Waiting

 

Waiting

 

In Montana when you start thinking of spring in mid January you are in for  disappointment. Winter has a mind of its own and does not yield to the wishes and whims of mere humans. Although spring officially starts in less than a week, that is no promise that winter in over. Springtime in the Rockies is not a date on the calendar but a slow progression of melting snow and increasing sunlight.

 

I heard mention that robins are returning. I wonder how their migration places them in such a hostile environment so early. Hearing their chirping early in the morning is a clarion call that spring is coming sometime. My grandmother used to say, “the early bird gets the worm.” Not sure these freezing birds have a chance.

 

I find waiting hard. I know that inevitably the season will change. I remember how wonderful it feels to step outdoors seeing the freshness of trees, grass and flowers coming out of hibernation. No parka, scarf, gloves or boots to do it. Driving around town the other day, I saw someone in shorts and flip flops shoveling the sidewalk. I am not the only one with cabin fever.

 

Yes, waiting is hard. Another adage from grandma: “a watched pot never boils.” Whether I am waiting for the the change of seasons or changes in life, I am reminded of the words from the Old Testament prophet Isaiah:

 

“Those who wait on the Lord will find new strength. They will fly high on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk and not faint.”

 

Still waiting!

 

Outhouse

 

Outhouse

 

Sitting by the campfire on a warm March afternoon I noticed a small shed nearby.    I never noticed it before. It was one of those nondescript structures that belonged to another age. Having faithfully served earlier generations, now it was in slow decay.

 

Rarely do you hear of outhouses in our postmodern world. Thanks to human ingenuity, indoor plumbing has replaced the daily visit out back. Once an integral part of life, making way in all kinds of weather to the small wood hut that brought relief and a moment of privacy.

 

I remember the outhouse on vacations up north where an indoor toilet was a convenience not yet embraced. Not that I am a connoisseur but through the years I made use of the outhouse in exotic places: Jericho, Israel (rustic to say the least but with a great view of the Dead Sea); Mombasa, Kenya, East Africa (out in the bush with no TP, praying an elephant would not stop by); Aguascalientes, Mexico (a short visit to be sure); in the Australian outback (one of the best); not to mention all the camp sites where at least amenities were provided).

 

Just in case you think I have completely gone over to the dark side, here is a short poem you might enjoy:

 

Ode to the Outhouse

 

The little outhouse that was out back, had two seats and a wooden floor. With last years Sears catalog, and a half moon upon the door.

 

A busy little place it was, things were always brewing. And everyone that went inside knew what they were doing.

 

A place of quiet and solitude while seeking some relief.  You’d feel a great accomplishment though your stay was always brief.

 

There’s nothing left but shambles now, it’s crumbled down by time. But it still is standing straight and tall, in the outback of my mind.

 

 

Lent

 

Lent

 

Not my favorite season. Every year Lent comes around in the middle of winter. In our northern climate that means short days and long nights with snow, ice and cold. As if that wasn’t enough to put up with, church provides a season of self denial in preparation for Easter Sunday which has less that a fifty-fifty chance of warm, sunny weather. More than not Easter egg hunts necessitate winter gear and shovels.

 

Growing up, Lent meant a six week marathon of giving up your favorite things: candy, TV, fun activities. In our church tradition it meant no meat on Fridays making room for Mac and cheese, fish sticks, and Spanish rice followed by family devotions. It was an endurance race to see if I could make it to the end of Lent without cheating. Not exactly the intended spiritual motivation.

 

You can tell that I don’t embrace that kind of self denial as a means of getting closer to God. There is much to be said for taking personal inventory of life on a regular basis. In fact, a daily discipline of keeping short accounts with God and others is much healthier than a once a year sacrifice.

 

After more than a year of living with the consequences of COVID, a contentious political election, social and economic upheaval, I am not sure what is left to give up. Our freedom of movement, time with family and friends, eating out, no vacation, to say nothing of the loss of human life has provided plenty of opportunity for self denial and sacrifice. To make matters worse, we were denied the indulgence of Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday) to kick of the Lenten season.

 

The Bible exposes our desire for outward obedience while ignoring the hardness of our heart. In the Old Testament, the prophet Samuel rebuked King Saul for his disobedience which he tried to hide: “Do you think all God wants are sacrifices, empty rituals just for show? He wants you to listen to him! Plain listening is the thing, not staging a lavish religious production.”

 

Saul lost his kingship and his life. Let us not cloud our relationship with Jesus by focusing on externals and ignoring matters of the heart.

 

Do they make fish sticks anymore?

Below Zero

 

Below Zero

 

Here it is, almost to the end of February. The days are getting longer although it is still dark before supper. There are signs that spring is not all that far away. I saw an article in our local paper that someone spotted a robin in town. An early bird who has a good chance of not finding any worms.

 

However, the past week found us in the deep freeze. For the first time in two years the thermometer dipped below zero for almost a week. Trees groaned under the heavy weight of snow. Plenty of ice under a thin layer of fresh snow made driving and walking treacherous. I was almost out of breath just getting dressed to venture out: heavy boots, parka, scarf, lumberjack cap and mitts. I wasn’t going to freeze just to get the mail.

 

Our forced air furnace at home worked like a champ. In weather like this it pays off to have the furnace cleaned and checked in August. Almost nonstop blowing warm air for the past two months. I kept praying that the power won’t go off and the furnace break down.

 

The church on the other hand was having a hard time of it. First our old wall furnace in the hallway stopped working while the Montessori school was in session. After my son Tim tore it apart, he discovered the intake and exhaust vent were struggling to keep up with demand leaving ice and condensation in the line.

 

Having that back in working order, the sanctuary furnace decided to quit. Kasey, our associate pastor, got down in the crawl space and gave the furnace a couple of hard taps and it started up. The next day the furnace man came and did a more professional repair. Just when I thought we had everything solved the Montessori teacher called to say the vacuum cleaner wasn’t working.

 

I found this bit of wisdom on the Internet. Thought I would share it with you:

 

“If you choose not to find joy in the snow and cold, you will have less joy in your life but still the same amount of snow and cold.”

 

 

Casual Call

 

Casual Call

 

For the past three years I served as a volunteer chaplain at our local hospital. I have logged over one thousand hours and gained valuable experience. Visiting and praying with patients have enlarged my compassion for the human condition. Being with families who lost their loved one from disease or accident has reminded me of the frailty and brevity of life.

 

Recently, I applied for a casual call chaplain paid position at the hospital. This means I will be on a rotation list with other hospital chaplains responding to emergencies that involve trauma accidents and death. Although I have done this as a volunteer, this new position involves day or night calls on a scheduled basis. A new challenge for me.

 

Interestingly, I started my pastoral ministry fifty years ago at a large metropolitan parish that had casual call ministry to three major hospitals. Still wet behind the ears, I was thrown into life and death situations at all hours that shook my very foundation. When I left that assignment, I swore I would never be a hospital chaplain again. Life has a way of changing your outlook and priorities.

 

It can be said that I am spending many of my waking hours with the sick and dying. In addition to being a local church pastor I am now an on call hospital and hospice chaplain. In these later years of ministry, I feel more fulfilled and energized than ever before.

 

Growing up I knew it was somewhat of a disappointment to my father that I didn’t want to follow in his footsteps as a doctor. Sometimes when I walk the hospital halls or stand in the ER, I wonder if my dad isn’t looking down and smiling and saying, “I knew you had it in you son.” I think my Heavenly Father is saying the same thing.

 

Sorry, I need to go, the pager is calling!

 

 

 

 

Coddiwomple

 

Coddiwomple

 

A recent Internet post pictured two monkeys talking. One said, “we can have gatherings up to eight people without issues.” The other money responded, “I don’t know eight people without issues.” The problem with a pandemic is that it exposes our insecurities and fears. Like the monkey points out we all have issues. Something nobody wants out in the open.

 

That’s why the word coddiwomple caught my eye when a friend posted the word on social media. It is an English slang word that means to travel in a purposeful manner towards a vague destination. As we approach the one year mark of the pandemic that word captures the journey. A journey that started out with a bang: symptoms, deaths, politics and few answers. Not knowing where it would take us, we have been on a pilgrimage few have experienced before. Even now with infection numbers decreasing and vaccinations increasing, when will the journey end?

 

I don’t like it when I don’t know the when, where, what and how. I function much better with the certainties of life. As if I had those answers pre-pandemic. This wake up call has taken all by surprise. My sense is that when it is all said and done, the new normal will be quite different than the one we left behind.

 

I keep going back to these words from the Bible: “Trust God from the bottom of your heart; don’t try and figure out everything on your own. Listen for God’s voice in everything you do, everywhere you go; he’s the one who will keep you on track.”

 

Don’t let your coddiwomple distract you from God’s purpose for your life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blue Willow

 

Blue Willow

 

I don’t remember a whole lot of my grade school years. Those spent in Catholic schools I really don’t want to remember. Public grade school better memories. My fifth grade year at Burwell was the best. The old red brick building still stands beside Minnehaha Creek.

 

I didn’t get into much trouble that year except for a fist fight in the boy’s bathroom that brought our teacher full steam ahead into our inner sanctum. She was a tough lady and knew how to handle boys. Also, there was the time I got a pencil stuck in my cheek. It took a trip to the nurse’s office to fix that.

 

It was the  Blue Willow story that really captured my attention. One day, my teacher brought a blue and white dinner plate to class and told us the legend of the Blue Willow. It was a story of long ago when China was ruled by emperors. There was a magnificent pagoda, fruit trees, a bridge, and a beautiful girl who feel in love with the wrong man. The lovers were caught and were about to be killed when the gods turned them into doves. A tragic love story memorialized on a plate by a 18^th century Englishman.

 

I have no idea why the Blue Willow plate still sticks in my mind. Could it be that it was my first exposure to something visual outside my life experience? Was it the tragic story of love gone wrong? Maybe it was the only thing that made sense to me in fifth grade. The truth was I was madly in love with a girl in our class who wouldn’t give me the time of day. My first romance gone south like the Blue Willow doves.

 

It was at my twenty-fifth high school reunion that I ran into that fifth grade flame. For some strange reason, she reached out and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Some things just take a long time.

 

Thank you, Blue Willow memory, for teaching me that love does springs eternal.