Falling

Falling

I think it is something I inherited from my father. Although he was spry for his age, he had the propensity to fall. Not sure if it was something that descended through the Semsch genetic chain or if he came by it on his own. Either way, I attribute my stumbling to him. Hard as I try to walk a straight line, minding where I place my feet, falling comes naturally to me.

This physical characteristic is not helpful as I age. What once I considered a physical quirk has now become a serious liability to my health. Stumbling over an uneven sidewalk or miss stepping off a curb only adds to my uneasiness.

This past January as I was leaving a local Urgent Care, I was not minding my step. I had gone there to get medical help for my persistent cough that later turned into pneumonia and several trips to the hospital. As I exited the building I slid on a sheet of black ice, spread eagled on the sidewalk somehow avoiding hitting my head. As I lay there catching my breath and checking out body parts for injury, I couldn’t believe what just happened. Luckily the receptionist saw me lying there and helped me back into the clinic. After a thorough exam and found intact, I was assisted to my truck.

Last week on Christmas Eve day I took Daisy (our dog) on a walk through the neighborhood.  Crossing the street to avoid icy sidewalks, I hit a patch of black ice and did a backward spread eagle in the street. With my breath knocked out of me and Daisy licking my face, I prayed that I had not broken anything. Slowly getting up, I could feel the pain of stretched tendons and a sore neck. Limping the half mile home, I went immediately for hot pads and Tylenol. Very happy to report no broken bones.

 In order to survive the winter, I am now wearing strap on cleats and a walking stick to navigate whatever weather conditions are before me. I am reminded of the words from the Old Testament book of Proverbs: “Let your eyes look directly ahead and let your gaze be fixed straight in front of you. Watch the path of your feet and your ways will be established.”

Amen to that!

Shepherds

Shepherds

My dad was a physician and gentleman farmer. He loved to dabble in many areas of life. At one point he purchased a large home on a tract of land with a barn and out buildings. It wasn’t long before he acquired a menagerie of horses, chickens, pigs and sheep. Of all his animals, sheep needed the most attention. They could not care for themselves. Someone had to watch over them; make sure they were cared for, a shepherd.

Sheepherding is a lonely life. Often far from civilization with only animals for companions. I wonder why God would choose to announce the birth of his son to nomadic shepherds. You would think that such an important event would deserve heralding in the courts of kings, politicians and ecclesiastical authorities. If you were going to send a whole heavenly host, I don’t think shepherds had the pedigree to appreciate the theological implications of the event.

Reading about the birth of Jesus, how can one be impressed with a child born in a stable surrounded by farm animals and shepherds. Religious nativity sets don’t do justice to the understatement of God’s grand design. Within a few verses the angels disappear, and the shepherds are gone. It makes you wonder what all the fuss was about.

Then I remembered that the Bible is full of shepherds: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Rachel, Moses and David to name a few. God speaks of himself as the Shepherd of Israel. Kings were charged to care for people as a shepherd cares for his flock. There is a definite connection between God and sheep.

Why wouldn’t the angels announce Jesus’ birth to shepherds and direct them to the stable in Bethlehem. This child was destined to be the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. He is the one who said, “I am the Good Shepherd; the good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.” He is the best shepherd of all. “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul.”

Shepherds why this jubilee? Gloria in excelsis Deo!

Joseph

 Joseph

Who is this guy? He has a walk on part in the Christmas story. He stands next to Mary and baby Jesus at the manger. What do we actually know about him? There are questions about him in the opening chapter of the New Testament. He is a man who walks on the stage of history and then disappears.

The genealogy of Jesus found in Matthew’s Gospel tells us that Joseph was a direct descendant of King David. We learn that Joseph is engaged to a young lady named Mary. Then Joseph hears through the grapevine that Mary is pregnant. As a gentleman he searches for a way to protect her. That’s when God steps in.

For me, the most amazing thing about Joseph is that he was open to not one but four different visits from an angel. Joseph is chosen by God to protect and care for Mary and her child, Jesus. What is in the character of a man to trust and obey the word of an angel, give up his dreams and lay down his life just because God asked him?

I googled Joseph on the Internet. Almost all the pictures of him are with a halo on his head. I don’t think Joseph had a halo; more like a massive headache trying to figure out if it was God speaking or bad dreams. Joseph was a straight forward man from a small town who dreamed of a quiet life with a family. God had other plans.

The name Joseph in Hebrew means “May God give increase.” From a human perspective Joseph’s part seems to be a cameo appearance. But there is something precious in a man who gives up all he has to follow after God. Joseph is a Kingdom man who exemplifies the character of one who walks with God bringing increase of life.

Thank you, Lord for all those Josephs who carry the burden of feeding, leading and protecting their spouses and children for they shall inherit the Kingdom of God.     “For the greatest love of all is a life that sacrifices all.”

Lumpy

Lumpy

My seminary training included a homiletics course. Homiletics is the art of preaching. Our professor would assign us a theological or biblical topic and we would have to stand up in front of the class and preach. I need to tell you that it was more terrifying than high school Speech 101. It never dawned on me that if I was going to be a pastor, I needed to get over the fear of speaking before a congregation.

Over the years I became more confident. I progressed from a five-minute homily to a forty-five minute sermon. Most of the time, people stay awake but here are some exceptions. I still have a little stage fright as I stand in the pulpit. I am not one to use props when preaching. To me it was more a distraction than a help. Eventually I got used to using an overhead projector and now Power Point. My goal is to keep things simple.

There is an exception that stands out in my mind. One Sunday, a guest speaker coerced me into being a living prop. He taught from the book of Jeremiah where the prophet was instructed to go to the potter’s house. Somehow, he convinced me to dress as a lump of clay. This meant putting on a large pair of women’s nylons, stuffing pillows and a blanket into my clothing so that I would look like a lump of clay.

The congregation’s response in seeing me appear in a pair of nylons and three times my normal size was worth the price of admission. As I remember the teaching was well received and my popularity as a lump of clay was greatly enhanced. My new identity was Pastor Lumpy.

 There are times I feel like that lump of clay on the potter’s wheel. Just as my life is coming together, the Lord would say, “It’s about time for you to get back on that wheel for I have more shaping in mind for you. We need to get rid of those lumps”

A cracked pot I am not!

Old Blue

Old Blue

Tucked away behind all the junk in my garage, hanging on a rusty nail is Old Blue. It’s right next to the wood pile, high enough so it won’t get run over, thrown out or lost. It rests there all year waiting to be taken down and used for its designated purpose.

Old Blue is my blue Swede saw. I have owned it for over forty years. It has traveled with me back and forth from Montana to Minnesota many a time. It is one of those tools that is taken for granted, even forgotten, until the moment of need. You see, Old Blue is my companion when I head to the mountains in search of a Christmas tree.

Here in Montana, you can buy a five-dollar permit which entitles you to cut down a Christmas tree on National Forest land. As long as you obey the rules, you got yourself a tree. Compared to the tree lots in town, cutting your own is a steal. That being said, one needs to know that mountain trees are more like Charlie Brown trees with gaps in the boughs and leaning a bit. You have to do a lot of walking usually in deep snow to find the perfect one. Then you have to drag it out to the truck.

The first time Old Blue went Christmas tree hunting, Judy and I were trekking through the woods on snow shoes with our one-year old son strapped on my back. From that time on, with only a few exceptions, Old Blue came through with a beautiful tree every year. How much longer can Old Blue and I take this hike in the mountains, I know not? This year my son Tim and son in law David did the heavily lifting. Good job guys!

As this year’s tree majestically adorns our living room and Old Blue is back on the rusty nail awaiting next year’s adventure, the words of O Tannenbaum come to mind: “O Christmas Tree, your branches green delight us! They are green when summer days are bright; they are green when winter snow is white. O Christmas Tree.”

This blog is a reminder that I need to put Old Blue in my will so that the tradition will live on after I am gone.

Thanks, Old Blue.

Making Arrangements

Making Arrangements

For two years Judy and I talked about setting our affairs in order. We had already updated our wills and our advanced medical directives. All that was left was to make our funeral arrangements. The reason it took us so long was the fact that neither of us wanted to face the fact that we are getting old and it was time to make a decision.

After talking the issue to death, I finally made the call to the local funeral home asking for information. A lady from the mortuary came on a warm summer afternoon. Sitting on the patio among the blooming daisies and chirping birds, we discussed our options. After she left, we sat there in silence for some time sipping a glass of wine. Finally, Judy said, “Let’s just take the money and go on an all-inclusive to Mexico instead.”

That not being a viable option, I started looking for a cemetery. With some help from the funeral home, I found a nice plot in the city cemetery. I took Judy to get final approval. While standing there we realized that eventually we wouldn’t be enjoying the view of the Bridger Mountains, only our ashes. Later, when I went to city hall to purchase the plot, I asked if I could pay with my frequent flyer credit card, hoping I would live long enough to use the miles. That brought a chuckle from the city clerk.

Having purchased a resting place and prepaying for our cremation, the only thing left was to choose a marker. There are only two granite engravers in town. The one I visited was most helpful in explaining the types of material and engraving. I didn’t realize there were so many choices. With Judy’s approval, the marker was ordered and will be placed on our plot next spring. Then we can come back and enjoy our investment without actually dying. Maybe I will bring a bottle of wine, so we can sit there and take in the view.

We are in relatively good health and have no immediate plans for our demise.  Having put all this information in an envelope and secured in my gun safe, we felt it necessary to inform our children. They were not excited about our being responsible parents and relieving them of a future financial and emotional burden. When told, one of them said, “Now all we have to do is sit and wait.”

 Not the response I was hoping for.

P Rock

P Rock

Interstate 15 stretches from the Canadian-Montana border all the way to San Diego, California. This four-lane highway takes you through some of the best scenery in the Big Sky state. Living here allows us a never-ending panoramic drive through the heart of Montana.

Some years ago, when we lived in Havre, our family would travel a section of this Interstate from Great Falls to Helena. While Judy and the kids slept, I reveled in watching the meandering Missouri River flow through the mountains. From Square Butte to the Sleeping Giant, there is one breathtaking scene after another.

Heading south near mile marker #245 there is a small rest area. Actually, it’s a short side off that gives opportunity to visit the P Rock. That isn’t its official name. It’s the name my boys and I gave it. Getting out of the car and climbing the hundred steps to the top, you have a spectacular view of the river and the steel bridge that became famous in the 1987 Sean Connery movie The Untouchables.

When it was only the boys and I who made the climb, we found that it was the perfect place to relieve ourselves. We made it into a contest as to who had enough pressure built up to shoot the farthest. Soon it became our favorite stopping place to enjoy the view and heed nature’s call. Several weeks ago, driving to Havre, I passed marker #245 and chuckled at the memory of three young boys running up those steps to win the “P” contest.

I hope this doesn’t offend anyone’s sensibilities. I realize that it is not culturally correct to muse on masculine memories these days. I just can’t help but believe that life is full of memories, especially those enjoyed by the participants. If you ever happen to drive by the P Rock, give a chuckle to what the Semsch men enjoyed there.

Thanks Shaun, Tim and Nick for the memories!

Ticket Counter

Ticket Counter

It was early morning when we arrived at the Mombasa International Airport. Our ministry team had spent a week in East Africa teaching at a Pastors Conference. Eager to begin the journey home, we were the first to check in for our flight to Nairobi and on to Amsterdam and then USA.

International travel is an exercise in patience, especially in Africa where the love of bureaucratic procedure is an art form. The number of rubber stamps needed to get through Immigration defies common sense. The next step was baggage screening through an outdated X-ray machine. Then on to boarding passes.

At the check-in counter, upon submitting my passport, the agent began a computer search for my reservation. After twenty minutes, I was told that my reservation could not be found. Not too surprised, I submitted my printed itinerary. This further confused the agent. I politely asked if I might step over the counter and join her in the search. Shortly my reservation was found with a sigh of relief.

The next step was to have my luggage weighed. Apparently, the flight from Mombasa to Nairobi had weight restrictions. When told that my suitcase was five pounds overweight, I was in a quandary as to what to do. So, while the agent was glued to the computer, I took my bag off the scale put it on the floor and took out a handful of dirty laundry. Placing the suitcase back on the scale, the agent said I passed the weight test. While the agent was printing my boarding pass, I replaced the dirty laundry and gave the bag back to the agent and proceed to the gate.

My traveling companions were amazed at my ingenuity. As the plane took off for Nairobi, I prayed that the extra five-pound of dirty clothes would not cause a crash in the jungle. Over the years, I have learned to never leave home without a paper copy of every reservation be it airplane, hotel or car rental. Computers are not always reliable and sometimes they don’t tell the truth.

Travelers beware!

Coming Home

Coming Home

I wondered if there would ever come a day when my children would be grown up, leave home and start their own families. Looking back, it seemed like only yesterday that one by one they left home venturing out on their own. Eventually there was just Judy, the dog and me. It wasn’t like I thought it would be.

Not long ago, returning from a ministry trip with the two elders of our church, I listened to their excitement to be heading back home to their families. Both spoke with a father’s heart about their children. One said his son was sick with the flu and probably would give it to everybody else by the time he got there. The other commented on upcoming doctor, dentist and school appointments for his kids that clogged the calendar.

Their conversation triggered memories of the past wondering what I would find when I got home. Hugs at the front door. Toys and messes accumulated while away. Dishes and unwashed clothes forsaken for a weekend of frivolity while dad wasn’t there to bring order and discipline.

At the time I was sure I would not miss it. The dog still barks when I arrive and Judy hugs me and says she missed me. But the joy of little faces welcoming dad home isn’t there. Now if I want little kid hugs, I have to track down the grandkids who are busy with school and friends.

I didn’t realize back then that when the kids left so did the vibrancy of our home. Oh, I still see our grown kids but it’s not the same. Those days are gone and now only brought to mind by listening to two dads eager to end a road trip and be with their family.

On my nightstand I have a small, framed photo of our family taken at a time when there was real excitement as I walked in the door. The house is quite now and only interrupted when the doorbell rings and in comes the grandkids. Peace and quiet come at a cost.

Hero

Hero

Several days ago, I read that one of my heroes was near death. I knew he was not doing well at the age of 85 but that his life was near the end was disconcerting to me. Even though I had never met him in person, his writings affected my life and ministry.

Last evening, I read that Eugene Peterson: pastor, theologian, biblical scholar and mentor had gone home to be with the Lord. According to his family, his final words were “Let’s go” and “Oh yea!” It was a sacred time as he was ushered into the presence of the Lord.

I don’t remember how I was introduced to his writings but once I started, I devoured all of them. The practical, pastoral insight into the workings of God’s Word into this man’s life was simply amazing. He spent thirty years as a local church pastor, baptizing, marrying and burying people. All the while translating the Bible from the original Hebrew and Greek into colloquial American English, so people could easily read and understand.

 His book Reversed Thunder, a study of the book of Revelation, took all the scary out of one of the most misunderstood books of the Bible. His autobiography, The Pastor, encouraged me to pay attention to the simple and mundane in the ministry of a pastor. Tell It Slant, Run with the Horses, A Long Obedience in the Same Direction and a score of others disciplined my mind and heart in the ways of God.

There is a You Tube video of a conversation between Eugene Peterson and Bono. That was an eye opener. A rock star who had been touched by The Message translation. Several people familiar with Bono’s concerts told me that he uses the Psalms in his concert.

Hero’s without baggage are a scarcity these days. If you aren’t an athlete, movie star or politician you don’t get much attention from the media. Every hero has clay feet. I am sure those close to Pastor Peterson could list his shortcomings. Yet, what makes a hero is a combination of warts and halos. I am sure Eugene had both.

Paul, the New Testament apostle, as he drew near the end of his life wrote to Timothy these words: “The time of my death is near. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, and I have remained faithful. And now the prize awaits me: the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will give me on the day of his return.”

Coffee

Coffee

I didn’t start drinking coffee until I was twenty-one. Come to think of it, that was about the same time I started drinking beer. There may be a corollary there, but I don’t remember. I considered coffee to be an old man’s drink: something you did in the morning to wake up and get the bowels moving. That’s why I stayed away from it for so long; I didn’t have trouble with either.

Now I have a daily habit of one cup of coffee right after I get up. While I am waiting for our dog to finish his breakfast, Purina with a little fish oil in it, I fire up my Keurig coffee maker. One cup with my Bible reading is just enough to get the day started.

I like my coffee dark roast with no sugar or cream. I have tried all kinds of fancy coffee drinks: Cappuccinos, Lattes, Mochas and Expressos. Just plain dark brew is fine with me. Besides being convenient right at home, it is also a lot cheaper.

Speaking of which, there are as many coffee shops in Bozeman as there are brew pubs. Not long ago if you wanted Starbucks coffee you had to drive all the way to Seattle. Now there are at least a half dozen in town. Also, there is City Brew, Cold Smoke, Zocalo, Rockford, Wild Joe’s, Wild Crumb, and Café M to name a few. I have been to them all, but none is as good as my cup of home brew.

I still do a fair amount of visiting at local coffee shops. At least once a week I meet someone to catch up on life or hand out free advice. I know which places have the best pastries and are quiet enough to hear what my friend is saying.

Recently I saw an online quote that sums up my long-standing relationship with coffee. It has the ring of truth to it. “Sometimes having coffee with your best friend is all the therapy you need.”

Well said!

Good Grief

Good Grief

Charlie Brown was fond of saying “good grief” whenever life started going south on him. Whenever he was at logger heads with Peppermint Patty or Linus, this was his mantra.  Charlie Brown became the poster boy for good grief.

Although it’s a little outdated, the phrase is uttered when one is surprised, alarmed, dismayed or shocked at an unexpected situation. For those who have some religious sensibilities it is an acceptable substitute for “good God” or “good Lord.”

There is another meaning. What brought it to mind was the recent news that Maggie, our grandkids cat of many years, died. Those of us who were raised with pets know that they are as much a part of the family as any sibling. When a pet is sick or dies, it is a family crisis and a season of grieving begins.

As a child, I grieved over the loss of my pets. Entering into the life-death cycle at an early age teaches valuable lessons that pay big dividends later. I learned about grieving, the good grieving, at the back-yard burials of Pooka and Bandit, the parakeets, cats, rabbits and gerbils who were my childhood friends.  Experiencing those losses helped prepare me for bigger losses later in life.

No grief is fun. It is the hard reality of living. Whenever I stand over a grave praying for my own or someone else’s loved one, I experience a measure of grief all over again. Grief is the God given emotion that purges the soul when loss comes our way. I have learned to embrace the good grief.

I share the following as a postscript. “Grief never ends. But it changes. It’s a passage, not a place to stay. Grief is not a sign of weakness, nor a lack of faith. It’s the price of love.” Author unknown.

Autumn

Autumn

This is the most beautiful time of the year in Montana. Oh, spring and summer are fine, winters are a bit long, but autumn is the best. It can be the shortest season of the year squeezed between hot summer and cold winter. This precious time with its warm days and the cool nights are a welcome transition.

With the first signs of the season changing, I start thinking of all the needs to be done to prepare for winter. The patio furniture put away, the retractable awning covered, flower gardens cut and raked, extension cords set up for outside Christmas lights, screens stored, and hoses drained. The list goes on and on.

There are other autumn chores that are more fun than work. It’s time to get my hunting gear organized: clean the rifle, find the binoculars and hunting knife, run to the sporting goods store to purchase licenses. I need to be ready when the snow flies and the deer are in the rut.

My favorite autumn chore is when a friend calls and says the time has come to lay up some wood. He rents a hydraulic splitter and it’s to work we go. Watching that splitter do its job and tossing those chunks of wood and stacking in the garage gives me a sense that all is well. On those cold winter nights with the fireplace aflame, I am thankful for our labor with the splitter.

I can’t forget to mention the beauty of the leaves turning. Aspens changing from summer green to autumn yellow; maples shining bright red. A sure sign that life in Montana is heading for winter. Once the leaves are raked and the snow shovels are made ready, it is time to welcome winter.

Feeling nostalgic about the fleetness of autumn, I came upon a quote that gives expression to this time of change: “The trees are about to show us how lovely it is to let things go.”

 I am watching.

Candy Bar

Candy Bar

Now this is a topic where I have some expertise. In previous blogs I mentioned that I have an on-going addiction to all things sweet. Often I have tried to kick the habit but to no avail. I have a recurring excuse to indulge no matter the consequences.

What brought this to mind was what I found in my winter coat the other day. It was cold outside, so I grabbed a heavier jacket. As I reached into the pocket for my gloves I found a Salted Nut Roll. When I put this coat away last spring, I didn’t realize a candy bar was left there. It’s a good thing that roll of sugar and nuts has a twenty-year shelf life.

That discovery made me think again about my addiction. So, I started a list of my favorite candy bars thinking that if I would come clean on my sugar sin, I could be set free. As I began to compile this list just the opposite happened. My mouth started salivating so I headed out to my truck where a keep a stash of Salted Nut Rolls in the jockey box. Sad!

For what it’s worth here is the list I had hoped would bring me freedom: Nut Goodies, Hersey’s Chocolate, Kit Katz, Babe Ruth, Snickers, 3 Musketeers, Milky Way, Butterfingers, Mounds Bar, Nestle Crunch, Twix and Mr. Goodbar.  Wow! Each one of those has a minimum of 148 calories. All of these are readily available at the gas station convenience store. They make you walk through the candy aisle on the way to the rest room.

I know it is a stretch but while writing this blog a scripture verse came to mind. This may be the answer I have been seeking. Often I have read it but never with this application in mind. The psalmist David said: “How sweet are your words to my taste! Yes, sweeter than honey to my mouth!”

Altar Boy

Altar Boy

Growing up in a Catholic family, it was expected that on Sunday morning I would show up in slacks, white shirt, clip on tie, sport coat and shoes shined; standard uniform for church. My sisters wore a dress, white gloves and hat. My escape route for the dress code was to become an altar boy.

For some reason my parents thought I would be an excellent candidate to serve at the altar. At the time I was not a particularly religious person and the thought of having to perform on a Sunday morning send shivers of fear down my spine. Why couldn’t I just sit in the pew with everyone else?

Learning to be an altar boy was no easy task. First of all, you had to have the right attitude. My attitude was an issue the nuns were trying change. I had become the class clown and there was no clowning around at the altar. It was serious business to be that close to the sacred. The nuns knew how to slap that smile right off my face.

Then there was the Latin language. I had a hard-enough time speaking proper English minus the swear words I picked up from my non-Catholic friends. I was given a little book with all the altar boy responses to memorize. Giving it my best shot, I mumbled through those unintelligible phrases. That’s where I learned to fake it.

There was one benefit to being an altar boy. When the mass was over, and the priest wasn’t looking, we could finish off the left-over wine that remained in the cruet. Usually there was only a drop or two left, but it was enough to whet my appetite for cheap wine.

Those days are long gone. Little did I know that in the grand design of life I would graduate from altar boy to priest. The Latin I had to learn back then I didn’t need as a priest because everything was in the native tongue. One thing that hasn’t changed is my taste for cheap wine.

I chuckle when I think of what those nuns would think of me now!

Cookie Monster

Cookie Monster

Back in the days when our kids were small, their daily television entertainment was Sesame Street. I never wanted to admit it, but I liked those Muppet characters who brought smiles to our faces. My favorite was the Cookie Monster. He had a voracious appetite for cookies. His mantra was “Me want cookies!” “Me eat cookies!”

What brought the Cookie Monster to my mind was the aroma of cookies baking in the oven while watching the evening news. Judy is a master cookie maker. She must have got some of her cookie making skills from watch Sesame Street. When she is in the mood, exotic sugar smells pour out of the oven beckoning me to indulge.

The truth is I have an undisciplined sweet tooth. I inherited it from my mother. Mom was a stickler for making sure dessert was part of the meal. I remember hearing her say more than once that the main course should be passed over and move right on to dessert. She was that way to the end of her life. Whenever I visited her in the care facility, she had candy within easy reach.

For years I have tried to convince the ladies in charge of our monthly pot lucks at church to cut back on the salads, fruits, and hot dishes and replace them with desserts. I am convinced you could have all the basic food groups just by serving pie, cakes, brownies and cookies. So far, no luck!

I realize that there is something fundamentally wrong with my taste buds. It is an addiction that I have struggled with all my life (most of the time not very hard). However, like the Cookie Monster, with a mouth full of chocolate chip cookies, all I can say is, “Om nom nom nom.”

Thanks Mom for the sweet tooth. And my dentist thanks you too!

Prepay

Prepay

For several years Judy and I have been trying to get our house in order. We aren’t getting any younger and there are things that need to be done. Our first project was to get our wills updated. The last time we saw a lawyer was when our kids were toddlers. Our concern then was to make sure they were provided for if something happened to us. Now we are focused on who does what and who gets what when we die.

Our next project was to put in writing our advanced medical directives. Our local hospital has a nice booklet that took us step by step in choosing who will make medical decisions for us if we can’t and what kind of medical care we want towards the end. Our doctors and the hospital have copies of these directives. Lots of stuff to do before you die!

This year we have been talking about final arrangements for our demise. I finally made the call to the funeral home asking one of their people to pay us a visit. A nice young lady came and laid out all the details for us: regular burial or cremation, cemetery plots and grave markers. I confess I needed more than one glass of wine after that conversation.

A week later, Judy and I visited the city cemetery to pick a plot where our ashes would be deposited. We have a nice graveyard that is well groomed. It was very strange for the two of us standing in the middle of the cremation section debating which piece of sod would be best for us. The irony of it all is that we won’t even be there to enjoy this expensive piece of turf.

The final stop was to meet the headstone sculptor. I had no idea of the variety of material, design and expense of these markers. After looking at a computerized catalog of stone, I left that decision for another day. I am uncertain as to whether we can agree on the color of granite or the design. That may take a miracle.

When all was said and done, I added up the cost so that we could prepay for our end of life experience. I presented the bottom line to Judy for final approval. She said she would rather take that money and spend a week at an all-inclusive resort on the Mexican Riviera.

Now that’s a tough decision!

Wisdom

Wisdom

My father was a wise man. I didn’t realize this until I was in my fifties. Some things come slow when you think you know it all. My father was also smart. He had gone through medical school and practiced medicine for many years as a pediatrician and allergy specialist. His wisdom didn’t simply come from his schooling. It came from living life as a man, husband, father and doctor.

My observation is that there is a shortage of wise people today. Oh, there are many smart, well-educated men and women who run corporations, serve as public servants, and entertain us in the media. The glitter of smarts has no shortage in our culture. We are the most educated, well informed and socially conscious generation that our country has ever produced.

But where are the wise ones? Where are those individuals who are able to translate knowledge into life sharing direction and encouragement? Has our egalitarian, politically correct mantra duct taped the mouths of those who can speak to encourage, admonish, and warn us that not all paths lead to a fulfilled life.

Knowledge feeds us information. Wisdom translates information into the practical application of living. I have been fortunate not only to have had a wise father but several mentors whose wisdom has directed, sustained and saved me from my foolish ways. Often I was unaware that their guidance was crucial to my well-being and maturity.

Be assured that there is no lack of wisdom available from our Heavenly Father. I often turn to these words in the New Testament book of James:

 “If you want to know what God wants you to do, ask him, and he will gladly tell you, for he is always ready to give a bountiful supply of wisdom to all who ask him; he will not resent it. But when you ask him, be sure that you really expect him to tell you, for a doubtful mind will be as unsettled as a wave of the sea that is driven and tossed by the wind; and every decision you then make will be uncertain, as you turn first this way and then that. If you don’t ask with faith, don’t expect the Lord to give you any solid answer.”

Slough

Slough

Growing up in Minnesota I am familiar with swamps, blogs and sloughs. The land of ten thousand lakes has lots of backwaters. These were great places to catch frogs, salamanders and other assorted creatures to say nothing of the beautiful lily pads and cattails; a compete eco system of aquatic life.

What brought this to mind was the name of the inlet where we rented a home for our family vacation a few weeks ago. Just off of Comeback Bay on Lake Pend Oreille at Sandpoint, Idaho, is a small inlet called the Sagle Slough. A quiet body of water that was showing signs of the dog days of summer.

It was the word “slough” that caught my attention. Looking it up in the dictionary I found a few interesting tidbits. A slough is a place of deep mud or mire on a river or creek.” What surprised me was the variations of this word; same spelling but different pronunciation. Here they are:

-       A state of moral degradation or spiritual defection

-       The cast-off skin of a snake (yuk!)

-       A mass of dead tissue separating from an ulcer (yuk again!)

-       To get rid of or discard as objectionable

The most famous slough of literature is found in Pilgrim’s Progress written by John Bunyan in 1678 as a Christian allegory. It is called the Slough of Despond where the main character, Christian, sinks into the murky muck from the weight of his sins and guilt. A great read for all who seek relief from their burdens.

Having found myself, more than once, in this slough of despond, I am reminded of the words of Jesus that bring relief to the weary soul. “Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me; watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”

These words are living water!

CCII

CCII

One of the advantages of a liberal arts education is learning Roman Numerals. It allows me to read the dates on important building cornerstones as well as which Super Bowl is which. Little did I know that memorizing these obscure numbers would have a lasting use later in life. One might well heed the wisdom of the ancients, never knowing when it will come in handy in the 21^st century.

This blog marks the 202^nd (CCII for the uninitiated) blog of the Mangy Moose. The reason I know this is that the app I use to publish keeps track. When I started back in 2014 I had no idea that my writing would get this far out of hand. Maybe a few random thoughts written down here and there would do.  I have acquired a habit of sitting down with my I Pad Mini, my second one since starting this blog, and sharing thoughts and stories that have accumulated in my memory over the years.

More than once I have come close to shutting down the Mangy Moose. Every time I mention this to one of my ardent readers they plead with me to keep on going. I have heard that it has become a Monday morning staple for people while they sip their coffee. One reader told me that my blog is his favorite toilet reading. I understand since I have dedicated more than one article to that bodily function.

Although I struggle at times to come up with a story or an opinion you might enjoy, I love to share with my readers real life experiences whether they be personal, church, or politically incorrect opinions. I trust you take most of what I share with a tongue in cheek attitude. I hope I have not embarrassed my wife, my children or my siblings. If I have, they will just have to live with it.

Every once in a while a reader will respond with a pithy comment or two. Sometimes family members will call to let me know that what I wrote is not exactly how they remember it. Feel free to comment on Facebook, a text message, a phone call or even face to face. I can handle the fame!

Here’s to going ahead to blog CCC.

Whore of Babylon

Whore of Babylon

Don’t fret! This blog is not about the Apocalypse or a treatise on the End Times. As much as I would like to write on these topics I have another purpose in mind. I have used this phrase only twice and both times to describe machines that I grew to have a love-hate relationship. Not born with mechanical skills, I struggle through life mechanically impaired.

The first was found in the bowels of a church building where I once served as pastor. Looking back, I didn’t read the fine print of the pastor’s job description. The church leadership informed me that, as pastor, I was to oversee the boiler. The previous pastor had acquired an engineer’s license so that he could operate the heating system. After encountering this behemoth, listening to its hissing and feeling it’s steamy exhaust, I decided license or no license, I was not going to touch this whore of Babylon. I came to pastor a people not a boiler.

The second was resting in a dilapidated shed in the Bridger Mountains of Montana. Judy and I ran a ski lodge at the base of Bridger Bowl ski area. In the shed was a rusting D 4 Caterpillar. It was my job to plow the parking lot and driveway. Having never operated a tractor, I had to learn how. First you start the gas pony motor which really whines in the cold. Once the pony motor warms up you engage the diesel motor. This is when clouds of black smoke fly out of the exhaust stack and all kinds of strange noises sing a tune that pierces the ear drums. This machine was truly a whole of Babylon.

At this stage of life, I endeavor to stay away from large machines. I focus my time on more mundane things like technology. My learning curve with the Internet has been steep. I have invested time, money and energy into my I Phone, I Pad, desktop Mac, and Kindle; thinking about getting an Apple Watch. These gadgets are not easy to master, especially for an old man, but they don’t hiss, spit, or blow black smoke in my face.

I am becoming an I Dan!