A Great Light

A Great Light

I live in a subdivision at the base of the Bridger Mountains in Montana. Originally a working ranch, this property was home to cattle and abundant wildlife. The developers, wanting to keep a rural atmosphere, chose not to install street lights. After the sun sets, it gets really dark except for dots of light from homes and the heavenly display of stars that light up the night.

A long time ago, a man by the name of Isaiah spoke these words to a world wrapped in a different kind of darkness: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. For those who lived in a land of deep shadows-light!” This Old Testament prophet spoke about the darkness of hopelessness, fear and oppression.

Generations later, a man born in Bethlehem spoke these words: “I am the world’s Light. No one who follows me stumbles around in the darkness. I provide plenty of light to live in…For as long as I am in the world, there is plenty of light. I am the world’s Light.”

Good news is hard to come by these days. There is a darkness that wants to prevail in the land of the living. Day after day news of disaster, moral failure, betrayal of trust and yes even death threatens to extinguish the light of hope and Life. Where can one turn to bask in the warmth of light?

That Old Testament voice continues to speak to us down through time breaking the stronghold of darkness. “For a child has been born for us! The gift of a son for us! He’ll take over the running of the world. His name will be Amazing Counselor, Strong God, Eternal Father, Prince of Wholeness. His ruling authority will grow and there’ll be no limits to the wholeness he brings.”

As a child in Sunday school, we sang This Little Light of Mine. The closing verse says it all: “Out in the dark I’m going to let it shine. Oh, out in the dark I’m going to let it shine. Hallelujah! Out in the dark I’m going to let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.”

SHINE JESUS SHINE!

O Tannenbaum

O Tannenbaum

By my reckoning I have lived long enough to see seventy-three Christmas trees all decked out with lights, ornaments and lots of presents under their boughs. That’s a lot of Christmas trees, so many that all but the most recent are but a blur of colors, smells and memories. Is there anything more magical than a Christmas tree?

This past week the grandkids came over to help decorate our tree. Judy and I watched their excitement as box after box of lights and ornaments were opened. Many of the ornaments were the same ones that their dad, aunt and uncle hung on past Christmas trees. Hopefully, long after we are gone, they will share some of these same memories with their children.

Another family tradition is cutting down our own tree. Purchasing a permit from the forest service allows us to bring home the perfect Charlie Brown tree. In the past, we have bought precut trees from a lot and even invested in a plastic tree but the best is one right out of the mountain forest. The pine smell and pitch sticking to our hands makes for a real Christmas tree.

I would be remiss without making reference to the German folk song that heralds the beauty of the Christmas tree. As a child, I heard my father sing in German:

“O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum…. O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree how lovely are your branches not only green when summer’s here but in the coldest time of year. How sturdy God has made thee! You biddest us all place faithfully our trust in God, unchangingly O Christmas Tree.”

May your Christmas tree bring you happiness this Holiday Season and many memories for the future!

Tom and Jerry

Tom and Jerry

Growing up in a large family, the weeks leading up to Christmas were a combination of controlled chaos and spiraling anticipation. Trying to be spiritual with Advent Wreath devotions all the while counting the days before we could open our presents made us somewhat schizophrenic.

For years my parents hosted a Tom and Jerry Christmas party. Friends and family were invited to help usher in the season by gathering to sip and share this Christmas cheer. I don’t know how it all started but I do remember lots of people flocking to our home each year to partake of food and drink.

The Tom and Jerry drink is an acquired taste. My dad had this secret recipe that involved concentrated preparation and left the kitchen a mess. This hot drink was a concoction of egg nog, whipped egg whites, brandy, rum, assorted spice and hot water served in a mug. The sign of a good Tom and Jerry was that it left a foamy mustache on your upper lip. Moderation was the key to making it home safe.

For those of less exotic taste there was Silver Satin punch. This is a sweet, inexpensive white wine served in a large punch bowl filled with ice. Because it is pleasant tasting and seems innocent enough, it can be dangerous to the thirsty. More than one child at the party got buzzed thinking it was kid’s punch.

Sharing this family tradition stirs up all kinds of memories. How my dad loved to be the chef and bartender while my mother, dressed immaculately in a red satin dress, wondered who all these people were and who was going to clean up the mess. Singing Christmas carols slightly out of tune and hearing stories of Christmas past were the potpourri of our holiday season.

After my father’s passing, my brother endeavored to carry on the Tom and Jerry Christmas party. Those attending were siblings, in-laws and grandchildren; all former attendees had passed on. Now it is all a memory of Christmas past.

I’m going looking for a bar that serves this holiday nectar and see if it gives me a white mustache.

Photos

Photos

There it sits in our TV room. An old wooden tool chest that masquerades as a coffee table and often used footstool. We bought it at a garage sale years ago thinking it would make an attractive storage bin of some kind. The wood is marred and stained but it has a unique character about it. All but forgotten it, it hides a treasure hold of memories.

While rearranging the room, we opened the old chest to discover hundreds and hundreds of glossy 3x5, 6x4, enlarged school photos, 35m colored slides, and other assorted mementos of ages past. There it was, a menagerie of family history piled in disarray in that old wood chest.

I confess that I have neither time or patience to even begin to sort through all those photos. Judy took on the challenge. She purchased plastic containers and began the process of sorting through photos of each of our children and other significant family events. While watching the QVC and reruns of old Christmas movies on the Hallmark channel, she started making sense of our pictorial family history.

I confess that several times I started digging through the pile only to get lost in the memories that they evoked. I was amazed at how young we looked back then. Seeing our kids as kids brought tears to my eyes. Remembering people and places long forgotten reminded me that we have lived a very rich life. Flipping from photo to photo, I felt drawn into times long gone.

We don’t take photos that way anymore. Now with a click on my smartphone I can instantaneously record family history. For some reason, it’s not the same. Yea, I know you can somehow download those pics and mysteriously send them in cyberspace and within a twinkling of an eye have them reappear in your mailbox as 4x6 glossies (in triplicate) or even made into a memory book. But who has the time or the tech savvy to do that on a consistent basis.

If I could find that old camera that captured all those family memories, I would trade my smartphone for it in a minute. But that’s not going to happen. I wonder how our kids are going to remember us. I guess I will have to stipulate in my Will that they will have to share my phone so they can view all 10,000 pixels!

Gumball Grandparents

Gumball Grandparents

Following my brother into the dark recesses of his laundry room where he keeps his computer so that I could print boarding passes for our flight back to Montana, I saw it. It had been a long time but not forgotten, the gumball machine. In fact, there were two of them but the original stood intact full of multi colored gum balls.

Back in the day that same dispenser of juicy delights was a permanent fixture in my parents’ home. Why they chose to prominently display that mechanical tooth destroyer in their home is beyond me. Whenever our kids visited their grandparents, the first thing they asked was “can we have a gum ball?” All it took was a penny and a twist of the dial to consume that treat. My parents made sure there were plenty of pennies around to meet the demand.

It wasn’t long before the kids started calling my parents “grandma and grandpa gumball.” In order to stop the incessant demand to keep going to their house and play with the gum ball machine, we bought one of our own. This made matters worse because we started to find chewed gum everywhere: under tables, on bathroom sinks and in children and animal hair. Not to mention the cost of  dentists.

One Christmas, Judy embroidered colorful gum balls on two sweatshirts to give to my parents as gifts. The kids were excited to see that we approved of their gum consumption by giving such a thoughtful gift. Although they were gracious is receiving the gift, we never saw them wear the sweatshirts.

There is a moral to this story. Grandparents beware that what you give your grandchildren, may be the very label they remember you by. Our grown children still remember them as Grandpa and Grandma Gumball. Who would have ever thought that a penny gumball machine would capture the imagination of a generation of descendants.

Mom and Dad, thanks for the memories!

Give Thanks

Give Thanks

My favorite Thanksgiving memory is Grandma who had a love-hate relationship with the turkey. She would rise early on Thanksgiving Day to stuff the turkey with homemade dressing. All the while she would be slapping that poor bird around muttering in Polish words difficult to translate into English. Her turkey and dressing were the best; a true labor of love.

 I am reminded of a Bible passage from Paul’s letter to the church in Thessalonica: “Rejoice always; pray without ceasing; in everything give thanks; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” For a guy who gets a bad rap for being too stringent for modern taste, he nails the reason for the season.

It’s difficult to pause from the rat race of life to reflect on the graciousness of God. The only pause I am familiar with is the button on my TV remote. Unfortunately, this national holiday has morphed into the starting gun of the holiday shopping season. So much for taking the time to reflect on the bounty of our gracious God.

There is a song we sing in church at this time of year that captures the spirit of Thanksgiving: “Give thanks with a grateful heart. Give thanks to the Holy One. Give thanks because He’s given Jesus Christ, His Son.

And now let the weak say, I am strong. Let the poor say, I am rich because of what the Lord has done for us. Give thanks!”

When I smell the aroma of the turkey cooking in the oven, I can’t help but pause and reflect on the image of Grandma prepping the holiday bird. I thank the Lord for those memories.

A blessed Thanksgiving to you!

Stetsons

Stetsons

Growing up I wanted to be a cowboy. I remember a childhood photo dressed in cowboy shirt, jeans, holster with cap guns and a cowboy hat. At age seven, I certainly looked like a cowboy. In those days playing cowboys and Indians (Native Americans) was a favorite pastime.

Cowboys were my heroes. Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, the Lone Ranger, Sky King and John Wayne to name a few. These were the good guys I saw on the silver screen Saturday afternoon at the local movie theatre. I wanted to be one of the guys who did good, punished the bad and always got his girl!

You could tell the good guys because they wore white cowboy hats (the exception being Hop Along Cassidy who wore a black one). The bad guys wore black hats. Back then it was easy to distinguish the bad from the good by the color of their cowboy hat. Things were simpler back in the old days.

I never lost my dream of being a cowboy. When I moved to Montana it was a must to have a cowboy hat, boots and a real revolver. I have two off white Stetson xxxx cowboy hats, a comfortable pair of Ariat cowboy boots and a nice collection of firearms. For you greenhorns the xxxx stand for quality beaver fur used in expensive Stetsons.

On Sunday mornings, you can see me arrive at church with cowboy boots, western vest and Stetson; the firearm is optional depending on my sermon topic. You may think I have finally gone over the edge. The truth is that I still look pretty good in that outfit and, at least in part, living out my dream.

At the end of every Roy Rogers movie, Roy and his wife Dale Evans (in white cowboy hats) sang these words: “Some trails are happy ones, others are blue. It’s the way you ride the trail that counts, here’s a happy one for you. Happy trails to you, until we meet again. Happy trails to you, keep smiling until then.”

Adios!

Remote Starter

 Remote Starter

My first car was a grey 1952 Chevy two door. It was long and sleek with an exterior metal visor over the windshield. When you popped the hood, there was enough room to crawl in with the engine not like today where there isn’t any unused space. The stick shift was on the steering column; no power steering or power brakes. This beauty had two crank down windows and two wing vents; no air conditioning. The radio was a wood box that sat on the front seat with one wire going to the exterior antenna and another one to the battery; no FM or satellite radio.

It was the car I remember best because it was my first. It was my ticket to mobility; no more biking or hitch hiking. My dad bought it for me and taught me how to take care of it: filling the gas tank, checking the oil and tire pressure. When it came time to trade it in, my dad had this advice: don’t by a car with power windows because they will break and don’t buy cheap tires. For years I didn’t buy cars with power windows and to this day I buy quality tires.

The reason I mention this is because I recently had a remote starter installed in my truck. My 2002 Chevy needed a tune up, new starter and battery. My sons suggested I have a remote starter installed as well. I have friends who swear by this modern convenience. Living where I live, starting my truck from inside my front door in winter is indeed a luxury.

I can’t help but wonder what my dad would say. He lived long enough to use a computer and a cell phone. Eventually he didn’t heed his own advice and bought nice cars with power windows and factory air. I wonder what he would have thought about heated seats, power everything and a remote starter.

Funny how technology changes one’s ideas about life. I was happy with that ’52 Chevy. Now I wonder if I can live without my remote starter. I need to check around and see if they have invented a remote starter that will get me out of my warm bed on those cold, winter mornings.

All I have to do now is remember where I put that key chain with the remote starter button on it!

Hoppe's

Hoppe’s

Don’t recognize the name? Unless you are a hunter or a gun enthusiast, you don’t have reason to know. Hoppe’s is a liquid powder solvent that is used to clean guns and rifles. It has a distinct odor that permeates a room. It is the fragrance of choice for hunters and gun owners.

Why write a blog about Hoppe’s? Every time I open that bottle and get a whiff, the memory of my first hunting trip floods my mind. I was about eight years old when my dad took me bird hunting. All, I remember about that trip was the smell of Hoppe’s gun solvent and several dead pheasants. What I didn’t realize was that was the beginning of a life long love of hunting

As I age, I am amazed what triggers memories from the past. Remembering my first exposure to hunting comes in the form of an aroma of gun solvent. Over the years I have cleaned a lot of firearms and every time I open that bottle of solvent I see my dad standing in his hunting clothes with shotgun in hand. That was the only time I went hunting with him.

I love hunting. I am fortunate to live where hunting is a way of life. As soon as the aspen leaves start falling, it’s time to gather the gear, clean the rifles and plan the hunt. Over the years I have hunted deer, antelope, moose, bear, pheasants, Hungarian partridge and sage grouse. In the off-season gopher and prairie dog hunting keep my trigger finger happy.

Yes, I have passed the joy of hunting onto my three sons. We don’t hunt together often because of work and family obligations. Whenever they can break away, we head for the mountains, rifles in hand. I look forward to the opportunity to make hunting memories with my grandsons.

A big thanks to Hoppe’s for a sweet bouquet of memories!

Stain Master

Stain Master

I got the call mid-morning. My calendar was clear, I was free to respond. I quickly changed into my grungy work clothes and headed out the door. Another fence needed staining and only the stain master could do the job. Freed from desk work and pastoral responsibilities, I grabbed my red plastic bucket filled with disposable rubber gloves, wide brimmed hat and paint brushes. Off to work I went!

You see, I moonlight for Blue Spruce Services, a small construction company started by two of my sons, Tim and Nick. Several months ago, they quit their day jobs, formed an LLC and started working for themselves. They started out doing home repair work and then found their sweet spot in building fences. Tim has a background as a finished carpenter and Nick as a floor installer and cable TV guy.

They are talented men.

They approached me one day, asking if I was interested in doing a little side work staining the fences they were building. It would be part-time work and the pay would be good. I jumped at the chance to be outside doing physical labor. Besides, it would be quality time with my sons. What more could a dad ask for?

When the time came to negotiate my pay, they came up with the idea of supporting my candy bar addition. I particularly like Salted Nut Rolls. They said the first job was worth two Rolls but because I accidentally spilt some of the stain, I was docked one candy bar. I knew I was being taken to the cleaners, but they are my sons!

Truthfully, they have been very generous to me. In payment for my first stain job, they installed new front breaks on my truck. The payment for the second job was a remote starter for my truck. Not to bad for part-time work. But the best payment is working alongside two sons who labor hard and take pride in their work. A dad can’t ask for more than that.

Yes, the stain master at work!

Log Splitter

Log Splitter

I confess I love all that technology has to offer. I am old enough to remember land line phones, black and white TV, and Saturday afternoon matinees at the local theater. Now I have at my disposal an iPhone, a computer that can call anywhere in the world, watch color TV, show movies and have Siri answer all my questions.

However, if you live where I do, in the mountains of Montana, once you get out of town, that fancy phone isn’t much use. That brings me to what’s really important in life for a mountain man: a good chain saw and a log splitter. You see, some of us still have a real fireplace where, on those cold winter nights, a blazing fire warms heart and home.

That’s why I am making a case for the most advanced technology in the mountains: the log splitter. Again, I am old enough to remember using an ax or sledge hammer and metal wedge to split logs. I tell you that was a long and arduous process. Now the old-fashioned sweat and muscle method has been replaced by technology.

For the uninitiated, the mechanics of the log splitter consist of a gas engine and hydraulics mounted on a small trailer frame. Placing a log on one end of trailer rail, engaging the hydraulic lever, the wedge moves forward splitting the log in half.

It’s a two-man job: one lifting the logs on the rail and the other engaging the lever.

Earlier this month, my friend Hal invited me to be the lever man. We spent a glorious Saturday and Sunday afternoon lifting, splitting and loading wood into the back of our pickups. By the end of the weekend we had split about six cords. Without the splitter, it would have taken us a lot longer not to mention the damage to our aging bodies.

I enjoyed Hal and I working together. It gave us time to catch up on guy stuff. The blend of manual labor and technology made pleasant work on an autumn weekend in the mountains. It is quite satisfying to see those neat stacks of firewood. The smell of freshly split pine is a tonic for the mountain man’s soul.

 The hard work’s done, it’s time to get ready for hunting season.

Under Construction

Under Construction

A major frustration living in a first world country is the constant need for infrastructure repair. Where I live, there has been one road construction project after another. At first it was just fighting traffic driving from one end of town to the other. Now there is no direct route to wherever I want to go because roads are closed due to upgrading sewer, water and road surface.

I know this sounds like complaining and it is! Our local, state and federal tax dollars are at work making a five-minute drive into a half hour around construction. I am not upset with those who labor on these projects but I am perplexed at why one section of road has to be dug up and then dug up again and even in some cases a third time. Then there is the issue of ruts big enough to get a semi stuck that jars my teeth every time I drive over them.

In developing nations, I visited you rarely find signs that say, “road under construction.” Their paved roads are full of pot holes simply because of neglect. In fact, the dirt roads provide a smoother ride because most traffic is two or four footed. In Africa, we spent most of our drive time on the shoulder of the road because the pavement was so torn up.

I know we have the best road system in the world and that it demands constant maintenance. Just take a summer drive on any Interstate and you will experience mile after mile of one lane road construction. I need to keep perspective here. Everything worthwhile needs upkeep and periodic maintenance, even this old body of mine.

I am reminded of the words of Paul when he greeted the saints in Philippi. “I am sure that the good work God began in you will continue until he completes it on the day when Jesus Christ comes again.”

I hope the road He travels won’t be held up because of construction.

Bend the Knee

Bend the Knee

I endeavor to keep the focus of my blog on personal experiences and life observations that would be of interest to my readers. There are topics that I have strong convictions but feel they are for a different kind of blog. I try and stay clear of hot button political issues that tend to polarize public opinion. So, my goal in today’s blog is informational not divisive.

The media has fixated itself on the issue of  “bending the knee” by professional athletes during our national anthem. What started as the protest of one player has now turned into an emotional national debate. Fueled by political, social, economic and racial overtones it appears that we have one more issue that is driving us toward a divided nation.

Contrary to the attention this is getting in the public forum, “bending the knee” is not a new phenomenon. History is full of people who out of respect or repression knelt before kings, conquerors, czars, pharaohs, tyrants, popes and potentates. Its origin was a physical sign of submission, good or bad. I was raised in a church where “bending the knee” was mandatory upon entering a church. In those days, it was called genuflection!

The Bible gives a fresh perspective to whom we should bend the knee: “So come, let us worship: bow down before him, on your knees before God, who made us.” And in another place: “and at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth.”

There is an ancient Latin saying that may help us here: “in necessariis unitas, in dubiis libertas, in omnibus caritas” in essentials, unity; in doubtful matters, liberty; in all things, charity. Ah! Charity that benevolent goodwill towards all.

Siblings

Siblings

Growing up in a large family gave me plenty of opportunity to find fault with my brothers and sisters. I have memories of situations where, as the oldest, I felt slighted, misunderstood or taken advantage of by my younger brothers and sisters. The problem is they have their own list of offenses against their older brother. It must be part of the growing up process.

Recently, one of my sisters came to visit. She is the second oldest in the family and in many ways, we share the same memories of growing up in a large household. The nice thing is that now that we are older our perspective of those earlier years has mellowed. We can laugh and cry about all those times when we thought the world was going to end or at least a major meltdown of family life.

It is amazing that so many individuals can come from the same parents. Yes, we share some of the physical characteristics but in personality and temperament we are individuals. Grown up, married, raising families and in some cases making a geographic move away from the homestead, all of us maintain the identity as the Semsch family.

How our parents survived raising eight children continues to be a mystery to me. Not only the financial responsibilities but the challenge of individual personalities and problems must have driven them to the edge more than once. As I have often said, our parents gave us life, they didn’t give us perfect!

I look forward to those times I can get together with my siblings. I enjoy all the memories, happy and sad, because they give me the opportunity to relive those days long ago. These adult relationships keep alive the family life that I appreciate even more. Those memories enrich my life; a life that I want to pass on to my kids.

To my brothers and sisters who are faithful readers of my weekly blog, I say “thanks for all the memories.” Keep them coming!

Memory Bank

Memory Bank

I take pride in composing my weekly blogs. I love musing about life events as well as past memories. This week I make an exception. I hope you don’t mind. As a Facebook addict (meaning I am on it daily) I read a very inspiring post by Anita Morgan, a woman I don’t know. She posted this on August 30^th of this year. I want to make sure she gets all the credit for what she wrote. I think you will find inspiring if not challenging. Here it is:

“The 92-year-old, petite, well-poised and proud lady, who is fully dressed each morning by eight o’clock, with her hair fashionably coifed and makeup perfectly applied, even though she is legally blind, moved to a nursing home today. Her husband of 70 years recently passed away, making the move necessary. After many hours of waiting patiently in the lobby of the nursing home, she smiled sweetly when told her room was ready. As she maneuvered her walker to the elevator, I provided a visual description of her tiny room, including the eyelet sheets that had been hung on her window. “I love it,” she stated with the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old having just been presented with a new puppy. “Mrs. Jones, you haven’t seen the room …. just wait.” “That doesn’t have anything to do with it,” she replied. “Happiness is something you decide on ahead of time. Whether I like my room or not doesn’t depend on how the furniture is arranged, it’s how I arrange my mind. I already decided to love it. It’s a decision I make every morning when I wake up. I have a choice; I can spend the day in bed recounting the difficulty I have with the parts of my body that no longer work, or get out of bed and be thankful for the ones that do. Each day is a gift, and as long as my eyes open I’ll focus on the new day and all the happy memories I’ve stored away, just for this time in my life.” She went on to explain, “Old age is like a bank account, you withdraw from what you’ve put in. So, my advice to you would be to deposit a lot of happiness in the bank account of memories Thank you for your part in filling my Memory bank. I am still depositing.” And with a smile, she said: “Remember the five simple rules to be happy: 1. Free your heart from hatred. 2. Free your mind from worries. 3. Live simply. 4. Give more. 5. Expect less.”

Wow!

Smoke

Smoke

You’ve heard the saying, “where there’s smoke, there’s fire!” Well, there is a lot of smoke here in Montana this summer. That’s not news because there are always forest fires this time of year. Last year because we had plenty of moisture there were only a few fires. This summer, with the whole state bordering on extreme drought, over eight hundred thousand acres of timber are going up in smoke.

My friend Hal and I took a jeep ride last week. We drove down the Gallatin Canyon toward Big Sky and made a left turn up Castle Rock trailhead. About eleven miles on a dirt road brought us to a spectacular view of a canyon ravaged by fire. Several years ago, a fire burned through here leaving blackened tree trunks, a graveyard of a once marvelous forest.

An interesting thing about forest fires is that almost immediately new growth appears. Green grass, small shrubs, wild flowers and yes even scraggly pine trees popping up all over the place. The inevitability of an aging forest set on fire by lightening or human carelessness provides the opportunity for new life. It will take years for this wilderness to restore itself, but it will.

Meanwhile, the smoke is causing serious health issues. Without rain or snow, the fires will smolder into late autumn. As smoke settles into the valleys, the mountains seem to disappear. The sunrises and sunsets take on a spectacular glow of bright red, orange and pink. Funny how natural disasters can produce such unnatural beauty.

The Bible talks a lot about fire. The Old Testament book of Proverbs has this to say: “Three things are never satisfied, no, there are four that never say, ‘That’s enough, thank you!’ Hell, a barren womb, a parched land, a forest fire.”

This summer Montana qualifies on two of the four!

Coexist

Coexist

One character trait of a mature person is the ability to get along with those you don’t agree with or like. Unfortunately, the world is full of people who are different than me. Not only do they look different but they also think and act different. The older I get, the greater the challenge to live in such a diverse culture.

There are a lot COEXIST bumper stickers where I live. If you have never seen one they are white with either blue or black letters surrounded by a variety of religious symbols. It was designed by a Polish graphic designer in 2000. You can order one on Amazon.

Coexist is an interesting concept. The dictionary says it means to exist together at the same time; to live at peace with each other. No doubt, the world would be a much better place if that were the case. A cursory reading of world history tells us that this ideal has yet to find a place in the heart of man. Many of the world conflicts have religious ideology as their starting point.

Unfortunately, our culture is but another example of trying to legislate tolerance by political correctness, rewriting history and utopian bumper stickers. All the while mistaking the source of the problem: ourselves. How much easier is it to point the finger at someone else than it is to take responsibility our self. A classical sign of immaturity.

The Bible which itself is full of intolerance among people does hit the nail on the head when the prophet Jeremiah says, “The heart of man is hopelessly dark and deceitful, a puzzle that no one can figure out. But I God, search the heart and examine the mind. I get to the heart of the human. I get to the root of things. I treat them as they really are, not as they pretend to be.”

Thank God!

We Can Be...

We Can Be…

As our family grows, it’s important to make time to be together. Given geographic distance and time restraint, planning ahead for family reunions is crucial. Judy and I just returned from Sandpoint, Idaho where we spent a week with our four adult children and five grandchildren (actually six because there is one in the oven).

We discovered a get together plan that works for us. First, we set an agreed date one year in advance so everyone can get vacation time. Second, an intense search on the internet for a rental house with enough bedrooms, bathrooms and living space to accommodate nine adults and five (next year six) children that is within a day’s driving. Third, we pay for the house rental and our kids pay for the food.

Last year, we met for a week at a lake cabin in northern Minnesota. This year we rented a very nice home at the Idaho Club near Sandpoint, Idaho. And what fun we had. Lots of noise and conversation around the dining room table. Splashes and squeals at the outdoor hot tub. One day on a rented pontoon boat and another day at the beach. In between some golf and just enjoying family life together.

 As we gather, we experience how fast life is changing. Our kids are not only taking care of their own children but they are also taking care of Judy and me. They do the cooking, cleaning and organizing while we watch with awe at their proficiency. I guess that’s enjoying the fruit of our labor.

The best part is we all get along. The days of adolescent competition and complaining are gone. Enjoying each other’s company and mutual respect have somehow found their place in our family. No, we aren’t the perfect family but we are a happy family.

When are kids were young, we taught them a song that has found a place in their hearts. It goes like this: “We can be a family of friends, a family of friends. Oh! We can be a family of friend. We can be a family.”

Yep!

Paraprosdokian

Paraprosdokian

If you frequently read my blogs, you know that I like strange words. It must have something to do with classical education and my preaching vocation. Although I had several years of Latin, I am not proficient in it. Because the Bible, as we have it, is a translation from the Hebrew and Greek, I have an academic familiarity with both. That plus an addiction to crossword puzzles should explain my fascination with obscure words.

Paraprosdokian is a combination of two Greek words meaning “contrary to expectation.” A paraprosdokian is a figure of speech in which the latter part of a sentence or phrase is surprising or unexpected and frequently humorous. This is a favorite ploy of comedians and people who cultivate a refined sense of humor.

Here are a few examples:

·      Where there is a will, I want to be in it.

·      The last thing I want to do is hurt you…but it’s still on my list.

·      I didn’t say it was your fault, I said I was blaming you.

·      I used to be indecisive, but now I’m not sure.

·      You’re never too old to learn somethings stupid.

·      If I agreed with you, we’d both be wrong.

·      I don’t belong to an organized political party, I’m a Democrat. (Will Rogers)

I think life is tough enough but when you can’t laugh at a quick turn of a phrase you might be in need of a therapist. The Bible reminds us that laughter is good for the soul and that’s from a good book that’s got lots of serious stuff in it. I like a quick turn of a phrase because it catches me off guard and tickles my funny bone.

There is a small plaque in our guest bathroom that I frequently ponder on my visits there. It reads “Blessed are they who can laugh at themselves, for they shall never cease to be amused.” I think that’s a paraprosdokian!

Fairy Lake

Fairy Lake

Montana is a feast for the eyes. There is hardly a spot that doesn’t showcase the grandeur of Big Sky Country. Whether it be the prairie lands east of the Continental Divide or the majestic Rocky Mountains, Montana is a beauty to behold.

Among my favorites is a small out of the way place called Fairy Lake. Located about 26 miles north of Bozeman, snuggled in the base of the Bridger Mountains at the foot of Sacagawea Peak is a small aqua-green lake surrounded by a pine forest. It is not known who named the lake but it is easy to see that fairies could live here.

Don’t let that nice paved road from town fool you. There is still eleven, bone jarring, tire puncturing, muffler smashing miles before you get to the lake. A construction crew of bad elves must have designed this road from hell. Strewn with lots of rocks and ruts, it takes an experienced driver and a tough vehicle to make it all the way.

Taking the mile hike around the lake shoreline provides breath-taking views of God’s handiwork. The lake itself is spring fed from the mountain snow that rarely leaves the higher elevations. A small herd of mountain goats live just above the lake. If you take the trail to Sacagawea Peak, you can see them up close grazing in the alpine meadow.

Over the years Judy and I have brought visiting family and friends to Fairy Lake. We never tire sitting on the shore sharing a picnic lunch taking in the grandeur of God’s creation. Once I braved the hike to the top of the mountain and experienced a panoramic view of the Gallatin Valley.

Fairy Lake what a magical place.

The Psalmist sings: “Hallelujah! Praise God from heaven, praise him from the mountaintops…oh let them praise the name of the Lord.”