The Bank

The Bank

Nestled in the heart of the Shield Valley is the small ranching community of Wilsall, Montana. The wide-open space of this valley is surrounded by three mountain ranges: the Bridger to the west, the Crazy to the east and the Absaroka to the south. A real smorgasbord for the eyes.

What keeps bringing me back to Wilsall in addition to the natural beauty is the Bank. What used to be the town bank is now a bar. Located on Main Street, you can’t miss this stone edifice that was built to last. What used to be the town’s financial institution is now a mighty fine bar and restaurant.

Walking through the door is stepping into old Montana. A long bar with plenty of elbow room. The back bar with its classic mirror accents all the liquid refreshments a thirsty cowboy needs after a long day in the saddle. With high table seating and buckets of salted peanuts and discarded shells scattered on the floor, it’s a great place to kick back and relax. On the back bar in a large glass case is a stuffed two headed calf with six legs! The floor to ceiling vault is now the walk-in cooler.

Every once in a while, my boys and I take a drive and head to the Bank. The next time you are driving down Interstate 94 turn north on Highway 86. It is well worth the side trip to enjoy a burger and a beer. I suggest you try the Vault burger with blue cheese, or the Thunder Jack with jalapeños and fried onions. Mighty fine eating!

Here, in Montana, it’s getting difficult to find places that haven’t been changed by modernization. Still, there remains places like Wilsall that keep the flavor of the old West. I enjoy finding those oases that give a sense of the past in the midst of the grandeur of Montana.

It must be time to head out again to Wilsall to make a deposit at the Bank.

Decoys

Decoys

I love duck hunting. Back in the day when it was legal to use lead shot in my twelve-gauge shot gun, many a feathered waterfowl gave it’s life during hunting season. Bluebills, teal, mallards, and canvasbacks to name a few were lured into shotgun range over my decoys.

It all started in northern Minnesota. A friend who lived in Ely invited me to join him duck hunting. Each morning we arrived at our secluded lake before sunrise, set out our decoys and hid in our blind made of tree branches and cattails. Just as the sun came over the horizon, we heard ducks quacking and wings flapping. That’s when the fun began.

I have hunted ducks in Minnesota and Montana. Getting up early, traveling to the lake, setting out decoys and waiting for dawn were all part of the excitement of the hunt. The smell of gun oil, burnt powder and cool autumn air were the primeval aroma for man on the hunt. Away from civilization and one with nature; it doesn’t get much better than that.

I don’t hunt ducks anymore, but I do collect decoys. They are life size wood carvings of a mallard, a loon, a canvasback and a bluebill. They sit in my office collecting dust and are a constant reminder of those days sitting in the cold, wet blind waiting for that first shot.

I leave you with a short story. I was hunting ducks with a friend on Lake Helena outside Helena, Montana. At first light, with the decoys set out, a flock of bluebills came in fast and were set to land. I spotted one duck and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened so I shot again. Nothing! One more shot that emptied the gun chamber. As the smoke and fog cleaned, I realized I shot one of my decoys: dead as a duck!

There’s no season like duck season.

Reality

Reality

As a pastor, one of my jobs is to help people live in reality. I know that sounds weird, but it is the truth. There is something about church life that periodically wants to take a person out of real life situations and place him/her in a fog of unreality. Whether it’s relational issues like marriage, family crisis, work related tensions or just plain living, the good news of the Gospel gets warped into bad news.

I know for myself the harsh reality of leaving the rarified atmosphere of academic life and wading into the disarray of real life. The idealism I was taught needed to be tempered by real life experiences. I learned that it takes time, patience and humility to live in the tension of the real and the ideal.

I have been blessed to have mentors help me along the way. Without their wisdom and encouragement, I would have long ago tossed in the towel and given up. When guilt and shame want to consume my life, I need to grab hold of truth which leads me back to the reality of God’s love and care for me.

In my office I have hanging on the wall a framed quotation from Derek Prince, a well know Bible teacher who has now gone home to be with the Lord. I share it with you hoping that these words will give you a healthy perspective to a balanced life.

 There are two things: the actual and the ideal.

 To be mature is to see the ideal and to live with the actual.

 To fail is to accept the actual and reject the ideal;

 And to accept only that which is ideal and refuse

 The actual is to be immature.

 Do not criticize the actual because you have seen the ideal;

 Do not reject the ideal because you see the actual.

 Maturity is to live with the actual but hold on to the ideal.

Cabin Fever

Cabin Fever

Growing up in the northern climate, I enjoy four seasons of the year. My favorite is fall with its relief of summer heat and vibrant colors. Winter, on the other hand, with all it’s quiet beauty and dormancy, leaves me with a longing for spring. Four distinct seasons immerse me in the vitality of life.

Many years ago, when Judy and I ran a ski lodge here in the Bridger Mountains of Montana, we had an unforgettable winter. With over four hundred inches of snow that winter, we lived in a winter wonderland. It was after the Holiday Season when all the guests were gone that we both got the flu. Sick as dogs with no other responsibilities than to care for our new born son, we hunkered down for some cold winter nights. By the third day, there was so much snow on the metal roof of our log cabin home that it avalanched covering all the windows and doors. We were entombed!

With no sunlight, we didn’t know what the outside world looked like. For three days we sat, slept, coughed, consoled one another and cared for our baby boy. Finally, I had enough strength to grab a shovel, open the door and start searching for the outside world. It took awhile but I broke through to daylight. One by one the windows were cleared. We were once again among the living.

This winter I write after about six weeks of illness: two trips to the ER; two separate weekends in the hospital; and two weeks at home on oxygen and steroids. The doctor said I am going to be just fine. This has been my winter of discontent. I still have an eye for the beauty and stillness that winter brings but I eagerly await the signs of spring.

Oh, by the way for those who have never experienced cabin fever here in the dictionary definition: irritability, listlessness, and similar symptoms resulting from long confinement or isolation indoors during winter!

That’s me.