Capsized

Capsized

On my morning walk with Daisy, my dog, I passed by a newly built home in our neighborhood. Sitting in the driveway was a shiny wood canoe. Not sure why it was out on the pavement, but it caught my eye; smooth, sleek lines of veneered wood created by a master craftsman. Staring at this piece of art brought back memories.

While in high school, I was an Explorer Scout. One summer, scouts in the Minneapolis area were invited to participate in a canoe race as part of the annual Aquatennial celebration. Starting at Lake Bemidji, we were to paddle in teams all the way down the Mississippi to the Twin Cities; a distance of over three hundred miles. To make a long story short, on the second day of the race, sitting in the bow, I asked my teammate to hand me a fresh paddle. I caught the paddle blade between my thumb and forefinger splitting my hand open. Requiring emergency room care, we had to forfeit and travel by car to the Cities. So much for canoe racing!

Another of my canoe adventures took place in the Boundary Waters of northern Minnesota. I was part of a scout ten-day canoe trip. On the second to the last day as we crossed the treacherous Basswood Lake, high winds made paddling difficult. Caught between two giant whitecaps, our canoe capsized. Here I was, fully clothed wearing camping boots, scout uniform and jacket, slowing sinking to the bottom of the lake. Fortunately, my partner and I were good swimmers. Because of our scout training we righted the canoe full of water, gathered up our gear and crawled back in. It was an arduous paddle to dry land. Thank God we didn’t drown.

Funny how you can take your dog for a walk around the neighborhood on a summer morning, spot a beautiful canoe and have memories from over fifty years ago come back to you as fresh as if they happened yesterday. I have been told that as you age long term memory is much better than short term memory. I guess I am blessed to have found my way home.

 Daisy knew the way.

Caregivers

Caregivers

Since spending more time at our local hospital as a volunteer chaplain, I am impressed by the quality of care provided to patients by doctors, nurses, emergency room staff and volunteers. In the past, my casual visits to hospitalized church members only gave me a cursory exposure to the intensity of caregiving that takes place there.

Recently, at our chaplains’ staff meeting, we were shown a video that addressed the topic of caregiving. I hadn’t given much thought to a chaplain’s work as caregiving; just more at meeting a patient’s spiritual needs. The video revealed the importance and intensity of caregiving at every level: sick or terminally ill patients, child care, nurturing marriage relationships and just about anyone who cares for another.

Here are seven basic principles of caregiving:

1.    The healthiest way to care for another is to care for yourself.

2.    By focusing on your feelings, you can focus beyond your feelings.

3.    To be close, you must establish boundaries.

4.    In accepting the helplessness of your helping, you become a better helper.

5.    Caregiving is more than giving care. It is also receiving care.

6.    As a caregiver your strength is in your flexibility.

7.    In the everydayness of your caregiving there lies something more: sacredness.

We are all caregivers of one kind or another. As the poet John Donne penned, “no man is an island….” There is danger in caregiving: we can lose ourselves, our health, our perspective, our humor. Yet, there is great reward. As Jesus tells us, “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for his friends.”

If you are interested in this caregiver’s DVD, the title is The Grit and Grace of Being a Caregiver by James E. Miller. It can be ordered on the internet at Willowgreen.com.

Rancor

Rancor

Every once in a while, on the daily dog walk, a particular word pops into my head. This has happened enough that I now pay attention. Although each word is distinct, some are familiar, some are old Latin words from my seminary training, and some I barely recognize. The title of this blog fits into the last category.

Looking up the word rancor in the dictionary, I found this definition: bitter, deep seated ill will. This English word is derived from the Latin meaning: rank smell or taste. The word rancid comes from the same root. Its synonyms aren’t much better: bad blood, bitterness, hostility and enmity.

Watching the news and logging on to social media, I sense that rancor is seeping into the fabric of our culture. No longer is it acceptable to express diverse points of view without sharp and vulgar responses bordering on blatant name calling and personal attack. Rancor is on the increase.

As a pastor I get thrown into family and church dynamics where strong opinions and intense personalities weigh heavy on relationships. Not being one to shy away from conflict, I have participated in familial and ecclesiastical battles that have taken emotional and spiritual tolls on my life. I have also seen collateral damage to families and churches that, in the heat of battle, ignored civility and common decency to win a battle.

It must be age and experience that has taught me to be a better listener as well as more sensitive to convictions of others. I confess that it is a difficult discipline to learn but the rewards are far better. I have learned that listening with respect is not necessarily agreeing. It validates the person expressing a view that I may not share.

Here are some words of Jesus: “You’re blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight. That’s when you discover who you really are, and your place in God’s family.”

No place for rancor in God’s family!

Laundry

Laundry

Recently, I overheard a conversation at a coffee shop that surprised me. One gentleman boasted that every Monday morning his washed and folded clothes magically appeared at the foot of his bed. To the amazement of his coffee drinking buddies, he sang praises of his wife who lovingly served him in this way. That is not the normal coffee klatch conversation I hear.

That started me thinking about how I thought about my wife who washes all my dirty clothes. Usually it is me complaining about what happened to my new golf shirt that got tossed into the laundry basket last week. Or how about that nice pair of wash and wear slacks that the dog is using as a blanket in the laundry room. Why is it that I have more and more unmatched socks coming out of the dryer?

The few times I had to wash my own clothes I was at a loss as how to run that washing machine. I look at those dials and they make no sense to me. I know a little about the dryer but that is only because I have to dive in there every once in a while to find some apparel. And why are there tennis balls in the dryer?

When our kids were small, there were piles and piles of dirty clothes on the laundry room floor. The machines were running 24 – 7 but the piles never got any smaller. By now you can see that I have little appreciation for all the work my wife does in the laundry room. I am like the guy in the coffee shop who is constantly amazed that his clean clothes show up on Monday morning.

Before my readers start writing nasty comments in response to this blog, I want to confess my sin.  Here in print, I repent of my chauvinistic attitude and thankfully sing the praises of my wife for her faithful and undying service of love to me. I have never gone without clean clothes. She has always found a match for my socks and made sure that I don’t leave the house wrinkled.

Ok guys, let’s give a big “shout out” for the ladies in our lives who serve us in so many ways that we take for granted. And Lord can you design a washing machine that is easier for a man like myself to operate?

Gravely Tractor

Gravely Tractor

I started my lawn mowing career at an early age. My father felt that the best way for me to use my idle time was to work. When I was strong enough to push a hand mower (that’s a mower that operates on muscle and sweat), my summer chore was cutting grass. Eventually I was deemed mature enough to operate a gas-powered push mower; a giant step forward in lawn maintenance.

One day my father came home with a Gravely Tractor. At the time, this was the Cadillac of lawn mowers. Actually, it was a tractor that came with many attachments. You could attach a sickle bar on it to cut brush; an auger to throw snow and in my case a 36-inch mower blade to cut grass. According to my father this was the ideal tool for our two acres of lawn. It wasn’t long before I discovered it was my worst nightmare.

First of all, it was too big and too clumsy for an adolescent boy to operate. Walking behind this tractor, using all my muscle to keep it on track was a task I wasn’t up to. Trying to explain this to my father was useless. He insisted I could do it; it was character and muscle building. It wasn’t until I took out part of my mother’s flower garden that he started having second thoughts.

Just to get the gas engine started was a Herculean task. No electric start here. You had to wind a leather strap around the fly wheel and pull with all your might. With my feeble strength I could barely get a chug out of the engine. Thinking a little more gas would help, I flooded it. I think this is when I started swearing.

I gave that Gravely Tractor my best effort, but it was too much of a machine for me. The last straw came when I just couldn’t muscle it any more. In one final desperate move, I drove that d…. tractor over a four-foot retaining wall! Unfortunately, the mower survived but for me less so after a trip to the woodshed with dad.

All these years later, I am mowing our small patio lawn with a new hand mower that is powered by muscle and sweat. It is hard to improve on that!