Hearing Aids

Hearing Aids

My great aunt wore hearing aids. Back in those days, hearing aids were considered a new-fangled invention. Two ear plugs connected by wire to a small box containing a battery for amplification. She was small in stature and portly and often hid her hearing aid box in her bosom. She died sitting on the toilet with her hearing aids on.

In old age my father had a severe hearing loss. He hated hearing aids. Even after my sister, who worked for a reputable hearing aid company, gave him a custom fit set of hearing aids, he refused to wear them because they irritated his ears. My mother lost her voice more than once yelling at my father to answer the phone. He went to the grave not wearing his hearing aids.

When Judy mentioned I was saying “what did you say?” a lot, I went for a hearing test, purposing not to follow my father’s example. When told that I had hearing loss I chose to embrace technology, so I could hear better. I was amazed how these hearing instruments worked. Now I could hear the screaming of my grandchildren in stereo. Yes, at first, they were an irritant. Now they are as much a part of me as my glasses. Twice I forgot to take them out when taking a shower; a near disaster.

Recently I had an updated hearing test. Although my hearing had not deteriorated in six years, my hearing aids were wearing out. The new technology is unbelievable. They are smaller and computerized. I can control volume and direction from an app on my I Phone via Bluetooth as well as answer my mobile phone or listen to music. Not sure what else I can do with them, but they certainly have enhanced my hearing.

I am reminded of the words of Scripture: “Let him, who has an ear, hear….” That I can certainly do.

Trainee

Trainee

It’s been a long time since I was a trainee. Having served as a pastor for almost half a century, I am well versed in the job requirements. Almost all of my pastoral job description is a well-worn path of routine. Why would I want to venture off and take on something new?

Well, not exactly something unfamiliar. Last month I approached the lead chaplain of our local hospital about applying as a volunteer chaplain. At it is, I spend a fair amount of time running up to the emergency room or visiting sick people. Not to mention my two weekends in the hospital this past winter.

I discovered that there is a hospital protocol to be a volunteer chaplain. I had to submit my medical records as well as my educational degrees. When asked about those degrees, I was at a loss to produce them. Where had I stored those certificates. I am not one to hang them on the wall. After an intense search I found them at the bottom of a storage box high on a shelf in the garage. Now I am eligible for indoctrination into hospital protocol.

I attended my first chaplains staff meeting. I met six other men and women on the chaplain staff. Listening to their on-call experiences made me wonder if I am really up for the task. Nothing like a new challenge to stretch you!

Many years ago, at the beginning of my ministry, I served on a team of pastors who were chaplains of two large metro hospitals as well as a number of nursing homes. As a young man this experience was a real eye opener to what sick and dying people and their care givers face on a daily basis.

I am excited to start this new adventure in ministry. I continue to serve as senior pastor of our local church and on an apostolic team giving oversight to local churches.

Wood Ruler

Wood Ruler

Cleaning out my office desk drawer is a semi-annual event. How all that stuff gets deposited in one small drawer is a mystery. In addition to the menagerie of paper clips, rubber bands, dead AAA batteries, assorted keys and dated appointed reminders is an aged wood ruler. Remember the foot long, razor edged piece of wood with black inch markings? Not plastic but real wood!

My most poignant memory of the wood ruler was not school related. It was the nun who used that instrument as a weapon of torture every time I played the wrong note during my piano lesson. It was my parents who believed that I needed to broaden my classical education by weekly piano lessons at the convent.

Week after week I climbed those steps to the convent recital room. Every lesson was an exercise in medieval torture. Hard as I tried not to get whacked with that ruler, I would walk away with bruised knuckles. To make matters worse, the sister would put pennies on my knuckles so that I would learn proper hand posture at the keys. When pennies fell the ruler would come down.

I had eight years of knuckle rapping fun learning to play the piano. I came away from that experience wanting to keep a healthy distance from both piano and nuns. Looking back, I learned basically nothing about piano and the only rhythm I remember is the whacking beat of the wood ruler.

I keep that ruler in my desk as a reminder of what I could have been: a concert pianist with healthy knuckles.

Hysham

Hysham

Never heard of it? Not a surprise; not many people have. However, if you spend any time driving Interstate 94 in Montana, you will pass the exit sign for Hysham. Located halfway between Billing and Miles City, Hysham is a farm-ranch community of less than five hundred people. It is the county seat of Treasure County.

Back in the late 1980’s, we were preparing to move from Helena, where I was associate pastor at the Episcopal Cathedral, to Minneapolis to pastor an inner-city church. We hired a moving company to transport our household goods. All that remainded was our small family to make the twelve-hundred-mile journey by car.

Our plan was to go as far as Billings the first day and get a motel for the night. The next day we would try and drive all the way to Minnesota. We woke up to a spring blizzard in Billings. Thinking we could continue our journey, we got on the interstate and discovered six inches of slush covering the road. Semi trucks would pass us splashing large amounts of wet snow all over the car, causing us more than once to pull over and clear the windshield.

After sixty miles, I said we were getting off at the next exit. That is when we found ourselves in Hysham. The motel was a single wide trailer. It was barely enough room for the five of us. Several hours later the snow ended, and the sun came out. We ventured back on to the interstate only to find that if I had driven another ten miles further down the road, we would have found dry pavement and out ran the storm.

The moral of this story is to be very careful when driving through spring snow storms in Montana. Also, be thankful for those small oases off the Interstate that provide shelter in times of need. Many times, I have driven past the exit to Hysham and never stopped. When I do, I never fail to remember that single wide trailer that sheltered our family that day.

Thanks, Hysham for being there for us!

Baptism

Baptism

Nope! This is not an indoctrination nor an invitation to be baptized. If, after reading this, you want to be baptized I will be more than happy to oblige. What I want to share is some experiences I’ve had baptizing people in my years of ministry.

Recently a neighbor approached me and asked to be baptized. He had grown up in church and his parents and siblings had been baptized but he had not. Since we had no immediate access to a pool or baptismal font (it still being winter here in Montana), his family gathered around the kitchen sink. He was baptized dunking his head under the faucet.

While teaching a family bible camp, I was asked to baptize several people in the nearby river. The river was the Dearborn which flowed directly from glacial snowpack of the Bob Marshall Wilderness Area. The water temperature was just above freezing. As I waded in up to my waist, I immediately lost all feeling in my legs. I could hardly stand up let alone smile as I baptized in the name of the Father, Son and a Holy Spirit. It was the fastest baptism I ever performed.

The largest baptism I officiated at was just south of Livingston, Montana. Our church had gathered for our annual campout at a KOA located on the banks of the Yellowstone River. Having taught on baptism for several weeks, I invited all who wanted to be baptized or re-baptized as adults to wade in. The Yellowstone has a fast current with slippery rocks underneath. It was precarious just to walk out deep enough to be fully submerged. That day over sixty people were baptized. It reminded me of what it must have been like with John the Baptist at the River Jordan.

One last story. In a little mining town in the heart of the Missouri Breaks, I was asked to baptize a young man. We were holding Bible study meetings at his parents’ house, a single wide trailer. The only body of water available was a bathtub. Since the trailer bathroom was small, family and friends had to stand outside and look through a window as the young man was submerged in a tub full of water.

Through these and other experiences, I have come to believe it’s not the place nor the circumstances that define baptism. It’s the heart attitude of the one who desires to come into relationship with Jesus.

The Bank

The Bank

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

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

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

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

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

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

Decoys

Decoys

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

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

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

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

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

There’s no season like duck season.