Tuesday morning in the coffee shop. I used to sit by myself and click away at the keyboard, collecting letters into words, words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, and… well, you get the idea.
A few weeks ago, I was invited to sit with a few men and “help them out” with their discussion. I declined, sitting by myself again to write but, thinking better of it, moved over to help them out. (I wasn’t really helping, but it was nice to think of it like that for a few seconds, anyway.)
The opening words above were what I was greeted with as I sat down with them again on this Tuesday morning. Our conversation over the next hour and a half ranged from football to politics and from parenting to couples therapy, with a good bit of Scripture mixed in, but the first words stuck with me.
“People don’t think like I do.”
Today being a national election day, I can’t quibble with the sentiment.
They don’t think like I do. And, I’m going to say something argumentative.
It’s perfectly okay.
Being raised in a pretty straight-laced Christian home, much of my adult life has been one eye-opening realization after another that people don’t believe everything I believe. I once thought I needed to convince all of them.
Every. Single. One.
I don’t. Need to, that is.
I won’t. Succeed if I try, that is.
Today I read the words below, written by a Christian author I follow on social media. They seem important to me. Especially the part about the knowledge of the holy.
“Praying. Not for a particular result, but for a knowledge of the holy. This I know; my hope tomorrow will be just as unflinching as it is today. Because I know where my Hope is found.”
(Michele Cushatt)
Life is too short to go to battle about non-essentials. But, we do it. Day after day, we do it.
There is a photo of my neighborhood with this little essay. It’s part of this note to myself to help me remember the important things.
His important things.
The beauty of His creation surrounding us reminds me to love God. With everything I’ve got in me.
Love God.
The houses remind me of the neighbors who live there. To be loved like I love myself.
Love people.
My area of ministry. Assigned by Jesus, Himself.
It won’t change because of differences in religious beliefs. Or election results.
I apologize for talking to myself today. You see, I’m just not sure you think like I do.
But, I love you. I do.
Mostly, because He showed us how it’s done.
“The tax on being different is massive.”
(Vivienne Ming – American neuroscientist)
“Dear friends, let us continue to love one another, for love comes from God. Anyone who loves is a child of God and knows God.But anyone who does not love does not know God, for God is love.” (1 John 4:7-8, NLT)
I don’t like change. Well—sometimes, I do. And then—I wish things hadn’t changed after they do.
I’m not explaining this very clearly, am I?
Let’s see if I can do better.
I like trees—especially old ones. Old trees exude comfort and reassurance that all is well with the world. They are a constant—a connection from former generations to the future.
They’ve seen it all, lasting through the storms and the seasons, standing firm.
It makes me sad when old trees are cut down. Except when it doesn’t.
Oh. Here I go again—talking in circles.
Give me another chance, will you?
The old mulberry tree stood outside the kitchen window. For well more than sixty years, it gave shade from the sun blasting down in summer. There were berries in the spring. Berries that fed the birds by the thousands and provided the residents of the old house with flavorful complements to their cereal and, perhaps, even filling a pie or two.
The tree has been a constant throughout the life of the Lovely Lady who lives in the old house with me. She was brought to this home from the maternity ward in the hospital and doesn’t remember a day when it wasn’t there.
Even I, as a relative newcomer (not yet fifty years) to the family, have walked under it on many spring days, pulling down a handful of the purple fruit to munch on, tossing the stems to the ground under the lovely old tree. I have stood under its shade on many a sweltering summer afternoon, grateful for the protection from the sun.
The twisted, gnarled old tree always brings a smile to my face when I think of it. I loved it and thought I would never want it gone.
I don’t like change.
But, it has been evident over the last three years that the funny little tree was reaching the end of its life. The branches at the top began to lose their leaves, drooping lifelessly toward the ground below. And this year, there were almost no leaves to be seen anywhere on the tree, except the few that popped from the trunk itself. Not a single branch bore any sign of green.
I hate to cut down trees. Especially old friends such as this lovely little mulberry. And, it could have stayed right where it was, limbs drooping to the ground, for several more years. Except for one thing; those drooping limbs (and a large part of the upper trunk) hung right over the power line dropping down to the house.
Winter is coming. It is. We live in a relatively temperate area, but in most winters we get at least one or two storms coming through that drop what the meteorologists like to call freezing rain. Simply put, water falls from the sky into the extremely cold air near the ground and freezes solid on every surface upon which it lands.
Water is heavy. Freezing water coating the limbs is a disaster waiting to happen.
I wanted the problem taken care of before winter comes. My heater won’t work if the electricity is interrupted, and I need heat in the winter. Most folks do.
My old friend, Isaac, came by last week to remove the old oak tree across the street (a story for another day) and I asked him if he could extend his stay in the neighborhood long enough to take care of my problem.
He wondered if I could wait for a few weeks. I couldn’t. Even the few days I had to wait for him to finish the other job was a few days too many. The tree needed to come down ASAP!
You see? Sometimes, I do like change.
Yesterday, Isaac took the tree down. Limb by limb, section by section, it came to the ground. I was happy to see the limbs on the grass. Especially that section that hung over the power line.
Soon, all that remained was the twisted and gnarled old trunk. My friend knows what he is doing. He left enough weight above the trunk on the side to which he wanted it to fall.
He didn’t even have to cut a notch near the ground like you see most of the lumberjacks doing in the movies. Just a straight cut right above the level of the dirt. A push, and it was done.
The mulberry tree lay on the ground waiting to be cut into smaller pieces the tractor would lift into the trailer.
I wish it hadn’t.
You see, I don’t like change.
Most of us don’t. We hold on to the things that make us comfortable. Even when it’s clear that they are rotting and decaying, we hold on to them. And then, when they are finally wrenched from our grasping, clinging hands, we bemoan their loss.
As if those things could ever last forever.
Years ago, I played the old portable pump organ (and sometimes a real piano) for my Dad at the nursing homes where he preached on Sunday afternoons. He would let the old folks pick the songs they wanted us to sing. One we sang again and again was “Abide With Me”. It was far from my favorite then.
I like it now. I think it’s because I understand it better.
“Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day; earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away. Change and decay in all around I see. O thou who changest not, abide with me.” (from Abide With Me, by Henry Francis Lyte)
Come to think of it, part of the change we’ve lived through is the moving away from common use of the old hymns. It’s part of the natural ebb and flow of life, but we don’t like that change, either.
All things move on. They always have.
My young friend, who writes songs for followers of Christ today, wrote a line in one of his songs a few years ago. It’s as powerful as the last line in the old hymn above.
“You cannot change, yet you change everything.” (from Rest in You, by Leonard/Jordan/Fox)
It’s true—there is decay in everything around us. Science tells us that everything is decaying. And yet, there is new life. And growth.
And, these places of discomfort we move into become places of comfort. Places we’ll eventually move on from again. And again.
Change and decay in all around I see.
But God—He never changes.
A Rock. A Fortress. The place we run into and find rest. Before change comes—again.
More trees will grow. And fall.
We have a certain anchor in every storm.
In a world of change and decay, a Solid Rock.
I still miss the old tree.
“Change is the law of life. And those who look only to the past or present are certain to miss the future.” (John F Kennedy)
“Long ago you laid the foundation of the earth and made the heavens with your hands. They will perish, but you remain forever; they will wear out like old clothing. You will change them like a garment and discard them. But you are always the same; you will live forever.”
(Psalm 102: 25-27, NLT)
Sometimes the comments and, perhaps, even the prayer go over my head. Sitting in church, having just sung several songs, my mind is frequently overloaded. I’m often moved by the message in the music, and someone saying words just muddies the waters a bit.
I heard what he said this time. My friend, one of our Elders, opened his Bible and said, “We’re reading from the red print today. If you have your Bibles, you may open them to John 3. We’ll start with verse 16.”
Well, that’s something new. It was to me, anyway. I don’t think I ever thought about it before. I mean, that Jesus Himself spoke those words.
John 3:16 is the first verse I ever committed to memory, decades ago. It is probably the most quoted and well-known verse in the Bible.
“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son…”
Red print. It’s how the publishers of Bibles let us know which words Jesus spoke directly.
I chewed on that thought as the pastor came later and spoke the words he had prepared. I know. I should listen more carefully instead of riding a different train of thought. I heard his words—I did—but the initial thought that had come to mind didn’t want to let go.
As I left the auditorium later, I mentioned it to the pastor. He laughed. Then, seeing my confused look, he explained.
As it happens, that was part of what he had researched as he prepared the sermon for Sunday. You see, there is not a consensus among Biblical scholars about whether those words should be printed in red or not.
The original Greek text, lacking punctuation, is not clear if there is a break between the words Jesus is speaking to Nicodemus in the verses before or not. It’s just as likely that John is again narrating the thoughts, as he does throughout the book.
So perhaps—not red print. Or, perhaps—yes.
I’m still riding that train of thought days later.
I know some folks are only interested in the words Jesus spoke during His time on this earth. If he didn’t say it, they don’t trust it.
Not to diminish in any way the importance of the words He spoke, but even they were reported by men. Uneducated men, for the most part, with no credentials except that they had been with the Savior.
That’s the way God’s Word has come to us. It’s the way He made His story known throughout all of time. Except when He used animals—like Balaam’s donkey in the book of Numbers.
Men of old, Peter says. (2 Peter 1:21) Prophets who heard God’s voice and faithfully rendered the words into a written record.
In my head, I hear the words of the Apostle—the one who loved to write letters and, ironically enough, a member of the group about whom he wrote the words.
“All scripture is God-breathed…” (2 Timothy 3:16, NIV)
I wonder if any readers noticed the chapter and verse where those words were written. Not that I believe in omens or signs in that sense, but it seems odd that the words answering the question about whether it matters so much that John 3:16 perhaps shouldn’t be written in red letters are also found in chapter 3 and verse 16 of their book. Perhaps, just a coincidence. Still, it’s interesting to me.
But now, with the mention of breath, my train of thought has moved to another track entirely. You’ve seen the old western movies when the train robbers move a lever near the tracks and shift the whole train to a siding—a rail that leads to nowhere, but serves only to slow or stop the entire conveyance, haven’t you?
Well, that’s not what’s happening here. This train is gathering speed as it careens along the new route.
I know about breathing! I’ve done it for nearly seventy years. It’s one of the reasons I’m here to write my tiring little essays every so often. And maybe, the reason you’re here to read this one.
And, at some periods during those years, I’ve struggled to breathe. Asthma and bronchitis steal the air right out of my lungs and I realize anew how much I enjoy breathing; and how much I need it.
Breathing is good.
But, this is different, isn’t it? God breathes out His Word—His message—to the scribes chosen for the task. And they, in turn, shared it with the world through all these generations.
What a gift to breathe in the Word of God!
And yet, these words are ours to draw in and live on, for all our days if we choose.
I said it was ironic that Paul was one to whom the Word was breathed. As I considered the subject of breathing, the words in the book of Acts came to mind. Ironic doesn’t really describe it.
“Then Saul, still breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord…” (Acts 9:1, NKJV)
Oh. In that dichotomy, the breathing out of evil earlier in life and then later, breathing in of God’s Word, there is great hope.
Hope for all of us!
We breathe out our hate, our despair—our wretchedness. And, just as He did for Adam in the beginning, God breathes life—and promise—and bright hope.
Still. His breath gives us life.
I remember, decades ago, trips to the mountains covered with evergreens with my family. As we gathered on the banks of a roaring river, alive with whitecaps, my Dad stood drawing the air into his lungs—clean and unsullied with the pollution and smoke of man’s carelessness.
“Ah! That’s good!”
It was.
It is.
Good.
Breathe deep.
“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” (from The New Colossus, by Emma Lazarus)
“For this is how God loved the world: He gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life.God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but to save the world through him.” (John 3:16-17, NLT)
It was over thirty years ago, but I still remember my brother-in-law’s words:
“Your grandma’s covered, Paul. The preacher is the one who messed up.”
A famous television evangelist had been exposed for the charlatan he was. His diamond rings—the ones that had been air-brushed out in his publicity photos—had been reported to the world, along with his mansions and luxury cars. It was finally clear that he was fleecing the little old ladies who had faithfully sent him their five and ten-dollar bills for decades.
I was angry. I could only air my unhappiness to the family member standing beside me that day, but I was pulled up short by my brother-in-law’s declaration.
I had wondered aloud what the little old ladies (and anyone else who had supported the man) were feeling knowing their money was supporting a lavish lifestyle for a very wealthy man and his family but had not gone to the ministries they intended to help at all.
We’ve all done it—given to help someone, only to find they didn’t really need it, or they used our gift for some other purpose altogether. We are hurt and angry, deciding to never help that person again.
Then there is the person we’ve helped again and again in their need, giving money or furniture or time, only to realize that they will never be there to help us when we need something.
I read the statement on social media the other day. My first thought was to agree. I’ve been there. Giving and not receiving.
“I regret the good things I did for the wrong people.“
Perhaps your response is the same as mine was initially.
I simply sat nodding my head. Remembering the hurt—the resentment.
Then, the words came to my mind. Quietly, but with purpose. I don’t know where they came from; they were just there.
“I wonder if God ever feels like that.”
Oh.
That hits home.
I don’t think He feels like that.
But, I do know what He did. And what He does.
“But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”
(Romans 5:8, NIV)
That’s what Love does.
But the world lies. It lies.
All around us, the catchphrases and memes fly.
“You deserve to be loved!” “Don’t waste your time on people who don’t reciprocate.” “Don’t give to people who don’t deserve your gift.” “Stay away from negative people.”
We’re not the world! We’re not.
In His prayer for His followers, Jesus said, “They do not belong to this world any more than I do.” And yes, He was talking about His followers throughout the ages to come as well. He went on to pray, “I am praying not only for these disciples but also for all who will ever believe in me through their message.“ (John 17: 16,20—NLT)
That’s us! Not of this world.
So why do we adopt their philosophies? Their slogans? Their lifestyles?
If I refuse to give to anyone who can’t or won’t give back, I’m nothing but a businessman, making a transaction. Tit for tat. Quid pro quo.
Here’s the thing: The one transaction that matters has already been made in the gift given to each of us who claim to be followers of Christ. The only thing required of us, who have freely received, is to give freely.
Freely. No encumbrances.
No anticipation of reimbursement.
Open hands, giving from open hearts.
We are responsible for our responses to God’s instruction. Others will answer for how they responded, but that’s none of our affair.
One of my favorite moments in the Narnia series of books by C.S. Lewis is in The Horse and His Boy. The protagonist, Shasta, is introduced to Aslan the Lion in a terrifying manner. Even in his fear, he asks several questions—one of them about an injury that happened to his companion.
The Lion answers back clearly.
“Child, I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.”
In modern terminology, the instructions are to stay in our lane. God has given each of us a road to walk, with our own tasks to accomplish. What others do should not determine how we respond to Him.
But, along the way, our road will intersect with others who have needs—needs we are equipped to help fulfill. We need to be obedient in aiding them, regardless of what they do afterward.
There is no regret to be felt when we do good, especially the good our Creator has asked us to do.
Don’t let someone else’s actions turn you away from the journey, or its destination.
Don’t regret what you failed to do, worrying about how they would respond.
Open hands. Open heart.
No regrets.
It seems a good way to honor our Savior who somehow I doubt feels regret for what he did to help us at all.
“Get rid of all bitterness, rage, anger, harsh words, and slander, as well as all types of evil behavior. Instead, be kind to each other, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God through Christ has forgiven you.” (Ephesians 4:31-32, NLT)
“’Then it was you who wounded Aravis?’ ‘It was I.’ ‘But what for?’ ‘Child,’ said the Voice, ‘I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.’ ‘Who are you?’ asked Shasta. ‘Myself,’ said the Voice, very deep and low so that the earth shook: and again, ‘Myself,’ loud and clear and gay: and then the third time, ‘Myself,’ whispered so softly you could hardly hear it, and yet it seemed to come from all around you as if the leaves rustled with it.” (from The Horse and His Boy, by C.S. Lewis)
Sometimes it’s just hard to give up control. Really hard.
I went to the car wash recently. It’s been a few years since I gave up fighting the trend and started running my car through the wash tunnel. For most of my life, I insisted on using the old-style quarter machines to do it myself. But, I’m getting old, and sitting in my car while it gets laundered seems a good idea now.
It took me a while. I didn’t want to give up on doing it myself. But, I always seemed to put off the job. It could be hard work. Sometimes, it was too cold outside. Or, too hot.
So, the car was almost always dirty.
And, I like clean. I do.
The vehicle in front of me entered through the member lane. That means they had already paid for unlimited washes and there was no need to wait for the attendant to help with payment. I assumed it also meant they were familiar with the process and would make no trouble for me or anyone else behind them.
Well? It seemed a reasonable expectation.
They made trouble.
There is a white line on the pavement as one approaches the entrance to the tunnel. Folks in the know understand one needs to line up their driver’s side front wheel on the painted stripe to be straight with the steel track inside.
The driver missed it by a foot.
After the attendant helped them get the vehicle straightened out, I was sure all would be well. My own wheel was sitting on the line now as I waited my turn.
The small pickup stopped where the attendant indicated. Next, he waved his hand at the sign sitting beside the track. The instructions should have been clear;
Put your car in neutral Take hands off the steering wheel Keep foot off the brake pedal Do not open your window or turn on your wipers
The attendant walked toward me. I was next! I prepared to pull forward onto the track. But, it wasn’t to be.
Suddenly, he spun around and, racing back to the wall, slapped the big red button there. The emergency stop quickly brought the entire operation to a halt. Lights darkened, and the entire place went quiet—for a second. Then, he sprinted toward the pickup, yelling as he went.
That truck definitely wasn’t in neutral! It should have been sitting still, waiting for the conveyor to pull it along, but it was still moving under its own power toward the waiting brushes.
Brake lights went on, along with the cargo light above the truck’s bed as the driver opened his door to see what was happening.
They talked briefly and the truck’s door closed. The attendant walked back toward the big red button, shaking his head. Turning the safety release on the button, he pushed it again.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I’m sure he did, as well.
Too soon!
Both of us saw it at the same time. The conveyor had picked up the wheels of the truck and was pulling it forward, but suddenly, the backup lights shone from the rear of the vehicle!
Now, they were reversing!
Red button time again. More shouting and running. The cargo light came on again.
After the door slammed once more and the poor fellow trotted back to start the machinery up again, I waited—not as hopefully this time—to finally start through the wash myself.
There were no more delays. Still, the entire time I was being pulled through the wash tunnel, I kept my hand near the horn button—ready to blast away at that person who seemed to be reluctant to give up control of his/her vehicle to the process. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the exit ahead of me, with no sign of the truck blocking the way.
Why is it so hard for us to give up control?
From the dim, dark reaches of my brain, the anecdote emerges. I read it somewhere a lifetime ago. But, it stuck with me.
The old fellow was sitting patiently in the hallway, waiting for the ladies meeting at the church to finish. As the custodian, it was his job to set up (and later, take down) the tables and chairs for the refreshments, and he had done it without complaint, even when the requests and directives came fast and furious from more than one of the ladies.
The pastor stopped by where he sat waiting to clear up.
“You seem so calm, John. How do you do it?”
“Well Preacher,” John said, with a smile across his face, “I just put my brain into neutral and let them push me around wherever they want me.”
I laugh every time I think of the old fellow. Still, he knew what it took to accomplish what he came to do.
But, the driver of that vehicle in the car wash the other day? They needed to do one thing. Only one.
Relax.
That was it. Sit back and let go.
The result would be a gleaming, clean truck.
The driver’s way would have resulted in chaos. It very nearly did. And not only for him. Damaged machinery. No clean cars for anyone following behind. No work for the attendants while repairs were made. Loss to the insurance company, the driver, and the car wash.
Sit back. Let go.
Moses gave the same instructions to the folks following him out there in the desert all those years ago.
“‘The Lord himself will fight for you. Just stay calm.’” (Exodus 14:14, NLT)
The Children of Israel were afraid. They wanted to go back and give themselves up to that old, gritty life of slavery. But Moses suggested they go straight ahead, into the car wash.
No, really. A great big—terrifying—car wash. Right through the middle of the sea.
He said—in essence, “Sit back and let go. God’s got you.”
And, He did.
And, He does.
In the car wash. In the hurricane. In the wildfire. In the emergency room. In the hospice bed.
He’s fighting for us.
It’s hard to let Him. Hard.
I’m still learning to let go. Maybe you are, too.
But, I did learn to put my car in neutral and take my foot off the brake. I’m going to keep working on the rest of it.
Trusting Him, we learn to rest.
And, He cleans us up in the process.
I like clean. I do.
“Some people believe holding on and hanging in there are signs of great strength. However, there are times when it takes much more strength to know when to let go and then do it.” (Ann Landers)
“But Moses told the people, ‘Don’t be afraid. Just stand still and watch the Lord rescue you today. The Egyptians you see today will never be seen again.The Lord himself will fight for you. Just stay calm.’” (Exodus 14:13-14, NLT)
It was noon. A few weeks ago. Maybe, a few months. Time seems to run together these days. I write notes to myself so I’ll not forget and then I do.
This note seemed ominous.
“Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.“
I wrote the words—a quote from a writing by John Donne in the 1600s—to remind myself of that noontide reverie on a future day when I had time to flesh it out in my thoughts.
On that late morning, I had walked up to the local university where the Lovely Lady has worked for many years. As on most days, I was simply anticipating a pleasurable walk home with the one who has walked beside me for most of a half-century.
The bells would intrude.
They always do.
I stood, leaning against the brick wall outside the library building on campus, and waited. As I waited, the chimes in the Cathedral of the Ozarks tower began to sound, beginning with the familiar Westminster pattern. Then slowly, one after the other, the clock knelled out one dozen slow and distinct tones.
The words popped into my head. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls…”
It was high summer. The temperature where I was standing was well over ninety degrees Fahrenheit. Yet, suddenly I felt goosebumps on my arms.
Was it a premonition? An omen?
Nah. Just a silly thought. But, it did seem important enough that I needed a reminder for later.
Somehow, it also seemed appropriate that, as the Lovely Lady exited the building and, taking my hand, started down the sidewalk with me, the carillon in the bell tower began to play a verse of the wonderful old tune “Beautiful Savior”.
The words from the old hymn—also written in the 1600s—flowed through my mind as we walked;
“Beautiful Savior, Lord of all nations, Son of God, and Son of Man! Glory and honor, praise, adoration Now and forever more be Thine!“
I have thought about the other words that went through my mind that early afternoon any number of times since the day. Enough so that I explored the origin of the phrase. I was surprised to learn Mr. Donne simply believed we are all connected, perhaps even dependent on each other.
He wasn’t being prophetic about anyone’s death; he simply believed that any person’s passing affected all of the community of man.
If I expand the meaning a bit, it implies we all feel each other’s pain. We share in losses; we benefit from each other’s well-being.
I wonder if that’s why the Apostle for whom I am named told us to rejoice with those who rejoice and to weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)
And perhaps, it’s why he told the folks in Athens that the “unknown god” they had erected an altar to was the One who gave life and breath to every living creature and who satisfies our every need.
He went on to say, “From one man, He created all the nations throughout the earth.” (Acts 17:26, NLT)
Science bears out our relationship. We share 99.9 percent of our DNA with all other humans. There is no arguing our shared humanity, our familial connection.
But, we don’t need science to tell us that, do we? Over and over, we feel the closeness, the affinity, and yes—the sympathy that only those connected by birthright could feel for each other.
We’ve felt it in the United States this week as we’ve seen the devastation of the hurricane in the Carolinas and surrounding areas.
Each time we see news on our screens of fresh devastation of war and natural disasters, we weep along with the mourners.
We are all—without exception—made in the image of our Beautiful Savior, who still holds us in His hands.
In my reading of John Donne’s work, I noticed another famous saying which originated from the same short piece of prose. The reader will surely have heard it also.
“No man is an island, entire of itself.“
Paul Simon begged to differ when he made the familiar claim in one of his songs, “I am a rock. I am an island.“
He was wrong. But then, I think he knew that. His song was a statement of the attempts people make—unsuccessfully—to insulate themselves from hurt and pain.
I don’t want to be insulated.
Engaged. That’s what I need to be.
In engagement, we feel the extreme pain of losses. Still, we also feel the surprising joy of life’s miracles—and we experience the giddiness of undeserved triumphs and the unexpected ecstasy of prodigals who return to the arms of their waiting Father.
Yes. The bell tolls for us all. Together, we weep.
And yet, together we labor side by side to repair life’s devastation.
And—still together—we will rejoice again.
Every tear will be wiped away. Every one.
Even so…
“The voice so sweet, the words so fair As some soft chime had stroked the air.” (from The Mind, a poem by Ben Jonson)
“No man is an island, Entire of itself, Every man is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manor of thy friend’s Or of thine own were: Any man’s death diminishes me, Because I am involved in mankind, And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.“ (from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, by John Donne)
On a recent day I sat with my old friend again. Yes, it was in my mind that the last time we had sat with coffee cups between us, I had walked away with a life-changing backache.
I determined not to sit for three hours without moving this time. But, we had things to discuss. Important things. Well—important to us.
As we sat down with our cups of coffee, a smile played around his lips as he told me he had thought of a title for his next blog post (he doesn’t write blogs). Then he told about what he described as, “My Life in the Fog.”
As he related his experiences growing up in the last century in Fresno, California, I imagined I could see it clearly.
The Central Valley of California, also known as the San Joaquin Valley, is a huge bowl of fertile ground, the produce capital of the whole country. There are miles and miles of cultivated fields growing crops of every description, from vegetables to nuts. It is, in some ways, a veritable paradise. But, there are drawbacks.
The natives call it Tule (pronounced too-lee) Fog (when they’re not arguing about whether that’s what it really is or is not). The name “Tule” is a local term, shortened from Tulare, which was once a large lake in the area.
The entire valley, thousands of square miles of it, is frequently engulfed in the fog, generated by the cold air of the surrounding mountain ranges settling down into the warm, moist air below them. This is especially prevalent in the fall and winter months.
I said I imagined I saw the image clearly as my friend described standing in his yard, ready to go to school in the early morning light. Gazing across the street, he couldn’t even see the neighbor’s house in front of him. And, to the side, no shrubs or fence were visible at the house next door.
You see my problem, don’t you?
It’s all just a bit out of focus, wavering in my mind. The fog he describes cloaks the entire scene as I gaze upon it.
It is what fog does.
I suppose that’s what he intended to communicate with his proposed title for the nonexistent blog he was writing. No. I’m sure of it.
He went on to describe the occasional clearing of the fog in one direction, but not in others. He would stand, again unable to see the house across the street but, turning to his left, could see the neighbor’s property there perfectly well, as if the sun was shining clearly on it.
I know I’m not supposed to do it. You know—think about my own experiences while someone else is talking. I’m supposed to listen completely to what they’re saying. But, there was a voice speaking inside my head, too.
“Sure. The fog is just fine when you’re standing still in your own front yard.”
You see, I’ve been there. In that Tule Fog. No, really!
We traveled numerous times to my Grandfather’s house in the Central Valley. He lived little more than 25 miles away from where my friend used to stand in the fog before school. To get there, my family and I would travel over 1400 miles by car, zipping through mountains, prairies, farmland, and deserts.
The most memorable part of the journey for me always was the descent into the San Joaquin Valley through the Tehachapi (ta-hatch-a-pea) Pass. On this particular trip, we made the drop from the high desert into the valley in the darkness of a very early morning.
If you make the trip in daylight when there is fog, you can see it down below, almost like a super dense cloud lying at your feet, with time to mentally prepare yourself for what is to come. I didn’t have that advantage on the occasion my memory dredged up.
The wet blanket of fog we dropped into was like being enveloped in a cloud of pure white cotton. Flicking the car’s headlights to bright only multiplied the effect. The brilliant light merely reflected off the dazzling white blanket, almost blinding the driver to anything but its overwhelming glare.
I slowed to a safe speed, only to remember (almost too late) that I was on a California freeway. The traffic behind me had not slowed to a safe speed and passed me at a terrific pace, some barely seeing my taillights in time to swerve into the passing lane.
I sped up. Terrified and confused by the lack of vision, but dazed by the overload of sensory stimuli, I could do nothing but travel at the speed of surrounding traffic while staring wide-eyed into the seeming abyss in front of me and praying for protection.
Although it seemed like an eternity, it wasn’t all that long before we began to see rifts in the wall of white clouds about us. I was never so happy to see the darkness, riven by my vehicle’s headlights to give a clear picture of what was in front of us.
But, my friend was still talking, wasn’t he? Something about seeing through a mirror, indistinctly.
I had to shake off my own fog to catch up.
Oh yes! The Apostle’s words from one of his letters:
“Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.” (1 Corinthians 13:12, NLT)
We do. We live in a fog—some of us for most of our lives. The noise and clamor we’re surrounded by serve only to act like the high beams, obfuscating and blinding us to the truth.
But, we don’t have to live like this—here in the fog—forever.
There is a place of clarity here on earth.
“Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light on my path.” (Psalm 119:105, NIV)
Have you ever noticed where fog lamps are mounted on vehicles? That’s right; Down near the road. Down below the fog, giving a clear view of the surface one is traveling over.
God’s word is a lamp, specifically for our feet, to light the path ahead. When all others are frantically flipping between low and high beams, failing spectacularly to find a path through the fog, His wisdom cuts through, lighting the way faithfully.
He gives light that truly lends clarity to life. Through all of our days, if we’ll avail ourselves of it.
I don’t love the fog. I say I don’t anyway. But still, I stumble along feeling my way—speeding up, slowing down—and hoping no one is about to come flying out of the pea soup behind me and do me great harm.
We’re a stubborn lot, aren’t we? I am, anyway.
All the while, the answer is at my fingertips. He promises to make the way plain.
We already hold the light in our hands and hearts if we are followers of Christ.
Clear—clear as day.
It’s time to walk out of the fog. I’m going to do my best. You know me though; I always love company on the road.
Are you coming with?
“I must go in; the fog is rising.“ (last reported words of poet Emily Dickinson)
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.”
(Proverbs 3: 5-6, NIV)
The little dog is an escape artist. Well, not so much an artist as a fanatic.
She has a good-sized yard in which to roam; it having ample grass to roll in, dirt to dig in, and room to stretch out. Plus, there’s always food and water waiting for her. And yet, she is not content.
I have watched the little dachshund-mix canine run back and forth along the fence line with no other intent but to find a weakness, just the beginning of an opening to widen—first with her nose, then with her head—and slip out of. She has all that big yard to run, but she wants the whole world instead.
Several times recently, I have called to her as she streaked away from our neighbor’s yard to freedom and she, friendly beast that she is, has come to my call, allowing me to pick her up and drop her down gently back into her assigned domain.
And then immediately, she has headed for the hole through which she squeezed earlier or has run for the incline she used as a launching ramp onto the stump next to the fence, jumping from there to freedom again.
She is not content.
In the midst of plenty, she wants more. Surrounded by all she needs, including the loving attention of her owners, she would sacrifice it all for a few minutes of running free.
Foolish dog! Danger awaits out there; hunger and terror from other animals.
I laugh at the silly thing, but then I remember. Last week, I offered to help the dog’s owner with one problem area, next to the stump. As I worked with the fencing to be anchored around the area, he, temporarily crippled with sciatica, hobbled up, leaning on his cane. Gasping in pain, he bent over to help.
He couldn’t stand to have someone working in his yard and not be involved. Even with his physical limitations, he just had to participate in the labor.
There was no need. I had it handled. He helped me to his physical detriment.
In my mind, I can’t help but compare the man and his dog. Both are cared for and have no need of more, but both feel the need to do more, to push farther.
To their distinct disadvantage, they push the boundaries.
And, still laughing, I wonder at the foolishness of not resting in what has been provided. Why are we—both animals and humans—like that?
But, my laughing is quieted as another memory pushes aside the scenes of the man and his dog.
Just last week, it was. My grandchildren had come to visit, parents in tow (they will come along), and having an hour or so before a scheduled event, asked if they could have another go at the stump in the front yard.
“But, you can’t do any of the work, Grandpa! We don’t want you to hurt your back again.”
I agreed to oversee the job and stay out of their way. With my mouth, I agreed. My brain and heart didn’t follow suit, apparently. After several minutes of standing and making suggestions of locations for chopping and prying, I could take it no longer.
“Let me take a whack or two at that!”
I swung the mattock a number of times (I don’t remember if it was three or twenty) and soon we had most of the above-ground part of the stump out.
I haven’t had many pain-free moments since.
There was no reason for me to swing that tool—not even once! The labor was freely provided; the task would have been finished handily without me.
My grandchildren were there, not only to provide labor; they were there to be a wall of protection.
And, I stepped out from behind that wall. Because of my pride. Stubbornness, too. But, mostly pride.
What is it the Proverb says? “Pride goes before excruciating pain and a haughty spirit before the need to lean on a cane for support.”
No. That’s not quite right, but the result seems to be the same. The man who says I don’t need help—or, I know better than anyone else—is asking for pain and suffering. (Read Proverbs 16:18, for the true version)
Our Creator gives us boundaries—and He provides us with safe places and helpers—for our benefit. It’s not to punish us. The fences are there to give us safety.
One might expect the shenanigans from the little dog. While they can be smart for the animal kingdom, they’re mostly no match for humans in the logic department. Mostly. Sometimes, I’m not so sure.
I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever be able to say with the Apostle who loved to write letters, “I am content. Whatever condition and wherever it is that God has me, I am content.” (Philippians 4:11, my paraphrase)
Like the little dog, the fences gall me. They mock me, almost.
But, I’m learning to rest. And, to trust.
He wants good for us. Really.
Good.
With Him, we are safe. In His strong and loving arms, we can rest.
I may finally be learning my lesson. My neighbor, too. Time will tell.
I’m remembering the days when I used to call my father and let him know I was concerned for his well-being. He would often quote Psalm 16:6 to me to reassure me.
Perhaps, I need to claim it for myself in these days of learning to be content behind the fence.
“The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance.“
I’m not sure about the little dog, but I’ve got an idea she’s going to be all right, as well.
“In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.” (Psalm 4:8, NIV)
“We’re not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we’re wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.” (C.S. Lewis)
I have walked past the flattened carcass daily for more than a week now. And when I say flattened, I mean it’s thinner than the proverbial pancake. Hardly distinguishable from the pavement.
It still stinks.
I saw the skunk lying there one day early last week. Then, it looked almost like the cat you see in the photo accompanying this article. I thought it was a cat at first. Clearly, it was not.
That first day I walked past it, there was no odor at all. I knew that couldn’t last so I called the city and asked them to pick it up before the cars began the flattening process. I think they must have been too busy.
Thus, the aroma permeating the atmosphere.
On an earlier day this week, as I worked out in my yard, the shifting breeze periodically wafting the odor to my olfactory nerves, I wondered about the cat that turned into a skunk (only in my strange brain, you understand).
And, as often happens, my thoughts began to run to human nature and practice. Before I was finished with my task, I had formulated the question that follows:
“How is it that into our lungs we draw the sweet aroma of grace and mercy breathed upon us by our God, yet the atmosphere all about us is choked with the acrid fumes of our judgment and hate?”
I saved the words in a note on my smartphone, cogitating on the idea for a while and then, I moved on mentally. But, a conversation I read on social media last night brought it back to mind with a jolt.
As with many these days, the post was political/religious in nature. I agreed—mostly—with the premise, so I followed the conversation. That may have been a mistake.
Again and again, I am shocked at the vitriol coming from the mouths and keyboards of professing followers of our Savior. I shouldn’t be by now, but I am.
And then, there was this: “Christians are the worst!”
And, I find myself agreeing. We are. The worst.
The apostle, my namesake, said the words. I often feel them deeply, too.
“Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—and I am the worst of them all.” (1 Timothy 1:15a, NLT)
The thing is, we were never intended to continue being the worst of sinners.
Never.
When I’m flattened on the road of life, I want not to stink to high heaven.
Even if I’m flatter than that ubiquitous pancake when this world gets done with me, I’d like there to be a sweet aroma of grace and peace.
And hope. Especially, hope.
That’s my prayer for all of us.
Today and until Heaven.
“The Christian’s life is to be a thing of truth and also a thing of beauty in the midst of a lost and despairing world.” (Francis Schaeffer)
“And so blessing and cursing come pouring out of the same mouth. Surely, my brothers and sisters, this is not right! Does a spring of water bubble out with both fresh water and bitter water?”
(James 3:10-11, NLT)
“Paul? Maybe you’d like to sing the baritone part instead of the tenor. Would you try it?”
The director of the combined university chorus/community choir didn’t have to ask twice. Well, except perhaps because I thought I might have heard him wrong. I hadn’t.
So I’m singing baritone. And, a little bass.
And, it feels like I’ve come home.
Do you ever feel like you don’t fit in?
You know—everyone else in the car wants to listen to music from the latest boy group, but you heard that Yo-Yo Ma recorded a duet with Alison Krauss and you’d like to listen to that. Or, you’re walking with a group of people on the fitness trail and you realize that they’re all synchronized on the left foot and you’re on your right foot. Or, the family members all want to go for tacos, but you want chicken.
I’ve felt like that all my life. If you really know me, you know I was the strange kid, always zigging when everyone else zagged. I’ve freely admitted in these little pieces I write that I’ve never felt completely at home, no matter where I’ve been.
My father-in-law used a descriptive phrase, many years ago, that I’ve always thought fit me to a T. He was a piano tuner and would often be asked to work on instruments that had been neglected for many years. When a piano is left to its own devices for too long, the strings tend to stretch, making the overall pitch drop. The result is an instrument that may be in tune with itself, but sounds horrid when played with another instrument at standard pitch.
He would say to me, “This one is playing in the cracks.”
I understood exactly what he meant. The piano didn’t play well with others (I think that phrase might have described me at many points in my childhood as well—and perhaps after).
I always had the image in my head, as he said those words, that the sounds the instrument made were what might have come from down between the ebony and ivory keys, instead of dead center on top of them.
I suspect I may have been playing in the cracks for most of my life. And for some reason, I’ve always thought I needed to be fixed—to be tuned up to standard pitch.
I’m beginning to think differently.
I’ve indeed spent most of my life singing tenor. But, I’m a baritone.
If you know vocal categories, you realize that often the baritone is left out in choral music. Music is written in SATB form (soprano, alto, tenor, bass), so there’s no place for the baritone to fit in easily. Many notes in the tenor part are comfortable and sound great when sung by a baritone, but when those soaring notes fly up above Middle C, the baritone voice begins to lose its luster. The same thing happens in the bass parts, except it’s in the lower range of that voicing that the baritone singer gets lost in the mix.
I still remember my pastor’s wife sitting in front of me in the choir during my high school years. Back then, the choir needed a bass voice, so I covered that part for them.
Mrs. Slaughter was always kind, always sweet. She’d hear me sing a bass line (that should have been full and deep, but for me, the notes were just barely audible) and she’d say, loud enough for the entire choir to hear, “Oh! Listen to that basso profundo!”
I don’t think anyone else in the choir was rude enough to laugh, but I did. Every time. I knew better.
I’m no bass singer. Nor am I a tenor.
I sing in the cracks between the two.
And, it’s finally okay.
Dr. Cho says it’s okay.
Can I make a suggestion? If you don’t fit the mold they’re pushing you into, stop trying. Be who you are. More than that—be who God made you to be.
The world will try to make you fit their standard. You don’t belong there. And, if you’re really following Christ, you’ll never fit in—never feel comfortable—singing in that key.
“This world is not my home, I’m just a-passing through…”
Living in the cracks.
Until we finally reach home.
There, we’ll be singing in His key. With His voicing.
He—the Master Conductor—says it’s okay.
You know the music will be spectacular.
I hope you’ll sing with me. I’ll be the one singing baritone.
“I’m not asking you to take them out of the world, but to keep them safe from the evil one.They do not belong to this world any more than I do.Make them holy by your truth; teach them your word, which is truth.Just as you sent me into the world, I am sending them into the world.”
(John 17:15-18, NLT)
“Harpists spend ninety percent of their lives tuning their harps, and ten percent playing out of tune.” (Igor Stravinsky)
