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.”