My Life
We Wish You a Mellow Christmas
Sat 25 Dec 2010
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.
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!
Comments
Feline Disorientation
Sun 19 Dec 2010
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
Wed 15 Dec 2010
‘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
Wed 08 Dec 2010
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
Sun 05 Dec 2010
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.
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
Tue 23 Nov 2010
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
Sun 21 Nov 2010
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
Tue 16 Nov 2010
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
Thu 28 Oct 2010
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
Fri 22 Oct 2010
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
Sun 17 Oct 2010
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
Wed 13 Oct 2010
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
Sun 10 Oct 2010
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
Sun 03 Oct 2010
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
Fri 01 Oct 2010
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
Fri 17 Sep 2010
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
Tue 14 Sep 2010
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
Mon 06 Sep 2010
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
Thu 02 Sep 2010
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
Wed 25 Aug 2010
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
Tue 24 Aug 2010
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
Thu 19 Aug 2010
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
Sat 14 Aug 2010
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
Fri 30 Jul 2010
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
Tue 20 Jul 2010
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
Mon 28 Jun 2010
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...
Mon 21 Jun 2010
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
Tue 15 Jun 2010
Handicapping Horses
Fri 11 Jun 2010
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?
Tue 18 May 2010
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.
