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!

Road To Hell

Road To Hell

I am of a generation that was taught about life by maxims, clichés, and old wives’ tales. My grandmother, who came from the old country, was a font of quaint sayings that had a warning, often with a sting embedded, designed to keep me on the straight and narrow. During my seminary years, we had professors who were fond of pithy sayings. One professor kept warning his students by repeating “if this in the greenwood, what in the dry?” I never did figure that one out.

My all-time favorite, repeated by grandmother, the nuns and priests, was “the road to hell is paved with good intentions.” If nothing else would make me stand up and take notice, those words with a little spin on them, put the fear of God in me. Raised in a church culture that majored in guilt and shame, that warning conjured up slippery, hot asphalt that lead to only one place, a firestorm of perdition.

Inquisitive about the source of this saying, I found that it was a misquoted medieval saint. The original went something like this “hell is full of good wishes and desires.” Not quite so scary in the original. Nonetheless, that adage has found a permanent place in my memory. Every time I promise to do something or be somewhere, a bell goes off and those words challenge my ability and desire to follow through.

I find it interesting that in our culture that doesn’t place much stock on a real hell, there is an accompanying lack of commitment to follow through on promises made and obligations met. It’s getting harder and harder to believe people when they commit and don’t show or produce. Maybe we need a little old-fashioned reminder once in a while.

As a postscript: whether the reader believes in hell or not, rest assured that there is no paved road just a slippery slope. I like these words of Jesus: “Just say a simple ‘Yes, I will,’ or ‘No, I won’t.’ Anything beyond this is from the evil one.”

Capsized

Capsized

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

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

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

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

 Daisy knew the way.

Caregivers

Caregivers

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

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

Here are seven basic principles of caregiving:

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

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

3.    To be close, you must establish boundaries.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rancor

Rancor

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

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

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

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

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

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

No place for rancor in God’s family!