As I write this, the sun is shining brightly in the sky outside. I’m sitting beside a hospital bed, listening to the loud beeping of an alarm that should be telling a nurse somewhere to come change an IV medicine bag.
My friends are posting Christmas carols today. I did that earlier this week. Somehow, Christmas isn’t close to my thoughts today.
Even though a niece has started her road trip toward our house from northern latitudes this morning, and a sister-in-law will fly in from eastern longitudes later this week to be with us for Christmas, I find myself contemplating life and its uncertanties on this day.
Sitting in a waiting room of a hospital for nine hours a day ago will do that to a person. Visits with friends who pass by in the hallway—an activity one would expect to lift spirits—allows the shadows to creep into the mind.
A few days ago, I lifted my candle with a thousand other folks and said that the darkness could not overcome the light. I don’t repent of the declaration. It is still true.
Still, the lights of physical life can dim, while the light of Redeeming Grace shines the brighter.
As I waited for the result of a loved one’s surgery yesterday, I learned of a couple of families I know who are facing the loss of their loved ones this holiday season. Somehow, for them, the light won’t seem so bright in this season we call festive.
And, my heart weeps with them.
And, that’s as it should be.
But still, I watched the sunrise this morning before coming to sit beside the bed of my loved one who remains in pain, and I just couldn’t stop the words from welling up.
“When morning guilds the skies My heart awaking cries, ‘May Jesus Christ be praised.'”
As the day goes on, I don’t doubt that my spirit will flag. Sitting beside a bed is hard work. Elation is not the emotion one feels most in that locale.
But, it doesn’t change the fact that every morning we arise to meet the day is one in which we are blessed by our Creator.
“It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not; they are new every morning. Great is Thy faithfulness.” (Lamentations 3: 22-24, KJV)
It was true when the words were written. It’s still true today.
Christmas will come. This Advent season builds the anticipation for the day when we’ll celebrate our Savior’s birth.
I’ll sing the carols. I will.
I hope your voice will blend with mine as we give thanks for His good and perfect gifts.
Even if our voices don’t blend all that well, it will be a joyful noise raised up to the God who bends low—the God who hears us, who understands our frailties, and still He came for us.
I’d still like to have the song in my mouth when the evening comes.
“Yea, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning. Jesus to thee be all glory given.” (from O Come All Ye Faithful, by John Francis Wade)
“The sun comes up; It’s a new day dawning. It’s time to sing Your song again. Whatever may pass And whatever lies before me, Let me be singing When the evening comes.”
I will never understand it. The Christmas season is one filled with light and hope, yet more people are feeling sad than at any other time of the year.
I checked to be sure I’m not spreading fake news. The National Alliance on Mental Illness tells us a 2021 survey shows that 3 in 5 people in America say the holidays make them sad.
A friend who has had a rough year posted her annual birthday note a couple of days ago to share her trials and joys with her tribe. I responded and suggested that sometimes the best we can do is stay in the vicinity of the light. In the shadows, but never far from the light.
But, I don’t really believe that. I don’t.
I wrote recently about preparations for the Christmas Candlelight Service at the local Christian university—one in which I have participated for well more than forty years. Nearly every time I have participated, I have found a new truth to enlighten my journey. I’ve shared many of those truths with my readers.
This year is no exception, even though my participation was in a very different capacity than those services for the past four decades.
When I played my horn with the brass group for the event, we always left the stage soon after the halfway point in the service. Sitting in pews reserved for us, we simply became audience members, enjoying the beautiful choral music the young folks (getting younger every year, seemingly) presented.
I was carried away. Every time.
This year as a vocalist, I stayed on the stage until, as my sweet mother-in-law would have put it, the last dog was hung. (I’m not sure what that means, but it seems to indicate staying until the entire event is finished, so I’ll go with it.)
Right up at the top of the risers, I and my compatriots stood or sat, depending on our part in the program. With a bird’s-eye view, one might say.
We were on display to the whole audience, but we also had a clear line of sight to every part of the cathedral. The view was eye-opening. Well, it took me until the last night to open my eyes, but I can’t unsee it in my mind now.
Forty-five times, I had seen it from the same perspective. Yet, it was always moving.
This is different.
I’m mostly thinking about the candlelighting ceremony at the end of the service.
Over the years, we would sit in the pews, with the student candle-lighters stopping at the ends of each row, lighting the candle of the person sitting there. Then that person would pass the flame to their neighbor, and they to theirs, until all the candles were aflame.
As we sang the words to the old Christmas carol, Silent Night, we held the candles close until the third verse. Then, as we began to sing about the radiant beams from His face, each of us would lift our candle high, flooding the huge building with brilliant light.
It was always moving. I know—I’m repeating myself. It’s still true. Again and again, I’ve been moved.
It all changed drastically this year, especially on the final night. I had always thought it was only that last verse—when we raised our candles—that was moving.
But, on this final night, I had tears in my eyes through every verse of the carol. The tears started before the music did.
I have known how it worked—the sharing of the flame, one person to the next. Yet I’ve never seen the big picture of how it occurred, except from my limited perspective amongst the folks right beside me.
I suppose it may be a bit like Job felt in the Old Testament. He had heard with his ears—he knew a little of what he was supposed to know—but seeing with his own eyes made all the difference. Now, he had experienced it. (Job 42:5)
Experiencing it is different than just having a head knowledge. I’m sure of it.
Throughout the entire service (all three nights) I had looked at the dim cathedral and knew there were individuals there—a number of them friends and acquaintances— but because of the darkness, I couldn’t see any individual faces, only a huge indistinct crowd of humanity.
And, as the ceremony began, from my bird’s-eye view, I watched the young folks carry their candles to the dark pews to spread the light. And finally, on the last night, I saw it clearly.
Through the whole room, looking completely random and without plan, the light spread. I could see flames shift from one person to the next, moving laterally along each pew. It wasn’t uniform. There was no pattern—or seemingly not. Row after row, I watched the lights flicker across from side to side.
Now, what was it that I was supposed to be seeing? Sure, the candles were lit in preparation for the holding forth of the light later on, but that wasn’t it.
There! I saw it!
Faces appeared behind the candles. Individual faces. On my left. In front of me, not far back. Then, way back to the right.
Faces.
No longer simply a mass of humanity, the bodies in the pews had faces—identities that could be clearly and individually seen.
“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” (Isaiah 9:2, NIV)
How did I miss that?
We who have come to His light come as individuals out of profound darkness. And, His light shines on us.
It shines on us. You. Me.
Yes, we’re part of the great cloud of witnesses—like John the Baptist, bearing witness to The Light—but we come to our Savior and He knows each one of us.
He knows me.
He knows you.
And now, we have the great privilege of reflecting The Light.
Again, from that vantage point, I watched the flames—held close throughout the song—as they were thrust forward and upward to the ceiling. If I had been moved through all of those years when I was sitting in the audience, it was spectacular seeing it from above and in front of it!
Spectacular. An explosion of light!
We can spread the light—one to another. It’s in His plan that we do that. We can even hold our light close and have light for the journey.
He knows each one of us and loves us in our individuality.
But, it’s also in His plan that the world around us be overwhelmed by the brilliance of His Light, shared by His people collectively, walking in love for Him and for our neighbors, the people who dwell in the profound darkness.
Overwhelmed.
I’m not sure we’re doing that yet.
But, it’s not too late.
I’m pretty sure it will be spectacular.
Spectacular.
“I will make you a light to the nations, so you can bring my deliverance to the remote regions of the earth.” (Isaiah 49:6b, NET)
“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” (Matthew 5:16, KJV)
“Silent night! Holy night! Son of God, love’s pure light radiant beams from Thy holy face with the dawn of redeeming grace, Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth! Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth!“ (from Silent Night by Joseph Mohr)
I’m sitting at my desk in the converted garage. There’s a space heater beside me blowing warm air directly at my legs and feet.
I’m not shivering. It’s a good thing.
I wouldn’t expect the reader to know it, but I don’t love the cold. I blame my father. He would be happy to accept the blame. When he was discharged from the Navy in the early 1960s, he took his red-headed wife and five youngsters to the Rio Grande Valley of Texas to make their home.
Saying, “I want to live somewhere where I can sweat twelve months of the year,” the man settled in for the foreseeable future, there in that place with two seasons—Hot and Hotter.
My resulting thin blood has never thickened, in spite of nearly fifty years in a climate with four seasons per annum.
I realized something recently. It was never taught in Sunday School, back when I was learning about King David—he with the harp, and the sling for which he took five smooth stones once upon a time.
In the book of First Kings, David is old. Well, okay, he is about the age I am now. The book’s first verse says, “King David was very old; even when they covered him with blankets, he could not get warm.” (1 King 1:1, NET)
I’m reasonably certain that, if one were to ask her, the Lovely Lady would tell them that this verse describes me to a T.
I don’t like to shiver.
It is the week in which our local university’s choirs present their Candlelight Service. I have had the pleasure of having a small part in the service for many years, all of them before this while playing my horn with the brass ensemble that you might describe as the “warm-up band.”
Now. There’s a good word!
Warm.
I like that.
Oh—where was I? Oh yes, the Candlelight Service.
This year, I am enjoying singing with one of the choirs, as part of a community group, combined with the University Chorus. I’m certain I was not selected for my great skill. More probably it was just to have a warm body sitting in the bass section.
Oh. There it is again. That word.
Warm.
It is nice, isn’t it?
We arrived, the Lovely Lady and I, for the dress rehearsal last night in the beautiful Cathedral of the Ozarks—having walked the few blocks from our home to the campus. It seemed the huge room was almost as chilly inside as the exterior temperature had been, but I took my coat off anyway.
I wished I hadn’t. Several times during the rehearsal.
When they turned the spotlights on, the young man next to me (knowing I was cold) leaned close and stage-whispered (Well? We were on a stage!) in the general direction of my ear, “Now you’ll get warm!”
Light that makes you warm. Now, there’s a thought.
I have been on stages before when the lights were so hot I soaked the shirt I was wearing. Sweat running down one’s spine is not all that much more comfortable than shivering in the cold. Not much, but some.
The spotlights didn’t make me warm. I think they may have been LEDs. I understand the reasons for using LEDs, but the old incandescent bulbs made better heaters.
But, at one point, the choir director had our group sit while the Cathedral Choir (the first-string, you know) ran through one of their pieces. I thought it might be my imagination, but it seemed that I was less cold.
Then, when they sat down later, I was certain of it. It was warmer when they were standing in front of us. Definitely warmer.
I guess the reader understands by now that I like the warmth. But, I also like it when a concept breaks through the chill and warms my brain, too. Maybe, it’s just the light going on in there that does that.
The young folks standing near us warmed us up.
It’s a time-honored concept. I’m not going to belabor the point, but we warm each other up. By our proximity.
Do you know what the wise men who were advisors to King David suggested for his problem all those centuries ago? They selected a young woman to be his nurse and to lie beside him in the bed to warm him up. And, before your mind can explore that road down toward the gutter, the text is very specific; he was not intimate with her. She simply shared her body warmth to make him less cold. (1 Kings 1:4)
We’re warmer when we are close to folks we love. Or, even just like.
It’s odd; I’ve never thought of the Christmas season as a cold time. I, who have disrespected winter again and again, both in real life and in my writing, always think of Christmas as being a warm time.
Perhaps it’s the closeness of our family at this time of year. And of our friends. And our acquaintances at church—and the coffeeshop—and the Christmas parade.
We share warmth.
With music. And love.
And Joy that shall be to all people.
I’m aware that many don’t have family to get together with. But, the concept works with people in general—getting together to share the joy of the coming of a Savior all those years ago.
Share the warmth.
I’m going to do that with close to a thousand people for each of the next three nights.
I’m already feeling warmer.
You?
“Music brings a warm glow to my vision; thawing mind and muscle from their endless wintering.” (Haruki Murakami)
“Furthermore, if two lie down together, they can keep each other warm, but how can one person keep warm by himself?” (Ecclesiastes 4:11, NET)
That doesn’t sound right to me. I wonder if it bothers anyone else.
The Lovely Lady tells me I don’t need to overthink things. She knows I will anyway. I come by it honestly. It’s in the genes, you might say.
My father is the one I blame for this trait. Logic was his domain. Every year on what most of us would call his birthday, he’d inform us he was celebrating the anniversary of his birthday. Clearly, you can’t literally revisit your birthday—it being in the dim, distant past.
Then, he would go even further and explain that, in reality, one was beginning the next year in the sequence of years. If you turned thirty, that was the day you entered your thirty-first year—having completed the thirtieth already. Then, if he was really feeling curmudgeonly, he’d remind you that technically you needed to add nine months to the age anyway since the gestation period was arguably a season of your life.
I’d like to tell you I’m not quite as pedantic as that, but in my overthinking brain, it bothers me a bit to think that only one day in the year should be recognized as Thanksgiving.
And, now that I let my eyes drift to the words I’ve written above, I realize I’ve departed so far from my original intention for this little essay that I may have already lost the plot. It’s a common problem for me.
Now, where was I?
Oh yes. The day before Thanksgiving.
Somehow, I think it’s no mistake that a close family member is scheduled to have a consultation with her surgeon on this day to discuss the timetable for removal of a mass in her abdomen.
I was to go to the appointment with her until my doctor added an appointment at another hospital for an MRI for me. Yes. On the day before Thanksgiving. He says we need confirmation that I actually have a brain in my head. There’s never been any convincing proof of the fact, to my knowledge.
And, the other family member who stepped in to take the family member to her doctor’s visit is already dealing with bad news for others in his own circle.
But, give it one more day and then we’re going to be thankful. We’ll gather the rest of the family around the loaded table and get in the spirit of things—being thankful.
Just not today.
Somehow, that doesn’t seem right.
Is the day before the official holiday going to be hard? It does seem likely. Biopsy reports and anticipation of surgery and, possibly a chemo regimen are hard. Hard.
Lying with one’s head in a cage listening to the clicks, the whirs, and the bangs of the machine surrounding you can’t be comfortable. It might be considered hard, too.
I talked with at least three friends today who told me of family members dealing with the “hard”. Many I know (and you do, too) are anticipating a holiday with empty chairs at the table—chairs that had someone they love sitting in them a year ago—three years ago—a decade ago. It doesn’t matter.
Grief is hard.
None of what I write here is going to make the hard any easier. None of these words are intended to diminish, and certainly, not to make light of the pain.
I know this about being thankful: It allows us to see a way through the hard to the future. But, when all we can see is the hard and the pain, we can’t see past it to anything but the now.
The hard now. Today.
But, today is not all there is. It’s not.
His mercies are new every morning. Every one of them.
“Be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus.” (1 Thessalonians 5:18, NLT)
I’ve never been quite sure I like these words penned by the apostle for whom I am named. But, they give me hope. They tell me I belong.
To Him. The One who has planned good things for me. And for you. Things to help us, not to hurt us.
I will live in that hope—will walk in that hope.
It’s not the day before Thanksgiving.
It is a day of thanksgiving. Another one.
Like yesterday was. And, like tomorrow will be.
I’m giving thanks.
Today.
I hope you will, too.
“And now let the weak say ‘I am strong’; Let the poor say ‘I am rich’, Because of what the Lord has done for us. Give thanks.”
(from Give Thanks, by Henry Smith)
“I will thank the Lord with all my heart! I will tell about all your amazing deeds. I will be happy and rejoice in you. I will sing praises to you, O Most High.”
(Psalm 9: 1-2, NET)
The pink lady smiled sympathetically as I walked past her station in the hospital’s lobby to the padded seat in the waiting area. I’ve been there for several early morning sojourns in the last couple of weeks.
There are more to come.
I’ve mentioned that I don’t do early mornings before, haven’t I? These haven’t been voluntary, but necessary. I don’t volunteer for early mornings.
Oh, wait. I did, didn’t I? Volunteer.
And, I’ll do it again.
Tomorrow is another one. An early morning. That’s why this is going to be short.
But, I thought you needed to know—you who do this all the time. I’m talking to you who volunteer for the early mornings—and the long afternoons—and the interminably long nights.
It matters; what you do matters. You matter.
A friend sent a note this morning, as I sat in one of those waiting rooms. She wanted me to know that I was a blessing to the lady for whom I was biding my time.
I mentioned to her that I was simply doing what was in front of me to do. Then I wondered if that’s what being faithful is about.
I’m still mulling that one over. I may think about it in the waiting room of another facility tomorrow morning.
But, my friend who sent the note about being a blessing was the one who actually blessed me by writing the words.
So, I’m just passing it on.
You know who you are. In your homes—the hospitals—the nursing homes—the prisons—the hospices.
You are a blessing.
You are.
I just thought you should know.
“Listen to my voice in the morning, Lord. Each morning I bring my requests to you and wait expectantly.”
(Psalm 5:3, NLT)
“Now it is required that those who have been given a trust must prove faithful.” (1 Corinthians 4:2, NIV)
“That trim board is just a little proud. We’ll have to hit it with the sandpaper to get it flush before we finish it.”
My brother-in-law was installing the new bookshelves in our living room. As he set them in place, he noticed the errant piece and was unhappy to see it.
I didn’t care about the piece of wood; but being a certifiable word nerd, I did want to know about the terminology he had used to describe it.
“Proud?”
Patiently, as he sanded the offending wood to match the surrounding cabinet, he explained that the word described the position of the wood in relationship to the rest of the bookshelf.
“It just needs to be flush with the rest of the edge. If we leave it standing out like that, you’ll catch on it every time you walk past and could actually damage the rest of the bookcase.”
With a flourish, he finished sanding. I looked to get a glimpse of this proud board, but it was now impossible to see what he had been working on.
Proud no more, the trim piece blended in with the entire unit.
Integrity. All the individual pieces working together achieved beauty and functionality, so our books were safe and protected.
But, I didn’t intend to write about books or even shelves today. I want to talk about something else that happened just this week.
It seems to me I should make this clear from the get-go; I won’t move your piano, even if you’re desperate to have it done.
I’m just saying…
Well, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, perhaps we can go ahead with the story that inspired this little essay. It does, in fact, involve moving a piano. And, I don’t do that anymore—right?
The Lovely Lady’s daughter and son-in-law (okay—mine, too) have moved into a larger house, one that will accommodate a grand piano. They were able to locate a good instrument at a fair price and asked if I could come along, “…purely in a consulting capacity, you understand?” (Because I don’t move pianos.)
We gathered up the equipment and, hooking the little trailer up behind my pickup truck, drove to the outskirts of town to collect the piano. There was plenty of help, with muscles galore—enough of them that I wouldn’t need to lift even a corner of the heavy instrument.
After disassembling the piano enough to stand it on edge, we put it on a dolly and rolled it outside and into the trailer we brought for the task. We covered it well with pads and strapped it against the side of the trailer.
We should have been ready to load the sundry pieces into the truck and drive away to deliver the piano to its new domicile. We weren’t.
I looked at it sitting there against the side of the trailer and thought that something was off. Gripping the side of the instrument, I pushed and pulled, first away and then back toward the trailer’s side. As I had suspected, it moved an excessive amount.
I wasn’t at all sure the weight of the piano wouldn’t make it tip over as we traveled down the road. Tipping over isn’t good for a piano. Not at all.
I discussed the problem with the moving crew and we agreed that more than half of the piano’s body was sitting above the side of the trailer.
It was just a little proud.
We traded ideas about how to remedy the problem. I was even ready to attach another strap to the opposite side of the trailer to counterbalance the weight.
Then my son-in-law had the bright idea.
“Why don’t we just take it off the dolly and make it sit down lower in the trailer?”
The man is a genius.
We tipped the piano up a bit and removed the moving dolly, letting the board under the piano sit back down on the trailer’s floor. Reattaching the straps, I shook the instrument again.
Rock solid. There would be no tipping.
The reader might be excused for thinking someone uttered the words, “That’s not going anywhere,” but no one did. I thought it but resisted saying it.
That piano had been proud. Sitting up where it was exposed to the vagaries of gravity and my erratic driving, it was a prime candidate for a fall.
But, there were no calamities in the piano move.
Because we cut it down to size. Okay—we didn’t actually use a saw blade; we just lowered its center of gravity. For safety and efficiency.
Is it the right time for this reminder?
“So, if you think you are standing firm, be careful that you don’t fall!“ (1 Corinthians 10:12, NIV)
It strikes me that standing proud has never been the way our Creator intended for us to approach life. While our culture differs dramatically, telling us to stand tall, to be proud, and to make sure we’re seen and honored above our peers, it seems clear that we were never designed to operate apart from the support of others.
A friend I was talking with this morning said it this way:
“We want to work from the top down. God actually works from the bottom up.”
His creation shows the principle again and again. A strong foundation supports the structure that rises from it. Take away the foundation—stone, roots, or terra firma—and the structure is headed for a rapid unscheduled disassembly (to borrow a term from today’s vernacular).
The Word of God describes pride as sinful, in addition to its pitfalls. In some ways, it seems the original sin of mankind was bound up in pride—contempt for obedience, along with a desire to show independence, driving the act. It is certain that pride drove Lucifer’s rebellion and casting down from heaven.
And somehow, ages later, every one of us is just a little proud. Or, more than just a little.
Proud.
But, God’s plans for us are for our benefit and to build us up. Together.
In the big picture, humility builds all of us up taller and stronger than pride.
I have seen the result of pianos that were allowed to stand tall in their conveyance. The last one I saw was scattered across the farmer’s field that abutted the curve in the highway.
It couldn’t have been a proud moment. Despite any pride the owner might have felt as they loaded that piano.
Maybe it’s time to get our feet on the ground again.
He gives grace to the humble. (James 4:6)
And the sandpaper He uses on the proud doesn’t always feel that nice.
I’ve learned that from experience. And I’m not too proud to admit it.
Grace is better.
“A person standing alone can be attacked and defeated, but two can stand back-to-back and conquer. Three are even better, for a triple-braided cord is not easily broken.” (Ecclesiastes 4:12, NLT)
“Do you wish to rise? Begin by descending. You plan a tower that will pierce the clouds? Lay first the foundation of humility.” (from Confessions by Augustine of Hippo)
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)
