Ivory Soap

Ivory Soap

Watching my favorite holiday movie, A Christmas Story, with friends, I was reminded of what life was like as a boy fervently wanting a BB gun for Christmas. I know what it is like to want something so bad you can taste it and wondering why nobody else shares the same passion as you.

I got two six shooters with a holster and cowboy hat one Christmas. They were cap guns that when you pulled the trigger the gun popped and made smoke that smelled like real gun powder. My brother and I would play cowboys endlessly until our mother couldn’t stand the noise any longer.

My favorite scene in that movie was when a swear word flew out of Ralphie’s mouth in his mother’ presence. Her response was to stick a bar of soap in his mouth as punishment with a warning never to speak that word again. There was Ralphie wide eyed with a huge bar of soap in his mouth unable to utter a word.

My mother was a lot like Ralphie’s mom. There was a time, I don’t remember the circumstances, that a swear word flew out of my mouth in her presence. She grabbed me by the neck, took me in the bathroom, and shoved a big bar of Ivory soap in my mouth. There I was sitting on a stool, eyes wide just like Ralphie’s, choking on the bar. Let me tell you Ivory soap did not taste good. After a forever time, mom reappeared and warned me that the same would happen if she ever heard that word come from my mouth again. To this day I carry a grudge against Ivory soap and refuse to buy it.

Some of life’s lessons leave a bad taste in your mouth. I can’t honestly say that was the last time I swore but I did learn a lesson about watching what comes out of my mouth. The Bible says, “Pleasant words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.”

 

Rejoice

Rejoice

One of the reasons I like the Christmas season is that Jesus gets lots of free publicity with the carols sung on radio, TV and in the mall. Paying attention to the words as well as the music, one can get the whole story about Jesus. For the past several weeks I have preached using the most popular carols. Which brings me to the point of this blog.

While preparing last Sunday’s sermon on O Come, Emmanuel, I had a flash from the past; a sure sign I am getting old. Fifty-five years ago, I am singing this carol in the seminary chapel. Dressed in cassock, surplice and biretta (a clergy hat not dissimilar from a Mickey Mouse hat) in a religious atmosphere filled with the fragrance of incense and the ringing of bells. I was a young seminarian preparing to be a priest, still wet behind the ears on clerical life. “Veni, veni, Emmanuel” sung in Gregorian chant as part of the Vesper service.

Much has happened in life since then: marriage, children and grandchildren, pastoring in two denominations, running a ski lodge and now pastor of a small congregation in Montana. Little did I dream the path the Lord had prepared for me. All I wanted that day in that chapel filled with young men like myself was to serve the Lord.

Interesting how the Lord takes you up on the desires of your heart. Looking back on the joys, disappointments, trials and blessings, I see how his hand directed my steps. I don’t want this to sound too religious. The truth is that for most of my journey, I wasn’t sure the Lord was directing my steps. There were times when I thought for sure he had forgotten all about me. O me of little faith. It was my grandmother who told me that hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

The truth is that  this Christmas like all the Christmas pasts is a reminder the Lord Jesus has come to dwell with us. The Bible says, “The Word became flesh and blood and moved into the neighborhood.” Rejoice!

A Blessed Christmas to all.

Window Shopping

Window Shopping

It all came back to me like a blast from the past. I was walking down Main Street here in Bozeman with my family at the annual Christmas Stroll. The street closed to traffic was filled with food stalls, Christmas lights and people. Passing by a clothing store, I happened to look at the display windows. Two American Flyer model trains were chugging around their oval tracks.

In my mind I was immediately transported back some sixty-five years to my childhood. My father had erected an eight by four platform four feet off the ground in the furnace room. I think what motivated him was my mother who in no uncertain terms told him he needed to do a project with his boys.

On this plywood platform, my dad laid out a plan for a standard scale railroad track. He brought home all the stuff needed to build a railroad: tracks, an American Flyer steam engine and freight cars (Santa Fe engine and passenger cars were added later), track switches, transformer and a train station.

My brother and I did the rest. We laid out the track, build a mountain with a tunnel from chicken wire and paper mâché, set up a town with people, buildings, wired telephone poles and green grass made from coloring coffee grounds. It was a wonder to behold. What fun the two of us had getting it all together, learning how a train works. Our steam engine even had real smoke coming out of the stack.

I spent the rest of the Christmas Stroll thinking about our American Flyer adventure. Before I started to write this blog, I called my brother and asked, “Do you remember when Dad set up that platform in the furnace room so we could build our model railroad?” Well, the next forty five minutes were spent reminiscing.

Funny what can happen when you window shop.

Hope

Hope 

‘Tis the season! Already the Holidays are upon us and the rush is on. In a little over two weeks the frenzy of carols and tinsel will be over. For us in the northern climate snow and cold are with us for another four months. Too bad Christmas isn’t at the end of winter. Then we could move right into spring.

Hope is one of the hallmarks of the season. It is sung in the music, printed on cards and preached from the pulpits. For all the hype of hope, I sense a lot of hopelessness in the air. Our political, cultural and economic climate wants to dampen any attempt to hope for something better.

This is not something new. Throughout human history whenever hope is heralded promising a greater future for humankind, there is a counter force to squelch it. Could it be that there is an increased fear abroad that to hope is an exercise in futility? Why be disappointed again?

The Bible is rich in its encouragement to hope. Over and over God encourages  people to step out of fear and put their trust in him. Biblical hope is the confident expectation that He is in charge; in charge of world events and my life. Sound scary? No scarier than going it alone and floundering in failures and disappointments. Learning to trust the Lord that he knows what’s best for me and the world is the secret of hope.

I am reminded of Abraham, the father of all believers. When he realized that he couldn’t do what God promised him, a son, because he was too old, the Bible says, 

“when everything was hopeless, Abraham believed anyway, deciding to live not on the basis of what he saw he couldn’t do but on what God said he would do. And so he was made a multitude of peoples.”

Could this be the real reason for the season: to be challenged to hope against hope and trust God?

Dentist

Dentist

My first visit to the dentist was traumatic. At six years old my mother thought it was time for a checkup. With little information about what was to happen, I entered the dentist’s office. I remember like it was yesterday. The antiseptic smell hit my olfactory receptors like punch in the nose. I sat in a huge chair that titled backwards like magic. The dentist stuck a needle in my mouth to numb my gums. That was the last straw. Then and there I vowed I would avoid the dentist like the plague.

Obviously, that wasn’t the last time in the dentist chair. Over the years I begrudgingly learned to accept my annual dental exam. Because I am a confessed sugarholic, I spent more than my fair share there. Most of my dentists were nice people who were sensitive to my fear and pain. I’ve discovered that some dental hygienists are a little rough though. Several years ago, I went to one who I swear got her training on You Tube. She not only made my gums burn but loosened a filling as well.

I have had enough dental procedures to last a lifetime. Root canals, crowns, wisdom teeth pulled as well as two molars, a bridge replacement, and chipped teeth glued back in place. I think about all I have left is having my teeth pulled and wear dentures – God forbid!

Max is my dentist now. I really like the guy. He has a great sense of humor and genuinely cares about this old man’s choppers. He’s a Minnesota boy so we have a lot to talk about as he explores my next cavity. He is gracious to Judy who likes him even more than me.

I have a separate expense column in my budget for the dentist. On an annual basis it is almost as much as my house payments. Well, I figure by the time I die I will have spent enough on dental care to pay for my funeral a dozen times over. I should not be surprised. This is what I get for having a sweet tooth.

Forgive

Forgive

A wonderful idea but not easy to do. The very word conjures up emotions that are hard to keep under wraps. Even though “to forgive” is a fundamental precept of the Christian faith, the practical implications can be terrifying to anyone who has been deeply hurt by the actions or words of another.

When Jesus was asked by his disciples to teach them how to pray, part of his answer was “… forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Did Jesus really mean that in order for us to be forgiven we must be willing to forgive others? I often find myself sliding over that part of the Lord’s Prayer.

To forgive means I am willing to release any claim on the person who has hurt me.

Any grudge, revenge, or ill will of any kind is thrown in the waste bin. I freely let go of that pain so that Jesus can release me from all the hurts and offenses I caused others. How is that possible? By an act of my will, my saying yes to God,  I release all claim on that person. Sometimes I have to say it over and over until I finally release it.

The reason forgiveness is important is that in order to be thankful, I must  forgive. I cannot harbor a hard heart and give thanks.  The Bible says “…in everything give thanks for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.” My willingness to forgive is the doorway to a thankful heart. Without it there is no thanksgiving.

 This week is set aside to give thanks. As we celebrate the season, let us do so with a clean heart. “Be kind to one another, tender hearted, forgiving each other, just as God in Christ also has forgiven you.”

Of Mice and Me

Of Mice and Me

Not the famous novella written by John Steinbeck in 1937 that tells the story of two migrant workers who move from place to place looking for work during the Great Depression. No, this is the real life story of my battle with mice.

While digging through the plastic bins stored in our garage looking for winter clothes, Judy discovered that mice were there first. Apparently, all summer mice were moving in and out of our garage looking for a new home. Without our knowing they found a nice place in a storage bin with a loose cover.

What a mess. Mice poop all over the coats, sweaters, scarfs and jackets. How such small creatures can make such a big mess is beyond me. There wasn’t much that was salvageable. Judy was heartbroken that some of her fake fur vests were ruined. I lost a nice overcoat and my cherished safari jacket that I wore on my Africa trips.

I immediately declared war on the menacing mice. I went to the hardware store and bought old fashioned mouse traps. I set the bait with a small slice of Swiss cheese on each trap. I strategically placed three traps in the garage and another one under the patio deck. Then I waited.

It didn’t take long. Mice can be destructive, but they aren’t very smart. By the next morning I got two of them; one in the garage and one by the patio. I replaced the bait with Adams Peanut Butter and killed three more. As of this writing the battle continues. This is a war I plan to win.

Mice may look cute and cuddly but anyone who remembers the nursery rhyme knows that they can’t win. “Three blind mice. See how they run. They ran after the farmer’s wife who cut off their tails with a carving knife. Did you ever see such a sight in your life?”

So much for animal cruelty.

Ninety Three Percent

Ninety Three Percent

Opinion polls and statistics are a turn off for me. Whenever I hear someone quote them my mind goes into rejection mode. The news is full of numbers. If not the figures for candidates running for political office, it’s the stock market report or the latest on the national debt. I have not been good at numbers.

There is one exception. Recently I came across a statistic that caught my eye. Believe it or not I read it on Facebook where a blogger quoted from a survey taken from the Christian periodical Leadership Journal. Paraphrasing the article, it said that when a dad comes into a personal relationship with Jesus there is a 93% chance the rest of the family will follow his lead.

Unfortunately, we live in a culture that demeans the role of fathers. Rarely, do I find dads portrayed as healthy leaders of their families. It is no secret that with the breakdown of marriages, men assume a secondary role in the raising of children. God gave fathers the responsibility of modeling the character and care He gives to all humanity.

I remember my own father who was often absent from my growing up years because of his work. Although he, like all dads, had shortcomings, I believe he modeled the love and care of our Heavenly Father. He worked hard to make sure we had a roof over our head, food on the table and clothes on our back. This came from his conviction that God is important in family life.

It is the responsibility of fathers to care for and train their children. This is done as much by example as by words. No one can do it alone. He needs that relationship with Jesus to show the way. I am reminded of these words from the Bible: “Train up a child in the way he should go, even when he is old, he will not depart from it.”

Come on dads, let’s make it 100%.

Snowblower

Snowblower

I grew up in a climate with four seasons: spring, summer, autumn and winter. Winter being the longest. I remember when snow was piled up to the top of our garage door. Of course, this was way before global warming/climate change. That is how I learned how to shovel snow.

Years later came the invention of the snowblower. We didn’t have one, but our neighbor did. Laboring through a large drift with my shovel, I watched the man next door shoot snow geysers in the air with his gas powered snowblower. It took him little time or effort to demolish those drifts.

I bought my first snowblower from Sears. It was an extravagant purchase. I felt it was a justifiable expense because my kids had grown up and left home. I was left with the snow shovel and a long driveway. What a joy it was to fire up that Briggs and Stratton engine and let the machine do the work.

Montana gets lots of snow. One day while shoveling the church sidewalks the light bulb went on. Why was I doing this by hand? After a few phone calls to the elders, I drove down to the local hardware store and bought a Toro snowblower. Now my winter work was a lot easier.

This past September my son Nick and family moved from Bozeman to Portland, Oregon. You doesn’t need a snowblower in Portland. So, as a parting gift he gave me his Toro 21 inch, four cycle snowblower with an electric start. What more can an aging snow shoveler want?

Never mind that our homeowner’s association hires a snow removal company to clear my driveway and sidewalk. I like to get out there first thing after a storm and put my snowblower to work. My neighbors think I am a little compulsive if not crazy. Now that I got a great machine, I can let the shovel rest.

It looks like we are in for a long winter here in Bozeman. Already we have eight inches of the white stuff on the ground and its only early November. I am prepared so “let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.”

Distinctives

Distinctives

Our church building is a log cabin design. Built in the early 1980’s with timber from the Bridger Mountains, it a unique place of worship. The location gives the visitor a sense of what the old West was like. If you have to go to church, what a wonderful place to come.

Several weeks ago, our church hosted a conference for leaders and spouses in our network. People came from Ohio, Wisconsin, North Dakota, Colorado even Great Britain, Wales and Australia. Our building took center stage. People commented on its beauty. I was excited to hear people enjoy what we take for granted.

There is a distinctiveness about Foothills Fellowship. Yes, the building but more important what happens within the four walls. Church buildings of any kind are an outward expression of God’s presence in a place. Any kind of structure will suffice as long as there are a people who gather there in Jesus’ name.

The word distinctive means that there is something different; something out of the ordinary. Although a log cabin church meets that requirement, in and of itself it doesn’t fully express who we are. Obviously, there is much more to church.

As we gather on Sunday morning, our focus is upon Jesus, the one we gather to worship. We sing songs and hymns, we open ourselves to his Word, we pray for one another as well as for corporate and social needs. We spend time before and afterwards to catch up of each other’s life. We leave refreshed and equipped to live life.

Writing this blog, I am reminded what a blessing it is to have a unique place to worship. More importantly, it is far greater to have a God who meets us in that place. The Psalmist says, “I look up to the mountains; does my strength come from the mountains? No, my strength comes from God, who made heaven and earth and mountains.”

Flawsome

Flawsome

I listen to Country Western music on Sirius XM station while driving around town. My favorite channel is Willie’s Roadhouse: a 24/7 medley of classical country western. Every once in a while, my favorite song comes on; my heart beats fast and my spirit is lifted. “It’s Hard to be Humble” written by Willie himself. 

The chorus goes: “Oh Lord, it’s hard to be humble when you’re perfect in every way. I can’t wait to look in the mirror cause I get better looking each day. To know me is to love me. I must be a hell of a man. Oh, Lord it’s hard to be humble but I’m doing the best that I can.”

Then I found this post of Facebook: FLAWSOME (adj.) an individual who embraces their ‘flaws’ and knows they’re awesome regardless. Could this be what Willie is singing about? Could it be that all those years I spent trying to correct character flaws were an exercise in futility? I could have focused on accentuating the positive.

One of the trials of living is dealing with people who feel that it their responsibility to point out what’s wrong with you. In all my years of public ministry there has rarely been a season that someone didn’t feel the need to address my flaws. I confess I have my share of blind spots. However, it is difficult to be humble when people are so drawn to them.

There are advantages to be an imperfect human. You can rest assured that you will not be overlooked. Just like Job of the Bible who was besieged with one personal disaster after another, close friends deluged him with free advise that only heaped more guilt on the man. The Lord had to intervene to bring Job back from the brink.

Willie is right: it is hard to be humble. It is not something that comes naturally. The world we live in places great emphasis on self: self-worth, self-value, self-esteem, etc. Humble doesn’t mean thinking less of oneself. From a biblical perspective it means thinking about yourself less!

The Bible says “be content  with who you are and don’t put on airs. God’s strong hand is on you; he’ll promote you at the right time. Live carefree before God; he is most careful with you.”

West Point

West Point

In the mid 1950’s when TV was just emerging from its infancy, my dad brought one home. It was a big, clumsy box with a small screen. Programming was limited to certain hours and a test pattern was a reminder that there was no 24 hour service. Everything was black and white. Variety shows, local and national news plus a few weekly programs were it. No cable channels, no remote and no mute button.

My favorite show ran weekly for two seasons: The West Point Story. This was a dramatic series of actual people and events at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point. I was in awe of the people, the uniforms and the strict military discipline. I started to fantasize about going to West Point. At the age of eleven I knew what I wanted to be: a West Point Cadet.

What brought this to mind was a book I recently read: The Gray Girl by Susan Spieth. This is a fictional account of a female cadet’s difficult journey through four years at the academy. Well written, the author shared what life was like for  women at the all-male institution.

Although I never applied for nomination to West Point, mostly because of poor grades in high school, I kept a special childhood memory of that place. Several years later I entered another kind of academy, the seminary. Amazingly, the similarities are quite alarming: strict discipline, distinctive uniform (black not gray), leadership hierarchy and no room for individuality. Apparently, I was destined for institutional life.

Today I am thankful for the journey God has planned for my life. The disciplined training in an institutional setting laid a firm foundation. More than once I fought through the rules, the rituals and the reverends to find my life. I regret none of the trials for they have made me strong in the Lord.

Childhood dreams come true in unexpected ways.

Hunting

Hunting

It started when my dad took me on a hunting trip with his buddies. I was about eight and had never shot a gun. It is one of my favorite memories. The smell of gun oil, burnt powder, wet boots are still in my olfactory file all these years later. The itch to hunt only increased with time.

I have hunted ducks, pheasants, grouse, white tail and mule deer, antelope, elk, bear and a stray moose. I love to hunt. As soon as the leaves start turning in fall, I begin to prepare for hunting season. Getting the tags, checking out the equipment in my backpack, weather proofing my boots and cleaning my rifle are all part of the ritual.

Many of my hunting memories are of the times I took my boys to the Missouri Breaks of north central Montana hunting deer and an occasional coyote. The ride across the prairie in the War Wagon and the long drive home in the dark with a truck bed full of horns and hoofs. Dirtied and smeared with game blood, we shared stories of the hunt.

Now it’s time to retire from big game hunting. I have struggled with this decision for several years. It’s not that I am too old or to physically weak. It’s not that I no longer enjoy the company of my friend as we wait for that elusive buck to appear.

I just time to quit. So, I am not going to buy a license this fall.

Life will go on with other experiences. I have lots and lots of memories of past hunts and trophies. I hope to be able to hand over my hunting gear and rifle to my grandkids if they express an interest. What a great opportunity I have had to experience what man has done down through the ages. Hunting game is one of the most enjoyable experiences of life.

I didn’t say I was giving up gopher hunting!

Snow

Snow

By the time you read this blog, we will have had our first snow of the season. It is less than a week from the first day of autumn. The weather prognosticators have warned us of a major winter storm. In Bozeman not so much. The northern part of the state will get the brunt of it. The mountains of Glacier National Park a lot more. Maybe we’ll get some of those melting glaciers back.

The Old Farmer’s Almanac predicts a harsh winter. That means lots of snow and cold. Just like the old days before global warming when we had four seasons; mostly winter and road construction. With the minute by minute weather casting it’s hard to take it all in. You could just look out the window to see the weather. Now I have half a dozen apps on my smartphone to keep me abreast of the whims of nature.

I wonder how all the new arrivals to Montana are faring with the change in weather. The warm, breezy days of summer are fading like the evening sunset while winter is sending a chilling reminder that nature doesn’t always follow the calendar. Time to put away the toys of summer. Here winter can be long and the days short.

Digging around the garage, I found my shovels and ice scraper. This winter I have the blessing of a snowblower; a gift from my son who moved his family to the warmer land of Portlandia. Thanks, Nick, for the gift. I will use it a lot.

My expectation mounts. I am ready to turn up the thermostat and get the fireplace going. Winter boots, parka, mitts and wool cap are near at hand. I can hardly wait to put my truck in four wheel drive, plowing through the drifts looking to help some poor Californian who got his eco-car stuck. A great opportunity to play Good Samaritan.

Thank you, Lord, for the seasons, especially winter.

On Call

On Call

As I write, I am on call at our hospital. That means that if there is a trauma (auto accident, heart attack or any life threatening injury), the chaplain is alerted. I drop everything and head for the Emergency Room. I am on call only when the other chaplains are unavailable

If you have ever been to an Emergency Room, you know that it can be a busy place day or night. Anywhere from a child’s needing stitches from a fall to a person with a gunshot wound. It can get very hectic especially on weekends when people are enjoying all that Montana outdoors has to offer.

I have grown to appreciate the men and women who are trained to help in times of crisis. The police, firemen, EMTs, sheriff chaplains, nurses and doctors are trained to save lives. They do an extraordinary job in very difficult circumstances. The strain on their lives is great especially when all that could be done is not enough to save a life.

The chaplain’s responsibility in these situations is primarily with family. My focus is helping family members get accurate information about the condition of their loved one. Rarely are we prepared for the impact of trauma in life. Accurate information, a listening ear, and hugs go a long way in balancing fear of the unknown.

I am not immune to the emotional trauma that occurs in the ER. Many times, I feel that tightness in my stomach, the acute pain of the loss of life. I realize that it could be one of my loved ones who is dying. I don’t want to become hardened to the suffering of others.

I try to keep in mind the words of the prophet Isaiah who, foretelling the character of the messiah Jesus, said he is one who is “…a man of sorrows, acquainted with the bitterest grief.” There is much grief and sorrow in the ER that need words of encouragement and hope.

Saying Goodbye

Saying Goodbye

How many times does a person say goodbye in a lifetime? Probably a lot.  Goodbyes and hellos are so commonplace who keeps count? Most of the time, see you tomorrow or even next week, are attached to the goodbyes. These are the easy ones. The goodbyes that mean I won’t see you for a long time are a lot harder.

Two months ago, our son Nick and his wife Jackie told us they were uprooting and moving from Bozeman to Portland, Oregon. It came as a shock to us. We had grown used to having three of our grandchildren a short drive away for almost twelve years. Now they would be 800 miles away.

I remember all the times we moved from Minnesota to Montana and back again. It was exciting, at least for me. New adventures in new places were spice that added to life. Judy was less excited but persevered through it all. Looking back, I didn’t give much thought to how our parents felt about all our goodbyes. I was focused on the challenges ahead, not on what was left behind.

Now the shoe is on the other foot. We are the parents who are having to say goodbye to our adult children and grandkids. Imagining life with them growing up far from us has become an emotional yo-yo. No doubt they will plant roots and prosper in their new environment. For us, it’s going to take some getting used to.

Yes, there is FaceTime and phone calls along with occasional holidays and the summer week together at Sandpoint, Idaho. The flight from Bozeman to Portland is only an hour long and fairly inexpensive. But it’s not the same. Trouble with getting old is you want everything to stay the same. It never does.

Instead of goodbye, I say: adios, arrivederci, ciao, aud wiedersehen, au revoir, sayonara and bon voyage (while shedding a few tears). See you all in Portland for Thanksgiving.

Papa and Nana

Honyockers

Honyockers

Driving across eastern Montana, I am impressed by the uncluttered view of the Big Sky country. Other than animals wild and domestic, there is an overwhelming sense of primeval emptiness untouched by human hands. There are small towns, farms and ranches that appear here and there but only as a small dot on a very large landscape.

That is how it must have appeared to the immigrants from the old country who came to start a new life and tame the wilds of the West. Little did they know of the extreme weather patterns or the hardscrabble land they purchased from the government. They engaged a battle with nature that few won.

The name “Honyockers” was given to this adventurous people by the rough and tough cowboys who lived and worked this land punching cattle. They knew by experience that the land couldn’t raise crops to support a family. Living is the squalor of tar paper shacks or crudely build log shelters, families struggled to exist in an unforgiving land. Some survived but most headed further west.

What remains of their struggle are rusted barb wire on rotting fence posts. Here and there you can see a barn or homestead falling in on itself quickened by the ravages of nature. Who lived there and what happened to them is an unsolved mystery. Only an occasional unkept graveyard reveals names of those who died here.

The Montana of those days was far different from today. As I cruise down the paved highway in my air conditioned truck, I wonder what made those people persevere. Am I too insulated from the true nature of this land to appreciate what those people experienced? Unfortunately, the answer is yes!

Big Sky country is where people still want to come. There is opportunity to enjoy a taste of the West but not like the Honyockers. I can’t fully appreciate what I have here without remembering those who came before and never had the chance to enjoy it.

Leaks

Leaks

In preparation for the coming winter, I had the furnace man make a service call to make sure everything was in working order. The furnace is located in the crawl space hanging from the floor joist. The service man no sooner descended into the crawl space when he reappeared to tell me that there was a leak in the water line.

Not the kind of news I like to hear. There was a hairline crack in the one inch water pipe. It was spraying upward onto the floor joist below my study. How long that had been leaking no one knew. The service man replaced the pipe and a major disaster averted. The furnace checked out fine. With the addition of a new thermostat, I accrued a $500 bill.

Several days ago, I noticed a small oily leak on the garage floor. I quickly made my way to the auto repair shop where I was assured that the repair was minor and could be easily fixed. As I sat in the waiting room reading my Kindle, I heard a loud bang. Not thinking anything of it since mechanic work can be noisy. Shorty  the manager came out and told me he had some good news and some bad news.

The good news was my leak was fixed. The bad news was my truck has shifted on the hydronic lift and rested on the running boards bending and twisting them. Apologetic, the manager told me he would make the situation right and have all the damage repaired by a local body shop. My beautiful truck had taken a hit.

Recovering from the shock of seeing the damage I asked the mechanic if he was ok. A little shaken, he assured me he was and apologized profusely for what happened. I assured him that running boards can be replaced but human life could not. The cost of replacing the running boards and undercarriage damage is estimated to be around $3000. They wouldn’t let me pay for the leak repair.

 I don’t like leaks!

Letting Go

Letting Go

Who was it that said that letting go is hard to do? There are a whole bunch of country western songs dedicated to this theme. The reason I know is I listen to Willie’s Roadhouse on Sirius XM driving around town in my truck. Lots of heartaches come through my Bose speakers reminding me that life is short and at any time I can lose my wife, my truck and or my dog. Sad!

Last week I led a Bible Study at an assisted living facility in town. Only a few people attended. All were hovering around ninety years but sharp as a tack. Sharing some verses from the Book of Proverbs, I discovered that these folks knew a lot more about letting go than I did.

Listening to what they considered important was a real eye opener. They told me  they were excited to be alive and serve the Lord in this place. Although they had limited accessibility to be independent as I was, they still found meaning in being servants and witnesses right where the Lord has planted them.

What they said next really shocked me. Although they were happy living life, they were excited for the day when they would meet the Lord face to face. They were so honest and straight forward about it. No pie in the sky talk. Not knowing when that day was coming, they purposed to live life to the fullest and at the same time ready to let go for a better life.

There is a chorus we sing in church that reminds me that although I may struggle with letting go, the Lord never lets go of me. “On no, You never let go. Through the calm and through the storm, oh no, You never let go. In every high and every low, oh no, You never let go. Lord, You never let me go.”

Proverbs says, “Lord, don’t turn me out to pasture when I am old or put me on the shelf when I can’t pull my weight.”

Amen

On Time

On Time

I confess it is one of my compulsions. Not sure whether I was born with it or I acquired a taste for it during my formative years. Nonetheless I hate being late. I have been mocked, ridiculed and maligned for this character quirk. I can’t help it, I need to be where I am going, on time.

I think it may have started when my father insisted, we not be late for church on Sunday morning. That meant some strategic planning to get eight children and my grandmother all going in the same direction so we could walk through the front door of the church and be seated in our pew before the priest appeared.

My seminary training cemented this into an ecclesiastical discipline. Being late for class, chapel services, meals or off campus activities was ground for expulsion. Short of my own demise, there was no excuse for tardiness. I believe that’s where my compulsion became an addiction (a behavior pattern acquired by frequent repetition or physiologic exposure that shows itself in regularity or increased facility of performance).

There is a positive side. This trait has healthy side effects. Synonyms for on time performance: dependable, reliable, on schedule, not late, prompt and punctual. Sound like a litany of maturity? Being on time is a sign of maturity; one that seems to be losing ground today.

I was taught that to disregard the clock is selfish. Doing so pays little regard to others who’s time is just as important as mine. Life like trains and planes doesn’t always run on time. Respect for the time restraints of others reduces the pressure quotient of daily life.

Today I feel caught in the dilemma of wanting to be on time but realizing it takes  more planning up front than it used to. My compulsion is losing ground to the speed of my aging clock.

My prayer today “Lord, my time is in your hands.”

Soda Jerk

Soda Jerk

Funny how memories come as you get older. People, events, sad or happy, pop into the mind like a jack in the box. They always leaving a residue of a season long gone, never to return. The following is one of those memories.

I started my working career at home: making my bed, cleaning my room, picking up my dirty clothes, taking turns washing and drying dishes (in the days before the dishwasher), taking out the garbage and picking up dog poop. The pay wasn’t great, usually a small allowance, but room and board made the difference.

My first paying job was a soda jerk. I don’t remember how I got the job. I must have walked into the Milk House at Minnetonka Mills and applied. The pay was fifty cents an hour and all the pop I could drink. In addition to stocking shelves with grocery items and keeping the milk cooler full, I stood behind a long stainless steel lunch counter serving ice cream delights.

For those not in the know, a soda jerk is a person who operates the soda fountain in a drug store/convenience store serving soda drinks, ice cream sodas, malts and cones. It was a popular job for a teenager back in the 1920-1950’s before McDonalds. I learned how to put flavored syrup in specially designed glasses and add carbonated water for a fountain soda. Malts were two scoops of ice cream, malt powder, run in the malt mixer and served with a long handled spoon and a straw.

This was my first experience working with the public where the customer was always right. Also, my first experience working for a boss not my parents. Thinking back on those early working days, I see the positive work ethic that was foundational for later life. I enjoyed and learned, at least in part, from all my employment experiences.

This word from the Book of Proverbs continues to speak truth into my life: “Appetite is an incentive to work; hunger makes you work all the harder.” I haven’t stopped working and I haven’t gone hungry. What more can I ask?

Seven Five

Seven Five

I am finding it hard to believe that I have been alive for three quarters of a century. That is a very long time. Lots of history has taken place. I was born when World War Two was waging and Franklin Delano Roosevelt was president. Radio and newspaper were the major forms of communication. Television had yet to become a part of household furniture.

Speaking of presidents, during my lifetime in addition to Roosevelt these men were presidents: Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Bush, Obama and Trump. That’s a lot of politics to live through. No wonder I have grey hair.

I passed my annual Wellness Check Up. That’s what they call it when you get old. My doctor said I am good for another year and/or ten thousand miles. With only minor aches and pains and some barnacles that are non-cancerous, I am in pretty good shape for the shape I am in.

Growing up I thought old was anyone over forty. Now my kids are in that age bracket I’ve had to adjust the age perimeters. I still walk about two miles a day (mostly up and down the halls of the hospital where I volunteer). I play golf poorly and ride my bike without a helmet. I figure that’s living on the edge. I’m most thankful that I am a healthy seven five year old (putting the “ty” in the equation makes me sound really old).

I am reminded of these words from the Book of Psalms: “You’ve limited our life span to a mere seventy years, yet some you give grace to live still longer.” I hope I am in the latter group.

Heading to eighty with vigor!

Quackers

Quackers

Not familiar with the name? Quackers has been my traveling companion for over twenty years. He has persevered through all kinds of weather: intense heat and freezing cold. He has endured my moods and monologues. He is the ideal companion who hears and sees all but utters not a word.

Quackers is one of the Beanie Babies Collection. My kids gave him to me as a gift to accompany me on my road trips. This was a time when I travelled a lot. I appreciated his company during those hours of windshield time. His silence was golden, but I knew he heard and understood my every word.

Quackers has aged a lot. He sits on the driver’s side of the dashboard of my 2007 ¾ ton Sierra GMC. That is where he sat on my three previous trucks and a half dozen automobiles. The sun has faded his once bright yellow fur. His beak and webbed feet are now a faded orange. His eyes are still deep black that give the impression that he is looking and listening attentively. He’s a little dusty but he’s still smiling.

Often when people ride in my truck, they ask about Quackers. I am happy to tell them the story of how my kids gave him to me. I also tell them that Quackers, besides being a great traveling companion, is a visible reminder of my kids love for me. It’s good to have that memory.

Recently, two of my grandkids gave me a gift of their own Quackers. Each was bright yellow fur, orange beak and webbed feet. One I keep as a spare in the truck and the other sits on my office desk.

Fearing to misuse Scripture, I think this one speaks of Quackers: “There are friends who destroy each other, but a real friend sticks closer than a brother.”

Thanks, Quackers for being my friend!