I lied. What I was still learning was that no matter how painful the truth, it never hurts as much as a lie.
Those turtles at Coulon Park have become my friends. Every time I see them, I smile and I’m reminded to thank God for lessons learned - and to pray for people I know who are still learning.
42 Years Later...
12 09 11 14:45
September 12, 1969 - it was a very good day! I’m marking this anniversary with memories of that day: The most beautiful bride I’d ever seen on the arm of the world’s most nervous father (by the time of the third wedding, he had it down pat, but this was his first).... The nervous but audible declaration of commitment.... The frozen facial muscles at the reception, unable to stop smiling (but who wanted to?).... The flat tire in Watts on the way to the Los Angeles airport for the last flight of the day to the San Francisco Bay area.... The Los Angeles police officer and deputy city attorney who had that tire changed in record time.... The unexpected and delightful embarrassment of being welcomed onboard Joan’s first-ever flight as newlyweds by a plane-load of amused applauding passengers (just how much of a scene did my family make trying to find out if we were REALLY booked on that flight?).... The beginning of a life together....
Quite honestly, there are parts of the day that I don’t remember. I know I went for a meditative drive that afternoon, praying about the dramatic change that was about to take place in my life, but I have no idea where I went, a memory lapse that amused Joan no end.
Our last few anniversaries together were complicated by two things. Celebrating the day after 9/11 could be a challenge and injected a sometimes muted tone to our celebration. And the annual fall school retreat, mandatory for faculty, frequently overlapped our anniversary. The incompatible retreat goals of discipleship and sleep deprivation sometimes delayed our anniversary - until my last year of teaching when I got smart enough to take Joan along. I’m pretty sure our last anniversary included a shared meal in the hospital ATU.
Til death do us part has not transformed September 12 into just another day on the calendar. Some of my friends and relatives notice the significance of this date, but most avoid mentioning it, not quite knowing what to say. Somehow “Happy anniversary” doesn’t quite seem right. However, the truth of the matter is that it IS joyful, if not happy as well.
My mind meanders through memories that trigger a marvelous mixture of smiles, tears, and gratitude. It is a very good day indeed!
99%
03 09 11 21:46
I admire my GPS. Ninety-nine percent of the time she is accurate, and I have gotten used to relying on her. So when I headed south two and a half weeks ago, I went with the “lighten my load” theme and left the maps at home. Maggie, my faithful GPS, would get me where I needed to go. And she did - most of the time.
Unfortunately for me, she experienced a few days when she had trouble finishing well. The first day, for example, she waited until I was quarter of a mile beyond my hosts before telling me with undeserved confidence, “You have arrived.” I had actually arrived a few moments earlier, but apparently neither of us noticed.
I hoped it was a momentary aberration not to be repeated. After all, she had been accurate all day (granted that was when I actually knew where I was going and didn’t need her directions). However, she was not done playing with my mind. The second day she wanted me to arrive via the street behind where I was to stay. I’m pretty sure there was no “climb over the back wall” option on the GPS, but she seemed to think it would be a good idea. Then there was the day she announced, “When possible make a legal u-turn” while I was driving down the freeway.
On the way home I planned to spend a night at the Super 8 in Crescent City, a destination supposedly known to Maggie. I had forgiven her for telling me to make a u-turn on the freeway and was confident she could get us to a place in her memory bank. “You have arrived,” she announced, at the bottom of the hill coming into Crescent City. I looked, but there was nothing - and I mean nothing - on either side of the highway. “In your dreams!” I told her and kept driving. Half a mile further along I found the Super 8 without Maggie’s help. I asked the guy at the desk if they had moved the motel recently. He looked at me like I was crazy.
Maybe my expectations were too high, but I repent of likening my GPS to the Holy Spirit. When it comes to divine guidance, 99% is not good enough. Maggie may fail me; He won’t.
Unfortunately for me, she experienced a few days when she had trouble finishing well. The first day, for example, she waited until I was quarter of a mile beyond my hosts before telling me with undeserved confidence, “You have arrived.” I had actually arrived a few moments earlier, but apparently neither of us noticed.
I hoped it was a momentary aberration not to be repeated. After all, she had been accurate all day (granted that was when I actually knew where I was going and didn’t need her directions). However, she was not done playing with my mind. The second day she wanted me to arrive via the street behind where I was to stay. I’m pretty sure there was no “climb over the back wall” option on the GPS, but she seemed to think it would be a good idea. Then there was the day she announced, “When possible make a legal u-turn” while I was driving down the freeway.
On the way home I planned to spend a night at the Super 8 in Crescent City, a destination supposedly known to Maggie. I had forgiven her for telling me to make a u-turn on the freeway and was confident she could get us to a place in her memory bank. “You have arrived,” she announced, at the bottom of the hill coming into Crescent City. I looked, but there was nothing - and I mean nothing - on either side of the highway. “In your dreams!” I told her and kept driving. Half a mile further along I found the Super 8 without Maggie’s help. I asked the guy at the desk if they had moved the motel recently. He looked at me like I was crazy.
Maybe my expectations were too high, but I repent of likening my GPS to the Holy Spirit. When it comes to divine guidance, 99% is not good enough. Maggie may fail me; He won’t.
Creating a Legacy
25 08 11 22:50
I’m back among the redwoods. They are magnificent trees that stretch straight to the sky, held firm by interlocking roots. For years Mount Hermon has been a special place for me - vacations, honeymoon, retreat, family camps, r&r.... I have sensed that special “Mt Hermon effect” again as I’ve been here for an adult conference focused on creating a legacy and telling one’s story. It’s been a busy few days, and I’ve been encouraged, prodded, blessed, and challenged by Chuck Swindoll, Bill Butterworth, and other communicators I admire. I’m still processing these last few days, but I sense that what I have heard and experienced has helped to shape what I am in this current chapter of my life.
I suppose it is inevitable that one creates a legacy, whether one wants to or not. Intentionality is good, and the telling of the story should begin before the all the chapters have been written. The roots are there, and the trunk is stretching. Stay tuned; there’s a legacy in the making. . . .
Traveling Light(er)
19 08 11 08:24
I’m on the road again. Traveling is good, especially connecting with family and friends that I love. It’s a road trip this time, so I don’t have to contend with the hassles of airline travel. (Remember when flying was actually FUN? What happened?) There is the joy of people and the joy of the more-or-less open (under construction) road and the adventure of a GPS that thinks it knows more than it actually does.
For me the downside to travel is packing. The same DNA that helped me accumulate all that stuff in the basement that I am now starting to shed pushes me to pack more than I will ever need. This time I’m trying to travel lighter, and it is good. LightER; not really LIGHT. Yet. It’s a challenge for me to hear and believe me telling myself you won’t really need that. But I’m working on it. And for now, I’m on the road, and all I need to remember is to leave each spot with essentially the same stuff that I had when I arrived. And should I end up leaving a spot traveling lighter than when I arrived, it might not be all bad!
For me the downside to travel is packing. The same DNA that helped me accumulate all that stuff in the basement that I am now starting to shed pushes me to pack more than I will ever need. This time I’m trying to travel lighter, and it is good. LightER; not really LIGHT. Yet. It’s a challenge for me to hear and believe me telling myself you won’t really need that. But I’m working on it. And for now, I’m on the road, and all I need to remember is to leave each spot with essentially the same stuff that I had when I arrived. And should I end up leaving a spot traveling lighter than when I arrived, it might not be all bad!
Confessions of a Bibliophile
13 08 11 22:46
Getting rid of stuff may be liberating, but it is also work. Someone should have told Solomon that shedding can be just as wearying as study. I admire people who joyfully and ruthlessly rid themselves of that which has ceased to be a useful and meaningful part of their lives. They possess a discipline that I apparently lack. But disciplined or not, the lightening process has begun.
I approach the task with mixed feelings. I embrace the joyful stirring of the freedom of simplicity, but when it comes to books, I have a hard time letting go. Perhaps I was born a generation too soon. In the information age of Kindles and Nooks (or is that Nindles and Kooks?) “books” take up a lot less space. But I am a child of the printed page who takes delight in the feel and the smell of books with real pages, however dusty they may be. They are my friends. (Some of them were Joan’s friends or Matt’s friends.) It is a bit like having a couple of thousand Facebook friends and suddenly deciding to unfriend 1500 of them. It makes life simpler, but. . . .
I like books, but it is time for some of them to move on.
Blogger's Block
09 08 11 21:09
Has it really been three weeks since I’ve posted anything here? It’s not that there has been nothing of significance going on in my world; the last three weeks contain fodder for multiple posts. Nor is it that my life has been too busy to take time to write. It’s been busy - sort of - measured, that is, on the retired-dude scale. But it’s not been that busy.
It might seem that not writing has its advantages: One less activity, and therefor a bit more margin in one’s life. But that is not the case. Writing is part of who I am, and so not writing creates an uncomfortable void. Sometimes there seem to be good reasons not to write; sometimes writing is painful. But the inescapable reality is that not writing is also painful. There is no good way out of that dilemma.
Except, perhaps, to write, because that’s what writers do. So I’m back, and I don’t think it will be three weeks until the next post appears.
It might seem that not writing has its advantages: One less activity, and therefor a bit more margin in one’s life. But that is not the case. Writing is part of who I am, and so not writing creates an uncomfortable void. Sometimes there seem to be good reasons not to write; sometimes writing is painful. But the inescapable reality is that not writing is also painful. There is no good way out of that dilemma.
Except, perhaps, to write, because that’s what writers do. So I’m back, and I don’t think it will be three weeks until the next post appears.
Adopted
18 07 11 11:43
It was a quick two-day trip that almost didn’t happen. The occasion was a graveside service for Joan’s Uncle Al last Friday in Nevada City (between Sacramento and Reno). After recovering from the shock of no-advance-purchase air fares, I found an affordable air-plus-hotel package into Reno (half the price of the air fare alone, apparently sold with the vain hope that I would gamble in the hotel’s casino) and went down for the service. I’m glad it did.
We gathered for lunch after the service and shared stories about this kind and gentle man whose characteristics make me glad I married into the Gustafson family. It was as we were leaving that someone observed how blessed we were to have been accepted and grafted in to this family. We were related not by blood but by choice.
When we were kids, my brothers and I occasionally teased each other by claiming that one of us (whoever was the target on that particular day) was adopted. Our teasing, of course, missed the point. Adopted - chosen - is good! I’m thankful and proud that this family, part of which gathered last Friday, includes me.
bcc
27 06 11 22:51
In spite of the fact that the world has changed, the term has stuck. And for better or worse, I’m old enough to actually understand the logic behind the words blind carbon copy. The original of a letter went to the addressee. The cc (carbon copy) went to whomever else you wanted to receive the contents of the letter. And a bcc was sent if you didn’t want to reveal to the addressee who else was getting a copy.
Carbon paper was like magic. Slipped between two pieces of paper, it would duplicate on the bottom sheet whatever was written on the top. I haven’t seen a piece of carbon paper for a long time. Copying machines, computers, and faxes have made it all but obsolete. The abbreviation, however, lives on, and now you can send email to a host of people at once, none of them knowing who else might be getting the message, and you can do it without carbon paper - provided that you can get the thing past assorted spam filters. (There was time when Spam was reputed to be canned meat that was more or less edible, but that’s another story.)
The world changes, and the language lags behind. Last week bcc took on a new meaning for me: Basal cell carcinoma - bcc in the doctor’s notes; he was writing about my forehead. I’ve known for a while that being a fair-complexioned Englishman who grew up in sun-worshipping California put me at high risk for skin cancer, but this was my first. (“He’s a virgin!” was how the smiling nurse put it, a comment that started the kind of conversation that only medical people can fully appreciate.)
I’m happy to report that the bcc is gone, removed last week by a plastic surgeon who is pleased with his handiwork; no doubt when the healing is complete, I will be at least equally pleased. I will, however, be getting my barnacles checked every few months to make sure that the bcc hasn’t sent a bcc. I knew there was something about Seattle’s cloudy and rainy days that I liked!
Carbon paper was like magic. Slipped between two pieces of paper, it would duplicate on the bottom sheet whatever was written on the top. I haven’t seen a piece of carbon paper for a long time. Copying machines, computers, and faxes have made it all but obsolete. The abbreviation, however, lives on, and now you can send email to a host of people at once, none of them knowing who else might be getting the message, and you can do it without carbon paper - provided that you can get the thing past assorted spam filters. (There was time when Spam was reputed to be canned meat that was more or less edible, but that’s another story.)
The world changes, and the language lags behind. Last week bcc took on a new meaning for me: Basal cell carcinoma - bcc in the doctor’s notes; he was writing about my forehead. I’ve known for a while that being a fair-complexioned Englishman who grew up in sun-worshipping California put me at high risk for skin cancer, but this was my first. (“He’s a virgin!” was how the smiling nurse put it, a comment that started the kind of conversation that only medical people can fully appreciate.)
I’m happy to report that the bcc is gone, removed last week by a plastic surgeon who is pleased with his handiwork; no doubt when the healing is complete, I will be at least equally pleased. I will, however, be getting my barnacles checked every few months to make sure that the bcc hasn’t sent a bcc. I knew there was something about Seattle’s cloudy and rainy days that I liked!
Father's Day
19 06 11 17:32
Memories are good things. This Father’s Day the memories come in layers like an onion, and my mind stretches to wrap itself around all of the layers.
My father was a godly man. For 43 years I enjoyed the blessings of his love, his counsel, his friendship, his wisdom. He was a gentle man, but he was fiercely courageous as well, courageous enough to move his family half way around the world - for their benefit rather than for his. It’s been 23 years since he suffered a heart attack and died in Scotland at the tail end of a 50th wedding anniversary trip. I’m sifting through 43 years of memories today, and they are good.
Along the way 38 years ago, I was blessed to become a father, first to Matt and then to Suzanne. As every parent knows, it is a life-changing adventure. It was on Father’s Day last year that we received the shocking news of Matt’s passing. He never became a biological father, but he filled that role spiritually in the lives of dozens of young people to whom he ministered. I’m sifting through 37 years of memories today, and they are good.
I am still blessed to be a dad. My wise, thoughtful, and tender-hearted daughter still lets me fill that role. We’d planned to celebrate Father’s Day today, but a nasty head cold (hers, not mine) has delayed the celebration, so we’ll make some memories later this week. Part of the blessing of being dad is that I still get to create memories with Suzanne (see, for example, the travel blog). Not only am I sifting through 33 years of memories today, I’m looking forward to adding to them, and they are good.
Memories - all of the layers - are good things.
My father was a godly man. For 43 years I enjoyed the blessings of his love, his counsel, his friendship, his wisdom. He was a gentle man, but he was fiercely courageous as well, courageous enough to move his family half way around the world - for their benefit rather than for his. It’s been 23 years since he suffered a heart attack and died in Scotland at the tail end of a 50th wedding anniversary trip. I’m sifting through 43 years of memories today, and they are good.
Along the way 38 years ago, I was blessed to become a father, first to Matt and then to Suzanne. As every parent knows, it is a life-changing adventure. It was on Father’s Day last year that we received the shocking news of Matt’s passing. He never became a biological father, but he filled that role spiritually in the lives of dozens of young people to whom he ministered. I’m sifting through 37 years of memories today, and they are good.
I am still blessed to be a dad. My wise, thoughtful, and tender-hearted daughter still lets me fill that role. We’d planned to celebrate Father’s Day today, but a nasty head cold (hers, not mine) has delayed the celebration, so we’ll make some memories later this week. Part of the blessing of being dad is that I still get to create memories with Suzanne (see, for example, the travel blog). Not only am I sifting through 33 years of memories today, I’m looking forward to adding to them, and they are good.
Memories - all of the layers - are good things.
Birthday Cruise
28 05 11 22:18
Cultural Immersion
27 05 11 22:04
Immersing oneself in the local culture can be an interesting experience. I’m proud of my brother, and I’m proud of my Scottish heritage. But there is something not quite right about this....
Penguin-mobile II
19 05 11 18:39
The second reason is that today with its sunshine, blue sky, and 70 degree weather is the perfect day to buy a car with a sun roof.
Cultural Diversity
19 05 11 09:56
It would be a simpler world if everyone were just like me. It would also be a lot less interesting. Travel has a way of reminding one of the cultural smorgasbord of our world. In the last three weeks of traveling in England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, Suzanne and I have noticed that not everyone is just like us. Sometimes that is good; sometimes it is not.
I was born and lived the first seven years of my life in England, and so the culture is not entirely foreign. But I live in a different culture now - and England has changed a bit as well - and so we experienced a few interesting moments. Take a simple thing like traffic: The British (and the Irish) drive on the left side of the road, and the driver sits on the right side of the car. It seems backwards, especially when someone invites you to sit in the front passenger seat and there is no steering wheel there. There was one startling moment when I glanced at a passing car to see a child’s head sticking out of what I at first thought was the driver’s window. Normal activities like crossing the street become new challenges that one has to think about before acting (look right...).
The same rules apparently don’t apply to walking. (Stand to the right, pass on the left on escalators.) Walking is a lot more popular. At first I thought it was a plot to make sure that I kept up with my cardio exercise, but it was instead a culture that is not addicted to the automobile. That was refreshing.
TV was less refreshing. The U.S. has received some of the best of British television. In return, we have apparently sent them some of the worst of ours. Who would have expected to see Judge Judy in Britain? But I guess it’s okay since they have a lot of bad stuff too.
Tube etiquette was disappointing. (The tube is the London Underground or subway system.) We rode a couple of dozen underground trains, some of which were packed with people. Not once did I see a young person offer a seat to a grey-haired traveler or a man offer a seat to a lady. Perhaps it is cultural value on equality, but it is not the England I remember.
We experienced gracious hospitality virtually everywhere we went. It is good to know that not everyone perceives Americans as ugly. It strikes me that I have much to learn from people who are not like me.
I was born and lived the first seven years of my life in England, and so the culture is not entirely foreign. But I live in a different culture now - and England has changed a bit as well - and so we experienced a few interesting moments. Take a simple thing like traffic: The British (and the Irish) drive on the left side of the road, and the driver sits on the right side of the car. It seems backwards, especially when someone invites you to sit in the front passenger seat and there is no steering wheel there. There was one startling moment when I glanced at a passing car to see a child’s head sticking out of what I at first thought was the driver’s window. Normal activities like crossing the street become new challenges that one has to think about before acting (look right...).
The same rules apparently don’t apply to walking. (Stand to the right, pass on the left on escalators.) Walking is a lot more popular. At first I thought it was a plot to make sure that I kept up with my cardio exercise, but it was instead a culture that is not addicted to the automobile. That was refreshing.
TV was less refreshing. The U.S. has received some of the best of British television. In return, we have apparently sent them some of the worst of ours. Who would have expected to see Judge Judy in Britain? But I guess it’s okay since they have a lot of bad stuff too.
Tube etiquette was disappointing. (The tube is the London Underground or subway system.) We rode a couple of dozen underground trains, some of which were packed with people. Not once did I see a young person offer a seat to a grey-haired traveler or a man offer a seat to a lady. Perhaps it is cultural value on equality, but it is not the England I remember.
We experienced gracious hospitality virtually everywhere we went. It is good to know that not everyone perceives Americans as ugly. It strikes me that I have much to learn from people who are not like me.
Scattering in Scotland
10 05 11 13:51
The first funeral I can remember attending was for my Uncle Bill. He was a godly man who had served the Lord faithfully, but I wasn’t sure that he would actually have liked his funeral. What I later came to recognize as a fairly common temptation to excess in American funeral practices was a bit jarring to me. My mother’s response to her brother’s funeral was stronger. She expressed a firm wish that after her death, her body be donated to a medical school for the training of doctors, a commitment that only became stronger with the passing years. Mom had already taken care of the paper work so that when she passed away five years ago, it was easy for us to follow her wishes, knowing that she was joyfully in the presence of the Lord she loved, and her body went to the USC School of Medicine.
About a month before her death, she reminded us of her desire, and then added that if for any reason USC refused her body, she wanted to be cremated and her ashes interred at Grandview Cemetery in Glendale, California, where my older brother’s ashes were buried. Realizing that we could fulfill both of her requests and provide a sense of “place” since USC offers to return the cremains when they are finished, we planned accordingly.
Meanwhile, and unknown to us at the time, Grandview was immersing itself in a scandal. The woman who was operating the old family-run cemetery had been playing fast and loose with the law, including selling the same plots twice. When the state sent an investigator, he found a terribly run-down cemetery, grounds that had not been maintained, mausoleums with damaged crypts and in-use coffins left sitting in the mausoleum, and some four thousand sets of cremated remains stored in the basement with no easy method of inventorying them. The state imposed a set of mandates that the cemetery was unable to meet, and the cemetery was closed and placed under court supervision. Renovations are taking place as a result of a recently settled court action, and the place is for sale, but it remains under court supervision with limited access, and interring Mom’s remains there would have required a court order.
So when USC called and said Mom was ready to be picked up, we had a problem. As Jon and I talked over our options, we decided a wiser choice would be take her ashes back to Scotland and scatter them in Clydebank where Dad’s were scattered 23 years ago. That is how the current trip came to be, and that is why on Monday, we gathered on a green hillside at the Clydebank Crematorium, just a mile from Mom’s childhood home for the most poignant moments of the trip. It wasn’t exactly what Mom had planned; it was better, and I suspect she is smiling in heaven.
Choosing Wisely
01 05 11 07:46
I could have been at a party in the park, but I’m glad I wasn’t. Friday was a national holiday in England as the local populace went to great lengths to celebrate the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton. It was a glorious affair. We were in Bath on the day of the wedding. (We’d originally planned to be in London, but that was before William and Kate set their date making London the last place in the world I wanted to be on Friday.) The celebration of choice in Bath was a party - well, actually parties - in the park that eventually drifted into some of the more raucous pubs in the evening.
That would be the same evening that Suzanne and I discovered an Italian restaurant with some of the best food I have ever tasted. And it was empty. (Technically we didn’t discover it; our hostess recommended it.) Granted the place only seats 15 people, not counting the al fresco option of the outdoor tables, but it seemed strange that such good food should be so widely ignored. “We didn’t know what to expect today,” we were told. “Lunch was busy, but tonight it is very quiet.”
“They don’t know what they are missing,” I told him, and my comment left me pondering: I wonder how often I choose unwisely and don’t know what I’m missing?
That would be the same evening that Suzanne and I discovered an Italian restaurant with some of the best food I have ever tasted. And it was empty. (Technically we didn’t discover it; our hostess recommended it.) Granted the place only seats 15 people, not counting the al fresco option of the outdoor tables, but it seemed strange that such good food should be so widely ignored. “We didn’t know what to expect today,” we were told. “Lunch was busy, but tonight it is very quiet.”
“They don’t know what they are missing,” I told him, and my comment left me pondering: I wonder how often I choose unwisely and don’t know what I’m missing?
Total Loss?
22 04 11 17:42
Total loss. The words seem at first to fit the day if all one sees is today. And I readily admit that there are days when the loss of a son feels very total. It must have seemed that way to another Father and another Son who will never recover from Calvary: The resurrected Lamb that John saw in Revelation looked as if it had been slain, the wounds and effects of the cross carried into eternity.
I look beyond the grave on this Good Friday, and I know that death does not win - even when it feels like it does. The message of Good Friday is not total loss; it is Total Gain.
OUCH!
21 04 11 21:23
I guess if someone is going to plow into your car, it might as well be a policeman. It does, at least, save a phone call. That was my unhappy experience this afternoon. I was stopped in the center turn lane waiting for traffic to clear when the last of the oncoming vehicles, instead of passing me, swerved into that same center turn lane and hit me head-on. I’ve never watched an airbag deploy before. It’s not a pretty sight.
I wished it could have been one of those snazzy new little police cars. But no. It was a Ford Explorer that probably won’t be chasing any Renton criminals anytime soon. It’s amazing how BIG an Explorer looks when it’s heading right at you. He said he thought he had seen a suspect across the street. It turned out he not only didn’t see the suspect he was looking for, he didn’t see me either.
There is a strange mixture of gratitude and wondering (why?) attached to events like this. I’d rather have driven home than watch my car be towed away with a slightly crumpled front end, but I was grateful that it was the car and not me. The car bled all over the road, but I didn’t. I was on my into the cemetery to leave tulips on the grave. The tulips will wait for another day, and though I’m sore, I’m glad to have another day. I do, however, have one unanswered question: I wonder if he gave himself a ticket?
I wished it could have been one of those snazzy new little police cars. But no. It was a Ford Explorer that probably won’t be chasing any Renton criminals anytime soon. It’s amazing how BIG an Explorer looks when it’s heading right at you. He said he thought he had seen a suspect across the street. It turned out he not only didn’t see the suspect he was looking for, he didn’t see me either.
Dinner on the Wharf
15 04 11 22:27
Sometime next week I won’t be having dinner on the wharf.
For the last few years it has been a tradition. Father and son celebrated their birthdays together with dinner on the wharf in Santa Cruz. It was a good tradition that involved a spring trip to Mount Hermon for me and a few happy days off for Matt, who drove over from Modesto to join me. We had some great seafood dinners - and even better conversations - watching the pelicans and seals and the setting sun (but no penguins). We’d head back to Mount Hermon, and if we had saved a bit of room, stop for some 1020 ice cream on the way, and I thanked God for the family He had given me.
We didn’t know that two months after last year’s traditional dinner, Matt would be in heaven. I think it was Bonhoeffer who observed that gratitude transforms the torment of memory into silent joy. I’m still grateful - deeply so. But sometime next week, I won’t be having dinner on the wharf.
For the last few years it has been a tradition. Father and son celebrated their birthdays together with dinner on the wharf in Santa Cruz. It was a good tradition that involved a spring trip to Mount Hermon for me and a few happy days off for Matt, who drove over from Modesto to join me. We had some great seafood dinners - and even better conversations - watching the pelicans and seals and the setting sun (but no penguins). We’d head back to Mount Hermon, and if we had saved a bit of room, stop for some 1020 ice cream on the way, and I thanked God for the family He had given me.
We didn’t know that two months after last year’s traditional dinner, Matt would be in heaven. I think it was Bonhoeffer who observed that gratitude transforms the torment of memory into silent joy. I’m still grateful - deeply so. But sometime next week, I won’t be having dinner on the wharf.
The Beams Are Creaking
08 04 11 21:24
Good drama should make you think. Last night I witnessed good drama at Taproot Theater. The Beams Are Creaking is a play based on the life of Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Though I’ve never particularly considered myself a Bonhoeffer fan, the evening was undeniably well spent, and the play was powerfully thought-provoking. If you’re in the Seattle area, it’s worth seeing.
Bonhoeffer was a pastor in 1930s Germany who chose truth in the face of the rampant self-deception of the Nazis who attempted to silence him. I’m not sure I would have carried that choice as far as he did, to the point of participating in a plot to assassinate Hitler. But I left the play wondering what kind of pastor I might have been if God had placed me in a different time and place.
“Being a Christian,” Bonhoeffer said, “is less about cautiously avoiding sin than about courageously and actively doing God’s will.” I suppose it is much easier to affirm that statement when the times call for neither caution nor courage than when evil is so readily visible.
The play closes with imprisoned Bonhoeffer and others singing Luther’s hymn, A Mighty Fortress Is Our God, as he is about to be taken to Flossenburg concentration camp. There, four short weeks before V-E Day, Bonhoeffer was executed.
Bonhoeffer was a pastor in 1930s Germany who chose truth in the face of the rampant self-deception of the Nazis who attempted to silence him. I’m not sure I would have carried that choice as far as he did, to the point of participating in a plot to assassinate Hitler. But I left the play wondering what kind of pastor I might have been if God had placed me in a different time and place.
“Being a Christian,” Bonhoeffer said, “is less about cautiously avoiding sin than about courageously and actively doing God’s will.” I suppose it is much easier to affirm that statement when the times call for neither caution nor courage than when evil is so readily visible.
The play closes with imprisoned Bonhoeffer and others singing Luther’s hymn, A Mighty Fortress Is Our God, as he is about to be taken to Flossenburg concentration camp. There, four short weeks before V-E Day, Bonhoeffer was executed.
And though this world with devils filled should threaten to undo us,
we will not fear, for God hath willed his truth to triumph through us.
The Prince of Darkness grim, we tremble not for him,
his rage we can endure, for lo, his doom is sure;
one little word shall fell him.
That word above all earthly powers, no thanks to them, abideth;
the Spirit and the gifts are ours, through him who with us sideth.
Let goods and kindred go, this mortal life also;
the body they may kill; God’s truth abideth still;
his kingdom is forever.
The Real Battle of Spring
03 04 11 23:27
Forget the Final Four. Now that spring has sprung, the real battle around our house is Moss vs Grass. One of the joys of living in the Northwest is that green happens without much effort. I like green. But in this wet La Nina season, a lot of the green I’m looking at is moss. I could probably learn to like moss, but I’ve been sucked in by the makers of assorted moss killers. And so the other day, I dutifully headed to the store to find something that would make moss die and grass grow.
It strikes me that I may have made a strategic error and picked the wrong side in this annual battle. Grass is high maintenance unless you own goats, and though I have never owned them, I suspect that goats are even more high maintenance than grass. Grass cries out to be mowed, trimmed, and fertilized, and while goats could accomplish all three of those, I’m not sure I’d want to deal with the results.
Moss, on the other hand is decidedly low maintenance. I have never heard of anyone paying to have their moss mowed. I did a bit of research and located a company back east that is so sold on the advantages of moss that they actually sell and ship the stuff. “Gardening with moss,” they say, “adds an amazing degree of serenity and timeless beauty to any garden.” Really? Clearly I have missed a great opportunity. Instead of killing it, I should have shipped my moss to Pennsylvania where it could have made someone serene.
I’m not the only one who likes green. The folks that run the great Northwest gardening industry like green as well, and they work to keep the cash flowing. There must have been hundreds of bags of stuff at the store to kill moss and feed grass. I did not see one single bag designed to kill grass and make moss grow. Between now and next spring, anyone want to help me develop “Grass Out”? We could make a killing!
It strikes me that I may have made a strategic error and picked the wrong side in this annual battle. Grass is high maintenance unless you own goats, and though I have never owned them, I suspect that goats are even more high maintenance than grass. Grass cries out to be mowed, trimmed, and fertilized, and while goats could accomplish all three of those, I’m not sure I’d want to deal with the results.
Moss, on the other hand is decidedly low maintenance. I have never heard of anyone paying to have their moss mowed. I did a bit of research and located a company back east that is so sold on the advantages of moss that they actually sell and ship the stuff. “Gardening with moss,” they say, “adds an amazing degree of serenity and timeless beauty to any garden.” Really? Clearly I have missed a great opportunity. Instead of killing it, I should have shipped my moss to Pennsylvania where it could have made someone serene.
I’m not the only one who likes green. The folks that run the great Northwest gardening industry like green as well, and they work to keep the cash flowing. There must have been hundreds of bags of stuff at the store to kill moss and feed grass. I did not see one single bag designed to kill grass and make moss grow. Between now and next spring, anyone want to help me develop “Grass Out”? We could make a killing!
A Matter of Days
22 03 11 23:36
“It could be a matter of days.” Those unwelcome words relayed by her family this morning shape the expectations for my cousin in Australia. With multiple organ failure and in need of a liver transplant for which she is not a candidate, she has exhausted the options that I wish were still there. I know the feeling too well, and I do not like it.
Among my early memories is a visit with my mother to the farm of my cousin’s family in Scotland. I was five years old; she was a couple of years older, which was old enough to convince me that an unauthorized wade in the duck pond would be a good thing. And it was - until my mother saw the soaking wet results. Sixty years later I still smile. To say that that was a lifetime ago ceases to be a cliche. It seems more like a matter of days.
And that, I suppose, is what life is: a matter of days. Moses got it right. “Teach us,” he prayed, “to number our days that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” They are numbered not to be hoarded, but to be enjoyed. Moses continued the prayer: “Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.” That seems wise to me. Some days are peaceful and some are painful, but I’m with Moses. It’s a matter of days, and my prayer is that all of them, whether peaceful or painful, will be indelibly marked by God’s unfailing love.
Among my early memories is a visit with my mother to the farm of my cousin’s family in Scotland. I was five years old; she was a couple of years older, which was old enough to convince me that an unauthorized wade in the duck pond would be a good thing. And it was - until my mother saw the soaking wet results. Sixty years later I still smile. To say that that was a lifetime ago ceases to be a cliche. It seems more like a matter of days.
And that, I suppose, is what life is: a matter of days. Moses got it right. “Teach us,” he prayed, “to number our days that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” They are numbered not to be hoarded, but to be enjoyed. Moses continued the prayer: “Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.” That seems wise to me. Some days are peaceful and some are painful, but I’m with Moses. It’s a matter of days, and my prayer is that all of them, whether peaceful or painful, will be indelibly marked by God’s unfailing love.
Ah, Music!
10 03 11 22:19
I am blessed to be able to enjoy my daughter’s extensive musical gifts, but there is something wrong about a pianist without a piano. And so last week when she suggested taking a detour by the piano store, it was easy to agree. It was not her first trip there. Or second. She had been looking for the right vintage piano for some time, and she was there to look again, not to buy. Or so we thought. But we were wrong, for there it was - the rich-sounding instrument deserving of her gifts.
It was delivered today, and it is where it belongs. (I’m pretty sure that there will be a piano and someone to play it in my corner of heaven!) It graces the living room where the overflow of Suzanne’s gifts can bathe my soul as I experience the joy that Longfellow described:
And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs
And as silently steal away.
I am blessed indeed.
Launched!
01 03 11 22:49
It had a gestation period longer than an elephant, and there were times when I wondered if it would ever be complete. My adventure with the Christian Life course began over three years ago. This week the course was released in English on the Internet Seminary’s web site. When I began the adventure of developing a concept into a course that could become an effective training tool in the lives of leaders, I had a vague image somewhere in a back corner of my mind. It was a picture not so much of a completed course, but of a collection of in process (aren’t we all) and growing Christian leaders whose lives God was shaping as they used the course. The picture is becoming clearer. To God be the glory.
Why Is Snow
23 02 11 18:16
I started wondering why as I watched this afternoon’s mini-blizzard through the window. Snow in is the category of things that I accept without understanding why it exists. It shares that growing category with a lot of other things like moss, mosquitos, and lutefisk.
I grew up in Southern California where I never needed to wonder why is snow. I knew why. It existed for the pure pleasure of kids who, if they could convince an adult to drive an hour or two to find the stuff, could play in it long enough to get uncomfortably cold and damp, and then return home to shorts and t-shirt weather. I have always enjoyed my snow at a convenient distance, so I can choose it - or not. Now I live in the hilly Northwest where snow, though admittedly pretty, is inconvenient. And because it is inconvenient, I wonder why.
It is, of course, a self-centered question, and it is embarrassingly true that I mostly ask why of things that are inconvenient. I didn’t ask why the sun was shining yesterday or why my neighbor’s now-frozen camellias were so pretty. It’s the inconvenient stuff I wonder about. Could it be that there is more at stake than what pleases me? Young Elihu reminded Job that God says to the snow, “Fall on the earth.” And God seems to agree that the storehouses of the snow are under His control. Could it be that God actually likes the stuff in spite of the fact that it apparently didn’t exist before the fall?? Hmmm, I wonder.... Why is snow?
I grew up in Southern California where I never needed to wonder why is snow. I knew why. It existed for the pure pleasure of kids who, if they could convince an adult to drive an hour or two to find the stuff, could play in it long enough to get uncomfortably cold and damp, and then return home to shorts and t-shirt weather. I have always enjoyed my snow at a convenient distance, so I can choose it - or not. Now I live in the hilly Northwest where snow, though admittedly pretty, is inconvenient. And because it is inconvenient, I wonder why.
It is, of course, a self-centered question, and it is embarrassingly true that I mostly ask why of things that are inconvenient. I didn’t ask why the sun was shining yesterday or why my neighbor’s now-frozen camellias were so pretty. It’s the inconvenient stuff I wonder about. Could it be that there is more at stake than what pleases me? Young Elihu reminded Job that God says to the snow, “Fall on the earth.” And God seems to agree that the storehouses of the snow are under His control. Could it be that God actually likes the stuff in spite of the fact that it apparently didn’t exist before the fall?? Hmmm, I wonder.... Why is snow?
Happy Millard Fillmore Day
20 02 11 18:26
In the dark ages of my childhood, February was a wonderful month. The 12th was Lincoln’s birthday and a school holiday, appropriately accompanied by assorted celebrations of Lincoln’s achievements. The 22nd was Washington’s birthday, another school holiday with observances focused on our first president. In between there was Valentine’s Day, which in my hormonally-challenged classrooms was usually good for a no-work day. And all of that was crammed into the shortest month of the year. How could a guy not love February?
Somehow that all changed. During President Nixon’s administration, Washington’s birthday was moved to the third Monday of the month, a date that can never coincide with his real birthday, and Lincoln’s soon dropped off the calendar - at least the school-free part of it did. And we started calling Washington’s now non-birthday date Presidents’ Day. Maybe we should have called it Nixon Day.
President’s Day is such a confusing holiday. (It is not clear, by the way, just where that apostrophe belongs - or if it belongs at all.) Who, exactly, are we celebrating? The current occupant of the office is number 44, and most Americans would be hard pressed to name the other 43. Or 42, since Grover Cleveland gets counted twice. The celebration these days is rarely focused on any president, and the holiday is valued only as a three-day weekend. Unless, of course, you are a student (or teacher) in a school that piggybacks on the holiday to create a week-long break that has not been shortened by snow days.
Maybe it’s time to start celebrating presidents again. If we start now, we can celebrate a different president every year for the next half-century or so. I’m starting this year with number thirteen, a man who inherited the office when his predecessor died, and whose major accomplishment seems to have been implementing the Compromise of 1850 under which California was admitted to the union - which may or may not have been a good thing, depending on your point of view.
So to all my friends, I wish you a very happy Millard Fillmore Day.
Somehow that all changed. During President Nixon’s administration, Washington’s birthday was moved to the third Monday of the month, a date that can never coincide with his real birthday, and Lincoln’s soon dropped off the calendar - at least the school-free part of it did. And we started calling Washington’s now non-birthday date Presidents’ Day. Maybe we should have called it Nixon Day.
President’s Day is such a confusing holiday. (It is not clear, by the way, just where that apostrophe belongs - or if it belongs at all.) Who, exactly, are we celebrating? The current occupant of the office is number 44, and most Americans would be hard pressed to name the other 43. Or 42, since Grover Cleveland gets counted twice. The celebration these days is rarely focused on any president, and the holiday is valued only as a three-day weekend. Unless, of course, you are a student (or teacher) in a school that piggybacks on the holiday to create a week-long break that has not been shortened by snow days.
So to all my friends, I wish you a very happy Millard Fillmore Day.
Abnormally Normal
01 02 11 19:13
Yesterday I went in for my more-or-less-annual physical exam and barnacle check. Having been married to a nurse, I have learned to value these regular check-ups. Though discovering disease is more the exception than the rule with physicals, I haven’t forgotten that it was an annual physical that first uncovered Joan’s lymphoma. So I headed in to do my part to help support the local health care industry, even though I don’t think it needs my help. I survived the exam (including a bit of brain-freezing liquid nitrogen to the barnacles), enjoyed visiting with my friend and physician, and, pending lab results, was officially declared healthy.
I know the drill with lab results. If they are all okay, I get a copy in the mail, and that will be enough. If they reveal that something in my life needs tweaking, then I get a phone call from the nurse before they mail the results. Today the phone rang and the voice on the other end was not the nurse but my doctor. Instantly he had my undivided attention. How bad could it be? “I have your lab results,” he said. So bad he didn’t leave it to the nurse?! “Everything is perfectly normal; your numbers are great; I’m proud of you.” I exhaled and my more-or-less healthy heart started beating again. “Actually it’s the most normal piece of paper I’ve seen in long time,” he said.
I guess that makes me abnormally normal. Whatever that is, it feels good. And I was blessed by a doctor who probably sees enough bad news that he enjoyed passing on the good news. Though I’m mildly concerned about the kind of comments this statement might generate, I’m thankful to be abnormal in the best possible way.
I know the drill with lab results. If they are all okay, I get a copy in the mail, and that will be enough. If they reveal that something in my life needs tweaking, then I get a phone call from the nurse before they mail the results. Today the phone rang and the voice on the other end was not the nurse but my doctor. Instantly he had my undivided attention. How bad could it be? “I have your lab results,” he said. So bad he didn’t leave it to the nurse?! “Everything is perfectly normal; your numbers are great; I’m proud of you.” I exhaled and my more-or-less healthy heart started beating again. “Actually it’s the most normal piece of paper I’ve seen in long time,” he said.
I guess that makes me abnormally normal. Whatever that is, it feels good. And I was blessed by a doctor who probably sees enough bad news that he enjoyed passing on the good news. Though I’m mildly concerned about the kind of comments this statement might generate, I’m thankful to be abnormal in the best possible way.
The Last Enemy
22 01 11 11:18
Most of the time I like getting mail, both e- and the snail variety. I’m not talking about spam and its junk mail predecessor, both of which should be banished to the pit. It’s real mail that I like; it keeps me in touch, even the bills. But in the last couple of days my mail, both e- and snail varieties, have brought painful news.
It began with a simple hand-addressed envelope from the mother of a California acquaintance. The envelope contained the memorial folder from her daughter’s funeral. I found and reread my friend’s Christmas letter (these annual epistles were the extent of our conversation) sent just a few weeks ago; there was no hint that death was around the corner of the new year. Then came the emailed news of a relative of Joan’s who had died after a painful experience of bone cancer. Her death was welcomed release. The same day came news of a former parishioner whose body is slowly giving up and who will likely be in the presence of the Lord within a week or two. Hard on the heels of that news came word of a friend just diagnosed with cancer.
The losses of others scrape against the scars of my own grief. Death, however it comes, is not to be feared, but it is undeniably the enemy. Death and disease leave pain in their wake. It was Paul who described death as the last enemy to be destroyed (1 Cor 15:26). The good news is that death has been defeated, the victory sealed with Easter’s empty tomb. One day, death will be destroyed as well.
The mail just arrived. I wonder if I should open it.
It began with a simple hand-addressed envelope from the mother of a California acquaintance. The envelope contained the memorial folder from her daughter’s funeral. I found and reread my friend’s Christmas letter (these annual epistles were the extent of our conversation) sent just a few weeks ago; there was no hint that death was around the corner of the new year. Then came the emailed news of a relative of Joan’s who had died after a painful experience of bone cancer. Her death was welcomed release. The same day came news of a former parishioner whose body is slowly giving up and who will likely be in the presence of the Lord within a week or two. Hard on the heels of that news came word of a friend just diagnosed with cancer.
The losses of others scrape against the scars of my own grief. Death, however it comes, is not to be feared, but it is undeniably the enemy. Death and disease leave pain in their wake. It was Paul who described death as the last enemy to be destroyed (1 Cor 15:26). The good news is that death has been defeated, the victory sealed with Easter’s empty tomb. One day, death will be destroyed as well.
The mail just arrived. I wonder if I should open it.
We Wish You a Mellow Christmas
25 12 10 20:51
Our big Christmas dinner was aboard a Waterways yacht on Christmas Eve, sailing Lake Union and Lake Washington for almost three hours. It was a delicious meal, elegantly served, that lasted almost as long as the cruise. Harp music, which both Suzanne and I enjoy, filled the boat. It got even better half way through the cruise when the harpist moved from her location in the lower salon bringing her harp upstairs and setting up next to our table. It didn’t take long for the musician-to-musician conversation to produce an invitation for Suzanne to try her hand at the harp. (Could there be a harp in her future? Maybe...)
Christmas Day was quiet and at home by choice, the wildest moments coming as the cat tried to unwrap the catnip gift that Suzanne had wrapped for her. A Christmas jigsaw is a family tradition, and Suzanne just finished this year’s version, she being much more talented than I at recognizing the relationships between the pieces. It has been an intentionally mellow Christmas, and it has been very good indeed.
Matt and Joan are with the Lord whose name Emanuel means God with us. The God that they are with is the God who is with us. Relaxing in His presence makes for a great Christmas.
Mellow Christmas, everyone!
Feline Disorientation
19 12 10 21:26
The cat is disoriented. I suppose one could argue that that really isn’t anything new. Disorientation seems to be a normal feline state. I remember many years ago in the kid phase of my life that our family had a kitten that mastered the art of walking backwards before it became proficient in walking forward. We would watch the silly beast proceed (or would that be recede?) across the room until she backed into something. (What can I say? It was the 50s and I was easily entertained.)
But I digress. The current source of disorientation is missing furniture. A sofa and chair disappeared to be reupholstered a couple of days ago while the cat was sleeping. Somewhere around 80% of the cat’s life is spent sleeping, a fact that occasionally makes me jealous. The other 20% is mainly occupied with eating, playing, meowing, and disgorging hair balls at inopportune times and places. When the cat awoke and headed for food, she immediately noticed the missing furniture, forgot about eating (I think she has feline ADD) and tried to meow the furniture back into existence. She does not understand why this plan did not work.
Lyle Schaller in one of his books likens the smallest American church congregations to cats. They are highly independent, cute one on one, have great difficulty with change, and hiss and scratch in groups. Some of my friends who pastor cat congregations know what Schaller is talking about; have you ever tried to baptize a cat? The basic problem is that cats by nature resist submission. They believe that they are the center of the universe. Sadly, the people that cats own often reinforce that belief.
The furniture will be back, the cat will recover, and the optimist in me hopes that she will resist scratching the new upholstery. Meanwhile, she is disoriented, and though she doesn’t like it, that might be a good thing.
Lord, please keep me from being too much like the cat.
With Apologies to Clement Moore
15 12 10 23:43
‘Twas the week before Christmas and all through my mind
was the certain conviction that I’m in a bind.
I haven’t gone shopping, and what should I buy?
We don’t need more stuff, not a scarf or a tie.
But gifts are important; I know that it’s true;
so I want to find something that says I love you.
If I was omniscient I’d know what to give,
but instead I’m bewildered; my mind’s like a sieve.
On Target, on Costco, and on to the mall;
I just might find something – or nothing at all.
I missed cyber Monday; black Friday is done
I need inspiration, and I’m finding none.
This poem’s not done, I’ll continue to rhyme
‘cause it’s not Christmas eve yet, I’ve still got some time....
The Annual Epistle
08 12 10 22:29
It usually doesn’t take a week and a half. Usually it’s easier. I briefly wondered if this was the year to abandon the custom of sending a Christmas letter along with the Christmas card. I’m a writer; I’ve been writing these letters for more years than I care to admit, and most of the time, I’ve enjoyed it. But something in me didn’t want to write this year’s letter.
The “something” is called grief. I’ve never much liked Christmas letters that recited a list of the year’s tragedies. Christmas, after all, is a good news time. I’ve always tried to be both honest and upbeat in these epistles, but this year I have a problem. The dominant event in the Brewer year was Matt’s unexpected death. Processing loss and being upbeat don’t always fit well together, and the memories seem too precious to reduce to paper.
I considered my alternatives. Perhaps I could simply recycle the 2007 letter, written just a month before Joan passed away. Nope; that wouldn’t work. That letter focused on “the right time,” and I’ve had a few serious discussions with the Almighty this year about timing. Maybe I should follow the example of some of my thriftier friends and simply not send Christmas cards, but then what would I do with this pile of photo cards I’ve already purchased? Besides, the postal service needs all the business they can get. Then again, maybe I should just suck it up and write the dumb letter! (Suck it up? What does that mean, anyway?)
Sometimes grief needs to be embraced, not because I like it, but because it is the only way forward. And so yesterday, I wrote the letter, and it is not dumb. It’s a bit shorter than some, but somehow there seems less to say. It will be in the mail soon. My grief, I suppose, will gently intrude on my family and friends, and I am not sorry. After all, they are my family and friends.
The “something” is called grief. I’ve never much liked Christmas letters that recited a list of the year’s tragedies. Christmas, after all, is a good news time. I’ve always tried to be both honest and upbeat in these epistles, but this year I have a problem. The dominant event in the Brewer year was Matt’s unexpected death. Processing loss and being upbeat don’t always fit well together, and the memories seem too precious to reduce to paper.
I considered my alternatives. Perhaps I could simply recycle the 2007 letter, written just a month before Joan passed away. Nope; that wouldn’t work. That letter focused on “the right time,” and I’ve had a few serious discussions with the Almighty this year about timing. Maybe I should follow the example of some of my thriftier friends and simply not send Christmas cards, but then what would I do with this pile of photo cards I’ve already purchased? Besides, the postal service needs all the business they can get. Then again, maybe I should just suck it up and write the dumb letter! (Suck it up? What does that mean, anyway?)
Sometimes grief needs to be embraced, not because I like it, but because it is the only way forward. And so yesterday, I wrote the letter, and it is not dumb. It’s a bit shorter than some, but somehow there seems less to say. It will be in the mail soon. My grief, I suppose, will gently intrude on my family and friends, and I am not sorry. After all, they are my family and friends.
The Tree and Me
05 12 10 23:38
Somewhere in this 40 acres of trees is the right one. Somewhere there is a tree that will call out to us, “take me!” (well, not literally, but we will know). Last Friday was our annual find and cut a Christmas tree excursion. It was a good day for tree hunting, which is to say that it was December in Seattle and nothing wet was falling from the sky. Tree buying used to be easier and far less interesting: Find a local tree seller, pick something reasonably green and reasonably fresh (a tree, not a person), and take it home. A couple of years ago we started a new tradition by cutting our own from a 40 acre tree farm on the top of an Issaquah hill. It’s a good tradition, but you don’t want to know how many trees will fit in 40 acres.
It didn’t take us too long to find the perfect tree. It was a grand fir, the right height, attractive from every side, and pruned to a perfect shape. But it wasn’t calling loud enough. We noted its location and kept looking. Then we heard it; more accurately, Suzanne heard it first. It was a Fraser fir calling out to us. And it needed to be cut. It was encroaching on two adjacent baby frasers whose healthy growth would be threatened if it were not removed. The tree farmer had put it on sale; marked for destruction, one way or another it had to go. It seemed a bit less than perfect - untrimmed, rough edges, lumpy, but with character - sort of like me. And so we left the perfect grand fir standing and chose the fraser.
Tonight Suzanne is decorating the tree. No longer for sale, it is ours, it is beautiful (and becoming more so), and we are glad. It stands in our living room as a silent reminder of the miraculous grace of Christmas. I am less than perfect; I was marked for destruction; and God, who had his choice, chose me.
It didn’t take us too long to find the perfect tree. It was a grand fir, the right height, attractive from every side, and pruned to a perfect shape. But it wasn’t calling loud enough. We noted its location and kept looking. Then we heard it; more accurately, Suzanne heard it first. It was a Fraser fir calling out to us. And it needed to be cut. It was encroaching on two adjacent baby frasers whose healthy growth would be threatened if it were not removed. The tree farmer had put it on sale; marked for destruction, one way or another it had to go. It seemed a bit less than perfect - untrimmed, rough edges, lumpy, but with character - sort of like me. And so we left the perfect grand fir standing and chose the fraser.
Tonight Suzanne is decorating the tree. No longer for sale, it is ours, it is beautiful (and becoming more so), and we are glad. It stands in our living room as a silent reminder of the miraculous grace of Christmas. I am less than perfect; I was marked for destruction; and God, who had his choice, chose me.
Remedial Trust
23 11 10 13:50
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
21 11 10 16:42
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
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.
Me and Monterey
28 10 10 20:31
I hadn’t been there for years, but I recognized the scene. The rugged, rocky, cypress-dotted coast of the Monterey Peninsula has a unique beauty and powerful appeal. Later that afternoon before boarding the train in Salinas, I needed to drop off the convertible that Enterprise had confused with the compact I had reserved, but for a little while last Tuesday, I just wanted to enjoy the view.
Some scenes can captivate for a few moments, and then one is content to move on. But watching the waves is different. Though there is a clear familiarity about the scene, it is constantly changing, this wave breaking differently than the last, water meeting rock with a surprising splash or a curious calm. Mysteriously, each moment has its own beauty and appeal.
I have been thinking about the focus of this season in my life, and I think that the continually changing interaction of sea and shore and cypress has something to tell me. The scene is recognizable, but it is not static. An infinitely creative God moves the components of my life, sometimes with a surprising splash, sometimes with a curious calm. And I hope that what he creates in the process has an ever-changing beauty.
Welcome to Mount Hermon
22 10 10 20:29
The conference is over now, and it is quiet here. Mount Hermon is again fulfilling its role as a personal retreat, a place to listen to God. Even for a retired guy, the busyness of life can easily drown out the quiet voice of the Lord, and listening is good. Listening, in fact, was one of the goals for this trip, and that goal is being met. These last three days of enjoying the worship, fellowship, and messages of the conference helped to sharpen my hearing as I enjoy some quiet hours with the Lord.
When they were kids, Matt and Suzanne used to watch eagerly for the “Welcome to Mount Hermon” sign on Conference Drive that told them we had arrived. The sign is still there, and I have sensed the welcome from the One who created the redwoods. It’s quiet, but He is here. And He is not silent.
Reliving History
17 10 10 20:50
It is perhaps a surprise that a transportation system that is constrained by rails should become such a symbol of freedom. It still stirs a love of freedom in my soul - freedom from airport crowds, freedom from TSA lines, freedom from packing too many people into too small a space. In spite of an airplane’s ability to temporarily conquer gravity, I feel much less free on a plane than on a train.
I brought that 50 year old picture along with me, and this afternoon, Jon and I decided to recreate the scene. Some memories, after all, are worth
repeating. We headed for Griffith Park. The train is still there, albeit with a different paint job. We shared the picture with the engineer and, after enjoying the same ride as fifty years ago, took our places in the back of train so Nancy could take a new picture. The only other people close to our age on the train had their grandchildren along, but we were there making history - again. It appears that in the intervening 50+ years, someone shrunk the train, but other than that, it was a freedom moment to remember.
Mussolini vs The Good Samaritan
13 10 10 21:49
Yesterday’s northbound Coast Starlight was having problems that even Mussolini couldn’t fix. With a malfunctioning locomotive, it was 100 miles into its journey and six hours behind schedule. So it was that somewhere north of Santa Barbara, we stopped to dissolve both the dream of an early arrival and the nightmare of a stalled train. Those in the know disconnected one of our two locomotives, turned it around on a convenient Y, and hooked it up to the front of the stalled northbound train. A sacrificed hour later, both trains were on their way.
It would be a happy ending were it not for the muttered grumbles of a few passengers fretting over the possibility that they might miss a connecting train in Los Angeles. It seems to me that in the eternal scheme of things, an hour spent parked by the Pacific to help those more inconvenienced than me is not a bad thing. But there is this streak of selfishness that slithers through the soul, trying to convince us of our own importance. The next time I’m tempted to pass by a neighbor in need, someone needs to remind me of yesterday’s Coast Starlight and that not even Mussolini made the trains run on time.
Journeys Are Good
10 10 10 22:07
I am on a journey, and journeys are good. The journey began yesterday at the rainy Tukwila Amtrak station, which is a nine-year-old temporary creation awaiting the birth of its permanent replacement that has been imagined but not yet built. Temporary is apparently a relative term; in the world of Amtrak stations, change can come slowly.
The journey is good, but getting ready for it is an irritating hassle. I hate packing. Anyone in my family can confirm that truth. Joan did the packing when we traveled, and now every trip is a reason to miss her afresh. I’m pretty sure I have packed too much stuff; I usually do. I’m also pretty sure I have left behind something I should have brought along; I usually do that, too. And before you ask, yes, I have a list, but I’m pretty sure it’s too long. I may have brought the wrong stuff, but fortunately Amtrak doesn’t charge me for baggage.
I like train travel. It avoids the hurry-up-and-wait, TSA-bedeviled atmosphere of today’s air travel and allows one time to reflect on and enjoy the journey. And I intend that this trip include time to reflect on my journey. Grief has a way of occupying the mind and narrowing one’s vision, and I need to be sure that my focus is neither too narrow nor misplaced. So I bring along the pieces of my life to listen to God; I hope I have not packed too much, but He doesn’t charge me for baggage.
I am on a journey, and journeys are good. In the world of Malcolm, change can come slowly.
The journey is good, but getting ready for it is an irritating hassle. I hate packing. Anyone in my family can confirm that truth. Joan did the packing when we traveled, and now every trip is a reason to miss her afresh. I’m pretty sure I have packed too much stuff; I usually do. I’m also pretty sure I have left behind something I should have brought along; I usually do that, too. And before you ask, yes, I have a list, but I’m pretty sure it’s too long. I may have brought the wrong stuff, but fortunately Amtrak doesn’t charge me for baggage.
I like train travel. It avoids the hurry-up-and-wait, TSA-bedeviled atmosphere of today’s air travel and allows one time to reflect on and enjoy the journey. And I intend that this trip include time to reflect on my journey. Grief has a way of occupying the mind and narrowing one’s vision, and I need to be sure that my focus is neither too narrow nor misplaced. So I bring along the pieces of my life to listen to God; I hope I have not packed too much, but He doesn’t charge me for baggage.
I am on a journey, and journeys are good. In the world of Malcolm, change can come slowly.
Present Tense Living
03 10 10 17:56
There is a fine and sometimes fuzzy line between living in the present and giving proper consideration to what was and what will be without being enslaved by it. That fuzzy line came crashing in on me the other day with one word: Christmas. I don’t mean to start counting the number of shopping days left or to bewail the coexistence of back-to-school and Christmas sales. Those were not the issue. I found myself pondering Christmas with Matt in heaven.
Joan’s first Christmas in heaven was wonderful, not only for her but for Matt, Suzanne, and me as well - different, painful, but still wonderful nevertheless. I suppose I should expect that this Christmas will likewise be different (no problem there) but still wonderful. But my mind, having jumped several weeks ahead, was having trouble wrapping itself around the concept of Christmas being wonderful for Suzanne and me with Joan and Matt both being gone. As I wondered how on earth we would do Christmas this year, my concern for the future began to replace my joy in the present.
I don’t know yet what Christmas will look like this year. In the days between now and then, Suzanne and I will somehow figure that out, so stay tuned. But I do know that the present tense God who is with us now will be with us then. Emanuel - God with us - that’s what Christmas is about. Meanwhile, I’m going to try to live in the present without losing hope for the future or gratitude for the past.
Old Dude Seats
01 10 10 17:53
No problem, I thought. I can stand. As soon as I boarded and before I got a good grip on the rail, two different people offered me their seats. The first was a young lady who looked more tired than I hoped I looked. I smiled and told her to enjoy her seat; I’d be fine standing for a while. (I guess my parents trained me well: Gentlemen don’t sit while ladies are standing.) But no sooner had I declined her kind offer than a man sitting in one of three fold-down seats designated as priority seating for seniors and disabled passengers began to get up and offer me his seat.
I smiled again and repeated the answer I had given to the young lady. But I began to wonder just how old I looked. Perhaps I should have taken one of their seats. Was this old dude standing next to them making them feel guilty for sitting? I hope not. The young lady got off at the next stop, and I took her seat. The gentleman across the aisle smiled, closed his eyes, and took a nap.
And me? I’m blessed to be reminded that in a world that is often much too harsh, chivalry is not dead. And maybe I’m an old enough dude to benefit from it.
Red Carpet Delivery
17 09 10 23:33
I saw the truck and heard his footsteps before he had a chance to ring the bell. As I opened the door, young Sven unrolled his Red Carpet Delivery “Sleep Country” mat on the porch and asked me if they would be picking up any old bed. Yes, I explained, they would be picking up one queen set and delivering two.
The adventure started with Suzanne’s desire for something larger than her day bed. She is, after all not a twin; she is a princess worthy of a queen bed. So she went looking, the price ended up being right, and I decided it was time to trade in my 20+ year old sagging set as well. So there would be two beds delivered today, and we were ready - especially Suzanne whose old bed had been sold the previous day.
We’re probably going to have to do this tomorrow, Sven told me. The truck is jam packed, and we can’t get another bed on it. It seemed to me that the math was not difficult: Two beds off the truck; one bed on the truck. Presto - the truck is less full. But he wasn’t buying it. If you call your salesperson, they can set it up for tomorrow. I wondered aloud if they would also like to set up a hotel room for tonight. At that, he rejoined his young buddy Ole at the truck who was hoping to start his weekend early, and they began rearranging mattresses, but not happily so.
Sometimes we are constrained by love (that’s the way it’s supposed to work), sometimes by necessity, and occasionally we resist being constrained at all. I am thankful that Sven and Ole chose to be constrained by necessity - I’m pretty sure it wasn’t love - and started their weekend a half hour later than they had hoped. When they left, Sven asked me to sign the red carpet delivery sheet. It didn’t mention love. I signed, thanked him for making it work, and sent them on their way to their weekend.
And so to bed . . . .
The adventure started with Suzanne’s desire for something larger than her day bed. She is, after all not a twin; she is a princess worthy of a queen bed. So she went looking, the price ended up being right, and I decided it was time to trade in my 20+ year old sagging set as well. So there would be two beds delivered today, and we were ready - especially Suzanne whose old bed had been sold the previous day.
We’re probably going to have to do this tomorrow, Sven told me. The truck is jam packed, and we can’t get another bed on it. It seemed to me that the math was not difficult: Two beds off the truck; one bed on the truck. Presto - the truck is less full. But he wasn’t buying it. If you call your salesperson, they can set it up for tomorrow. I wondered aloud if they would also like to set up a hotel room for tonight. At that, he rejoined his young buddy Ole at the truck who was hoping to start his weekend early, and they began rearranging mattresses, but not happily so.
Sometimes we are constrained by love (that’s the way it’s supposed to work), sometimes by necessity, and occasionally we resist being constrained at all. I am thankful that Sven and Ole chose to be constrained by necessity - I’m pretty sure it wasn’t love - and started their weekend a half hour later than they had hoped. When they left, Sven asked me to sign the red carpet delivery sheet. It didn’t mention love. I signed, thanked him for making it work, and sent them on their way to their weekend.
And so to bed . . . .
The Chaos of In Between
14 09 10 10:27
It turns out that it is impossible to replace carpeting that has stuff on it. We have much stuff, and since the law of gravity has not been repealed, a lot of the stuff is on the carpet. Or was. And it had to be moved; at least that’s what Rob the carpet-layer said. I take him at his word since he and his son moved most of the heavy stuff. But it’s the little stuff that makes me wonder. What is this? Why did I keep this? Remember when...?
I have a fearsome tendency to packrat-ism, and I am not alone. Getting rid of stuff is time-consuming work, and I have better things to do. Besides the disease has almost no symptoms - until it comes time to replace the carpets. Lumpy rugs are no good; the stuff needs to be moved.
I live in between, and stuff is a link to what was, but it crowds the corners of my life that could be occupied with better things. Stuff is for in between, and in between is not forever. Most stuff eventually becomes burdensome; Thoreau (great writer, lousy theologian) rightly observed that men have become the tools of their tools, an observation that is even more true in the 21st century than it was in the 19th. In between living carries with it the promise of a destination, and I will make it to heaven without my stuff and without missing it. Neither Joan nor Matt miss the stuff I hang on to. But I still live in the midst of this in between stuff, some of which, at least while I’m in between, is good. It takes wisdom to know what to release, and when. For better or worse, when Rob and his son are done later today, most of my stuff will still be here.
I live in the chaos of in between. But only for a while.
My Kind of Labor Day
06 09 10 20:05
A little rain, a good book, and a barbecue rescued by Matt’s George Foreman grill - all in all my kind of day.
Magic Carpet Choices
02 09 10 21:15
I’ve been told that people who move here from third world countries experience the same kind of bewilderment on their first trip to a supermarket. We are used to living in a world where countless choices give us the opportunity to tailor our lives to our individual preferences, and sometimes that is a good thing. The carpet store had something for everyone; all we had to do was figure out who we were.
The creative variety demonstrated by carpet manufacturers pales in comparison to that demonstrated by the Almighty. He is not a cookie-cutter God who mass-produces blessing for his people; he keeps each individual in mind. God knows me better than I know I myself and, miracle of grace that it is, takes delight in me anyway. He knows me; he loves me. And he’d have done just fine in the carpet store.
The Other Johnny
25 08 10 21:21
We were not friends. We traveled in different circles and had different interests. He was a greaser who must have gone through a bottle of hair oil every week. The large economy size. He obviously took issue with Brylcreem’s claim that “a little dab’ll do ya.” The jingle went on to say, “The gals will all pursue ya; they’ll love to run their fingers through your hair.” Johnny obviously figured that a big dab of the stuff would attract even more gals. He was not what I would call an academic success. As I remember, he gained the distinction of being named the student least likely to succeed.
That, of course, is the trouble with drawing conclusions too soon. Making final judgments before things are final is dangerous business. The reason I ran across Johnny’s name the other day is that he has become one of the richest men in America. He ultimately turned what some of us regarded as a hair fetish into a wildly successful business developing and marketing Paul Mitchell hair products. (Would anyone have bought Johnny DeJoria hair products??)
I thought of the other Johnny again this morning as I had breakfast with a friend who reminded me that the fruit of Matt’s ministry would continue to blossom in the years ahead. He is right. I doubt if any of the kids with whom Matt worked will become as financially rich as the other Johnny, but I’m blessed to have seen and heard already the evidence of growing spiritual riches in young lives. And I’m reminded of how foolish it is to hang a loser label on those the Lord loves before He is done.
A Letter to My Congressman
24 08 10 14:16
As a retired (read "unemployed") 65 year old widower, I have watched with interest the government's efforts to help the economy and create jobs. I understand that according to the government's numbers, each job created or saved has cost the government approximately $200,000; this is a significant investment that evidences a strong commitment on the part of the federal government.
That commitment has started me thinking. I think I have found a way to make a small but positive impact on the government's efforts. Instead of seeking a job that it will cost the government $200,000 to create or save, I will agree to stay retired (read "unemployed"). While that only removes one person from the demand stream for jobs, it is admittedly a small step in the right direction of lowering the unemployment rate. In exchange for my commitment, the government can send me $100,000. Since there is no need to create or save a job for me, the government's cost is reduced by $200,000. In short, the government will be $100,000 ahead and so will I, and you can take credit for helping to lower the unemployment rate as well as decrease the federal deficit.
This is a plan in which everyone wins! I know these things can take time, but I look to you, Congressman McDermott, to expedite my $100,000 check. Thank you for your consideration and help.
Sincerely,
Malcolm Brewer
Foundations
19 08 10 14:10
Bit by bit I’m meandering though Matt’s papers. I sort slowly. I don’t want to miss anything, and so I tend to read almost everything. That tendency, along with my grief-limited tolerance for sorting stuff, slows the process down, but occasionally there are rich rewards along the way. In a notebook that almost got tossed was a Matt-generated list of foundations for his ministry that came out of a day of prayer. (There was also a collection of fascinating TAG quotes that some TAG alumni would just as soon I don’t share, but that’s another topic....)
Whether written or not and whether consciously decided or not, most of us involved in ministry accept the constraints of some set of principles that guide our ministry and by which we evaluate our success. Matt’s seems to be the kind of list that creates a foundation for effective and principled ministry. How do you think he did?
Hmmm, maybe I need to edit and revise my own list . . . .
Whether written or not and whether consciously decided or not, most of us involved in ministry accept the constraints of some set of principles that guide our ministry and by which we evaluate our success. Matt’s seems to be the kind of list that creates a foundation for effective and principled ministry. How do you think he did?
- God will be in absolute control of all ministry decisions.
- I will spend required time before Him to seek His face and will.
- People are more important to me than programs; therefor I gladly alter programs as God works in people.
- I will be a God-pleaser first, man-pleaser second, and pray I do both lots.
- Ministry will never be limited to my strengths or abilities but blessed by His infinite resources.
- People will see Jesus Christ at all events - not optional - not a sermon but His love.
- Advancing the kingdom of God is more important than the numbers of any group or church.
- My spiritual walk will take precedence over ministry stuff because that’s how tone is set.
- I will commit to and pour into the lives of a ministry staff; I can’t do it all by myself.
- My foundations of ministry are non-negotiable with man but open to direction from God.
Hmmm, maybe I need to edit and revise my own list . . . .
Getting There
14 08 10 22:14
There was time in my life when the journey was as good as the destination, particularly if it involved traveling. When I was a kid, I mastered public transportation not so much to go somewhere as for the joy of the journey; where was almost irrelevant. But now four hour drives are less fun than they used to be. The body gets stiff and the bladder gets full. There (wherever there might be) has become more important that getting there.
I’m not sure that that is all good. The destination is important; Paul had something to say about that (I press on toward the goal....) But the journey is also valuable. And this journey had some wonderful moments. Because the Christian life is a relationship with Christ, whatever I experience on the journey I experience with Him. And in the process of the journey, before I arrive, I get to know Him better.
It is a reality that is important as I walk through the adjustments of grief. Matt is there and so is Joan. Suzanne and I are still getting. While it may occasionally be difficult, the journey is marked by joy.
Matt's Testimony
30 07 10 14:47
Cross-cultural mission involvement has impacted every member of our family. For Matt, that involvement included leading two outreach English camp teams to Hong Kong and leading a group of teens on a Youthbuilders adventure in Poland. I was along on the first Hong Kong trip in 1994, a dad privileged to follow the leadership of his son. Each evening of the camp included a fun program into which were woven testimonies of us “foreign tutors.” For some of these, Matt had interviewed the participants; on the final evening he shared his own story. The testimonies needed to be simple, brief, and easily translated; to avoid misunderstanding they were translated.
About a week ago I was surprised and blessed to come across a written version of the testimony Matt shared in Hong Kong. He had kept it along with a longer (and later) outline version of his testimony that focused on God’s grace. Twenty-four Chinese students were present. That night six of them indicated they were making a first-time commitment to Jesus Christ; another twelve indicated some other significant spiritual decision. The simple truth from transparent lives makes a powerful impact. There is for me something wonderful about hearing his testimony again, as it were, from heaven. Here is what Matt shared sixteen years ago with students in Hong Kong, and, by the grace of God, with me again last week:
Tonight you have learned a lot about the foreign tutors. I would also like to talk to you.
In high school and at university, I worked on a school newspaper writing stories about politicians, professional athletes, and university officials. Like last night, I would sit and talk with them to learn more about these important people.
Many years ago before I worked on the newspapers, I met someone who was more important than any other famous person I have talked to. His name is Jesus, and he changed my life. When I was younger, two men came to my church and shared about God. They told me that God loves me, but that I was separated from him by sin - doing things that are not right. There was a gap between God and myself. Jesus is the way to cross that gap. Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life; no one can go to the Father except by me.”
That night I invited Jesus into my life, and that changed me forever. Now when someone asks me if I have ever talked to or written about an important person, I say, “Yes – his name is Jesus, and he changed my life.”
About a week ago I was surprised and blessed to come across a written version of the testimony Matt shared in Hong Kong. He had kept it along with a longer (and later) outline version of his testimony that focused on God’s grace. Twenty-four Chinese students were present. That night six of them indicated they were making a first-time commitment to Jesus Christ; another twelve indicated some other significant spiritual decision. The simple truth from transparent lives makes a powerful impact. There is for me something wonderful about hearing his testimony again, as it were, from heaven. Here is what Matt shared sixteen years ago with students in Hong Kong, and, by the grace of God, with me again last week:
Tonight you have learned a lot about the foreign tutors. I would also like to talk to you.
In high school and at university, I worked on a school newspaper writing stories about politicians, professional athletes, and university officials. Like last night, I would sit and talk with them to learn more about these important people.
Many years ago before I worked on the newspapers, I met someone who was more important than any other famous person I have talked to. His name is Jesus, and he changed my life. When I was younger, two men came to my church and shared about God. They told me that God loves me, but that I was separated from him by sin - doing things that are not right. There was a gap between God and myself. Jesus is the way to cross that gap. Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life; no one can go to the Father except by me.”
That night I invited Jesus into my life, and that changed me forever. Now when someone asks me if I have ever talked to or written about an important person, I say, “Yes – his name is Jesus, and he changed my life.”
Hidden Treasures
20 07 10 22:06
As we were walking by, we caught a glimpse of what looked like an old fire engine through the windows in the doors. We peered through the window and discovered it was one of several vintage fire engines inside. We eventually found a door (locked) that identified the Last Resort Fire Department, a Seattle Fire Department museum that opens for a few hours on Wednesdays and Thursdays. It was Monday, and we were out of luck. Or so we thought until a fire department official took pity on us and graciously offered to let us in for a private viewing. It is a fascinating display and an unexpected blessing.
Hidden treasures like the Last Resort Fire Department seem an appropriate metaphor for the last several days as we marked Matt’s passing with a graveside service and a barbecue. I have been blessed to hear wonderful stories of Matt’s impact. Some have brought laughter, some have brought tears; all have brought joy and made me hungry to hear more. Like a gracious fire department official who got out of his vehicle and unlocked a door, friends have opened their memories and let me in to see hidden Matt treasures worth sharing. Thank you!
One Week
28 06 10 21:38
There might actually be words to adequately describe this last week, but I don’t know what they are. The words seem too diluted and impotent. Perhaps I am too weary with grief, and one day, the words will do. Or perhaps not.
Has it only been a week since that terrible phone call injected the death of a son into what had been a happy Fathers Day? I have functioned in a frustrating fog, and were it not for the graciousness of a lot of loving people, I might well have not functioned at all, lost in a paralyzing labyrinth of grief. They have cleaned an apartment, distributed furniture, planned a memorial service, dealt with the coroner, packed a car, cared for a cat, invested time that they could ill afford to lose; they have found more ways than I can list to say I love you. How will I ever find enough ways to say thank you?
The Modesto memorial service captured well Matt’s uncompromising commitment to the Lord and the truth of His Word. It was painfully joyful - and joyfully painful. My son enjoyed a deep and intimate relationship with the Lord, and his impact on the lives of others has been profound. Seeing the evidence of that again has been one of the great joys of this week.
How are you doing? People who love me keep asking that question, though I suspect they know the answer better than I. I hurt. I’m home now, and the house is quiet. The joyful reminders that Matt once lived here are also the painful reminders of his absence. Doing is probably the right word; I’m pretty sure I’m not done.
Has it only been a week since that terrible phone call injected the death of a son into what had been a happy Fathers Day? I have functioned in a frustrating fog, and were it not for the graciousness of a lot of loving people, I might well have not functioned at all, lost in a paralyzing labyrinth of grief. They have cleaned an apartment, distributed furniture, planned a memorial service, dealt with the coroner, packed a car, cared for a cat, invested time that they could ill afford to lose; they have found more ways than I can list to say I love you. How will I ever find enough ways to say thank you?
The Modesto memorial service captured well Matt’s uncompromising commitment to the Lord and the truth of His Word. It was painfully joyful - and joyfully painful. My son enjoyed a deep and intimate relationship with the Lord, and his impact on the lives of others has been profound. Seeing the evidence of that again has been one of the great joys of this week.
How are you doing? People who love me keep asking that question, though I suspect they know the answer better than I. I hurt. I’m home now, and the house is quiet. The joyful reminders that Matt once lived here are also the painful reminders of his absence. Doing is probably the right word; I’m pretty sure I’m not done.
I Know...
21 06 10 18:56
I know Matt is now freer than he has ever been. I know his wonder at God’s grace is growing in God’s presence. I know his pastoral heart that wept with those who weep is weeping no more. I know that his outrageous sense of humor has blossomed into unfettered joy. I know that his Redeemer and mine lives. I know that the Lord he loves has welcomed him home.
And I know that what I know, and what I don’t know, doesn’t erase the pain now that will become joy then.
Tea
15 06 10 22:11
Handicapping Horses
11 06 10 22:52
People who know me well are aware that I am not much of a betting man. My risk tolerance tends to be pretty low. But now I had a dilemma: Would I feel guilty at the end of the day if I left with the same $5 bill in my pocket, knowing it had not been used for its intended purpose? I briefly wondered if the parable of the talents applied to this situation.
The horse did not come in first. Or second. Or third. The race started and went well until the horses were about 1/3 of the way around the track. Then my horse (my horse??) stopped. I don’t know much about races, but I’m pretty sure that if you don’t finish the race, you can’t win. (There is an important spiritual lesson here somewhere....) Then the horse turned around and started walking - yes, walking - back to the beginning.
It was an enjoyable day, but I won’t be returning to the track anytime soon. If someone gives me another day at the races with a free lunch thrown in, I’ll probably go. And if they give me some betting money, I just might use it. But next time, I’m using the favorite number method.
I'm sorry; was it something I wore?
18 05 10 17:38
The beach towels were out of stock, but since it seemed to be a worthy cause, I picked up a couple of shirts, planning to use one as a work-out t-shirt. I wasn’t sure what the reaction might be when I showed up at the gym in a shirt advertising the Los Angeles County Coroner, but last week I found out. It’s a pretty mellow group at the gym, and other than a couple of odd looks, there really wasn’t any reaction, at least not until an elderly gentlemen stepped onto the treadmill next to me. He greeted me, put his towel down, and pulled out his ipod. Then he read my shirt. And without saying a word, he picked up his towel and ipod, and moved two treadmills away.
