My friend smiled joyfully as she said the words. Her mom, who has cancer, had surgery last week and is healing nicely.
But, I wonder. . .
I’ve experienced the same thing in recent years. The Lovely Lady’s brother received his original diagnosis four years before the disease took him. At several points throughout that journey, we realized anew that we had more time, albeit limited, with him.
It changed our relationship; making us more purposeful. We valued the times around the table—the visits on the backyard deck. We knew our days together were numbered.
We made the most of them. We invested in them.
Does that make sense?
The Apostle, my namesake, used the term (at least in the version in which I learned it): Redeeming the time.
In the book of Colossians (chapter 4, verse 5), he uses it with respect to unbelievers and sharing the Good News with them. But, in Ephesians (chapter 5, verses 16 and 17), he’s clearly talking about our relationships with those of the faith.
Either way, we’re to invest our hours and days wisely. It’s nothing like the spending time we refer to so often in our culture. Redeeming means buying back; reclaiming every minute.
But, here’s what I wonder:
Why do we wait until we have a pretty clear picture of the time frame? Until we can almost see the limit of our days on earth with those we love?
Our days were numbered from the moment of our conception.
“You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.” (Psalm 139:16, NLT)
He knows how long we have. He always has.
And He wants us to redeem every minute. For Him, and for those He’s blessed us to walk this journey with.
He knows our days without the need for a surgeon’s prognosis—without the calculation of life expectancy from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention—without our wide-eyed expectations.
He knows. And, He wants us to invest ourselves into every bit of it.
I remember a song that was popular in my youth—an awful song (at least they were awful lyrics). But, there was a grain of truth in it.
The lyrics said, “If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.” The author of those lyrics intended them to mean that we love them physically—carnally.
Still, my mind has always traveled by its own strange paths.
And, I’m absolutely certain we’re intended to love the one we’re with. With the love that God put in our hearts, we are to invest ourselves every day into others He brings into our lives. In spiritual ways, and in practical ways.
Fill your days with manifestations of love for those around you. Words are good. Actions are better. Gifts are optional.
Don’t wait.
Today needs redemption already.
“We get more time.”
“Every moment of light and dark is a miracle.” (Walt Whitman)
“See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise, redeeming the time, because the days are evil. Therefore do not be unwise, but understand what the will of the Lord is.”
(Ephesians 5:15-17, NKJV)
She said she had learned recently that the name common for homeless wanderers in the last century meant something almost romantic. We were talking about hobos, those bindle-toting fellows who rode the rails during the Great Depression, knocking on doors in small towns across the country as they looked for handouts—mostly food, sometimes money.
My guest told me the article she read suggested the word hobo was short for homeward bound.
I’ve done a bit of reading on the subject and find that explanation surfaced rather recently, extrapolated by a writer or two, coming from the soldiers who were traveling after the Civil War in the 19th century, saying they were homeward bound, only to realize when they got there that their homes had been destroyed in the conflict.
It seems more likely that the term came from the name given to the farmer boys who left their farms to look for a better life. Hoe-boys, they were called.
There was a day when I answered my grandmother’s inevitable question of what I intended to do with my life with the suggestion that I wanted to be a hobo. What I really meant was I wanted to live the life of a bum, but have the assurance of a home to return to and the promise of financial support, should I get hungry and cold.
I grew up and out of that mindset, thankfully. I did leave home, striking out to new horizons, but I put down roots and got a job immediately. The wandering life wasn’t for me, much to my grandmother’s relief.
Still, I like the idea of being homeward bound. Even after all the years of living nearly a thousand miles away, the reminders of my hometown I see almost daily induce a sort of homesickness in me.
I wonder. Why do we look for a place to call home?
Several years ago I wrote of my friend, Miss Peggy. She, in her ninety-first year of life, fussed at me one day because her friend had died. The friend was younger, probably in her late eighties.
“It wasn’t her turn!” Miss Peggy was adamant—almost angry.
I held back the laugh that threatened to burst out. I had never considered this concept of standing in line, waiting to get into Heaven. In my mind’s eye, I could visualize her friend, an old spinster just like Miss Peggy, cutting the line up ahead of those waiting impatiently.
The impulse to laugh died suddenly as Peggy tilted her head wistfully, letting the words spill out.
“I want to go home.”
Surrounded by her belongings, in her own cozy house, she wanted to be home. Really home.
I guess that’s what it’s like when you’ve been on the road so long. You just want to be home.
Not many of us are hobos, but all of us—if we’re God’s children—are homeward bound.
Just like Abraham and his offspring—like Moses and his wandering, grumbling tagalongs—we’re looking for the place of promised rest.
And, it’s not the place we came from. No, we’re going home.
Homeward bound.
And, in the meantime, our Creator’s got some green pastures and quiet waters for us to travel past. And, yeah. A dark valley or two.
But, there’s goodness. And mercy. All the days of our lives.
Until we’re finally home.
Looks like we’re headed the same direction. Maybe we could jump a freight train together sometime.
Homeward bound.
“They agreed that they were foreigners and nomads here on earth. Obviously people who say such things are looking forward to a country they can call their own.If they had longed for the country they came from, they could have gone back.But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.”
(Hebrews 11:13-16, NLT)
“Would you welcome going home If you’d never been away? I don’t think so. I don’t think so. I really don’t think so.”
(from Would You by Evie Tornquist Karllson)
It may come as a surprise, but I’m not all that big a fan of winter. However, I like snow.
I should clarify. When I look at it from the warmth of my living room, I like it. On my car’s windshield when I need to drive it—not so much. On the ramp out front when guests are arriving—certainly not!
I am becoming aware of something that seems a vital truth, though. This truth dawned on me today as I walked to the coffee shop I’m sitting in now. Yes, just like the rising sun’s light waking me from sleep, it hit me.
We need hardship—uncomfortable things—in our lives.
I know; it seems so antithetical to everything our society tells us. Every new technology seems aimed at making life easier—at reducing labor. Smartphones, self-driving cars, and domotics (automated homes) are only the latest in a long line of devices, perhaps starting millennia ago with the inception of the wheel.
When we become accustomed to the ease of living, it is difficult if not impossible for us to move out of the comfort zone in which we buffer ourselves.
I walked on the sidewalk covered in the remnants of this week’s snowfall today and I found myself grousing about the uneven and sometimes slick surface. It wasn’t the first time I’ve done it recently.
Each frigid day this week I’ve walked to the university where the Lovely Lady is employed, to collect her at the end of her workday. The university staff has cleared their sidewalks of snow and ice rather nicely. It’s easy to stroll along the concrete surfaces, without the need to watch our steps. We walk comfortably and easily across most of the campus, free of stress and effort.
Until that is, we come to the end of their property and the cleared sidewalks. The roughness of icy spots and the deeper snow mean we have to choose our steps carefully. We’re getting to the age where falls are more than just a quick trip to the ground and getting up dusting the snow off our seats. The pain lasts.
If we don’t choose our steps wisely, it hurts.
But, we don’t walk where the sidewalks are always cleared. We must walk circumspectly—cautiously and with care—in every situation.
Does it seem we’re not talking just about snowy sidewalks anymore? Perhaps we’re not.
If the shoe fits. . .
I had the words to the old Isaac Watts hymn, Am I a Soldier of the Cross, in my head this morning as I walked.
Are there no foes for me to face? Must I not stem the flood? Is this vile world a friend to grace, To help me on to God?
I know, I know. It’s odd to be singing words written three hundred years ago while crunching through the snow. But, that’s me. Odd.
The clear answer to Mr. Watts’ question is that the world is not a friend to grace and it will, without fail, attempt to thwart our every effort to be with God.
We who follow Christ get to make the journey one precarious step at a time. The path, we’re told, is narrow and often lonely. We will stumble a time or two. Or more.
It’s easier on the other path—the one that’s been cleared and leveled. There’s more company there, too.
But, in the end, the easy path is infinitely more dangerous. The destination won’t be pleasant, I’m told.
Besides, there’s always Someone on the rough path with our best interest in mind. The Psalmist knew it.
The Lord directs the steps of the godly. He delights in every detail of their lives. Though they stumble, they will never fall, for the Lord holds them by the hand.
(Psalm 37: 23-24, NLT)
Our friends, the hikers, have walked the Appalachian Trail in the eastern United States from Georgia to Maine. Over two thousand miles, they trekked, often holding on to each other, choosing every step with care lest they twist an ankle or break a bone.
The Trail is not smooth. Not at all. The hikers talk about the hardships, of the mental discipline necessary to keep going despite the obstacles.
But mostly, they talk about the incredible sights along the way and the amazing friends they made as they struggled along.
You don’t hike the Appalachian Trail on smooth, paved surfaces.
The road we have in front of us isn’t all that smooth, either. But, there are astounding people and beauty along the way. Besides, the finish—our goal—lies at the end of this sometimes icy, or rocky, or muddy, path.
The world is not a friend to grace. It wants us to be fooled by the smooth, wide pathways that eventually lead to hopelessness.
Meantime, on the inconvenient path, there will be friends along the way to lean on. And strong hands to keep us from falling when we stumble.
I’ll try to hold my grumbling down to a dull roar.
Still, I’ll be happy when that snow is melted.
See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise, redeeming the time, because the days are evil.
(Ephesians 5:15-16, NKJV)
“Careful!” he whispered. “Steps. Lots of steps. Must be careful!”
(Gollum, from The Two Towers, by J.R.R. Tolkien)
I grew up with potluck dinners. Most of my readers who grew up in church have experienced these events myriad times and will testify that they are lovely meals, albeit leading to many bouts of heartburn and indigestion.
Oh. Not because of eating bad food! No, the discomfort is simply because of the quantity of food one tends to ingest when sampling the output of so many wonderful cooks.
That’s not what you should expect to find here today.
I have in mind the definition of potluck from the sixteenth century—when eating potluck meant one had dropped in on an unsuspecting homemaker after the dinner hour and was offered whatever leftovers happened to have been thrown in the pot over the fire, being kept warm to prevent them from spoiling.
Often the resulting mélange was not appetizing in the slightest, but a hodgepodge of textures and materials, along with flavors (and perhaps even freshness, or the lack thereof).
This is like that, not the best from the recipe box; just whatever I’ve not been able to use in my last few outings, but don’t really want to throw it out just yet.
Bon appétit!
I intended to write again recently, but have been under the weather. If you didn’t already know that, it’s only because you haven’t been around to hear me complain about it. The Lovely Lady has endured well more than her share, taking it all in with incredible patience.
I looked at her earlier as she arose from her position on the loveseat near me and, realizing that she was moving slowly (which made me think about how weak I was feeling), I said—quite romantically, I thought, “I wish we could go back and live life together all over again.”
She frowned for a minute and, suggesting that she didn’t have the energy to go through all that again, went into the kitchen to work on dinner, leaving me to my disconnected thoughts once more.
For the last couple of weeks, I’ve had a visit from my annual guest, the boisterous asthmatic bronchitis. It’s been mostly calm during the days, but spends the night causing nothing but commotion and sleeplessness.
During several of those nights (and now, even in the daylight), I have bemoaned the pain caused by the continuous coughing fits. Holding my sides to lessen the ache of stressed muscles, I think I could die from this (a slight exaggeration, possibly).
And then this afternoon, as the Lovely Lady got into our car in the hospital parking lot—we weren’t there for me; she was visiting a friend—I was taken down a peg (again) to learn that when our friend coughs, she has to hug a pillow tightly to her chest to avoid doing actual damage to the incision and closures that her surgeon carefully worked on a couple of days ago.
This was after he split her chest open to do open-heart surgery.
I repent. I hear the red-headed lady who raised me saying the words—Tempest in a teapot—or something like that.
And, speaking of bridges—oh no, we weren’t, were we? Well, just another bit of the potluck, isn’t it?
Bridges. We stopped at the side of one of the state highways a few days ago, so I could sneak onto the verge of the pavement to photograph an old dry-laid stone culvert that a friend mentioned recently. I hasten to add that I did not walk where the “no trespassing” sign was posted but remained on the right-of-way instead.
I marvel at the industry of anyone who, seeing a stream or river in their way, determines to make a way over it, regardless of the labor involved, instead of simply fording the water when it’s low enough and finding a way around it when it’s not. That’s what I’d do.
The red-headed lady who raised me would have said. . . No, I don’t remember any maxims she had for idleness, except to remind us that the Bible says if you don’t work, you don’t eat.
Now, where was I? Oh yes, the bridge. A beautiful old rock arch bridge, hand-laid without mortar. I was reminded of why I love the structures, be they covered wooden affairs, metal pieces bolted and welded together, or even ornate concrete spans with rainbow arches thrown up across the entire span.
I love them because of the vision that wrought them. The people who stood on one bank of a mighty river—or even a trickling stream—and said, “Let’s make this better.”
There are still people doing just this in countries where the populace is not as blessed as we are with infrastructure maintained by our government. These visionaries are driven by a desire to make things better for folks they may never see or know. Folks whose lives may actually be saved because they don’t have to traverse a ravine to get to the hospital when they are having an emergency. Or, they may just be able to save a couple of hours a day by going over instead of around.
Sometimes we get tired and vision fades. Sometimes we need a day or two of sitting to be reminded that there is still more to be done. Maybe even a lesson in perspective to see people who really are hurting and not just sorry for themselves.
Well, it looks like that’s all there is in the pot tonight. I hope it wasn’t too unpalatable. If you can get to the dinner table earlier next time, you might get a better concoction. Something you can sink your teeth into a little easier. Maybe even some pie for dessert.
I’m reminded that Elisha the prophet just threw some flour into a pot of nasty stew centuries ago and it got all better. I’ll try to find some of that flour before the next go-round.
For now, I think I’ll go find the Lovely Lady and suggest a trip to Sonic for a Number 3 burger (do they still make those?). Maybe she’ll be more inclined to think about going on all the adventures again after a generous offer like that.
Then again, perhaps I should simply give thanks for what I’ve got.
But, Sonic’s not a bad idea anyway.
“Where there is no vision, there is no hope.”
(George Washington Carver)
“Elisha said, ‘Get some flour.’ He put it into the pot and said, ‘Serve it to the people to eat.’ And there was nothing harmful in the pot.”
(2 Kings 4:41, NIV)
I learned one final life lesson from last year a few days ago. Well, perhaps there were others after that too.
But still—one lesson I never expected.
You’re never too old to fall in love with a puppy that you can’t take home.
Yeah, I know. I was surprised, too. I suppose I shouldn’t be. I’ve mentioned to you about the second childhood thing. And the getting more sensitive thing.
But, one day last week, the Lovely Lady and I got into my truck with a few extra passengers to visit the mountaintop where our grandchildren live. It takes over an hour to travel to their house, so I figured we’d have time to talk with our passengers on the way.
It turns out that, unlike me, they’re seasoned travelers who are better at planning their travel time than am I, so there were noise-canceling headphones and smartphones, along with a 900-page biography to be read, and instead of talking, my driving time was divided between counting skunk carcasses on the roadside and wondering why it is that all the churches in the little town of Sonora, Arkansas seem to be built right next to each other along the highway.
I might have thought about a few other things along the way. But, I promise you, I wasn’t thinking I’d be sad on the trip home because I had to leave a sweet little girl pup I’d already named Cyclone (in my head, anyway) on top of that mountain.
She wasn’t the only cute pup there. Others were bigger—or more playful—and perhaps, even more lovable. But, this little girl just caught my eye. And, my heart.
I looked at the Lovely Lady. You know, with puppy-dog-eyes. She knows me. Before I opened my mouth, she knew what I was going to say.
“She is beautiful. But, you know what we decided. Still, it’s up to you.”
It’s not like that time when I was a boy and wanted my own dog. Then, the red-headed lady who raised me was kind about it, but closed the door completely on the idea.
“No. It would be your dog, but I’d be the one feeding and watering it. I’d have to bathe the beast and get the annual vaccinations. Sorry. The family dog will have to do.”
This wasn’t like that. I’ve proved myself to this red-haired lady. She knows I can be trusted to take care of the pup.
But, we’ve decided—mutually—that it’s not in our best interest to have pets anymore. It wasn’t a decision we came to lightly.
The little girl stayed on the mountain with her litter-mates. She’ll certainly find a home with a loving family before long. Who could resist those eyes and that tornado-shaped coloration on her forehead?
Yet, all the way home I kept asking, “What if we tried . . .?”
And she didn’t say no to any of my ideas. . . well yeah—to a couple, she did. I’m not always that logical when I want something I shouldn’t have.
I might be happier if she had said no outright. Then I could blame her for my disappointment, instead of just being an adult and responsibly doing what I know is right in this situation.
But, I am going to do that. Be responsible, I mean.
Somehow, I think my choice of a name for the puppy wasn’t just a coincidence, either.
Storms come by themselves in nature. Sometimes, in our personal lives, we stir up the elements that cause the storms to gather strength and assail us.
I’m not saying little Cyclone would do that. I’m saying we make decisions and set boundaries in life for valid reasons and often, overstepping those boundaries brings grief into our lives. Even if we find ways to justify doing away with the limits we originally set.
Good is sometimes the enemy of excellent.
And sometimes, I forget how a team works and decide to do what I believe is good for me—to the team’s detriment.
Words come to my mind, a hippie mantra from the 1960s, that influenced many of my generation and more of those that have followed.
The free spirits back then said, “If it feels good, do it.” As I think, I realize they’re still saying it today.
I won’t.
I’m a believer in another mantra, one I’d like to carry into the new year and the foreseeable future.
Excellence is worth pursuing.
Not as catchy as the hippies’, is it?
The Apostle, my namesake, was even more wordy in his exhortation.
“Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.” (Philippians 4:8, NLT)
Earlier in the missive, he suggested that we think of others as better than ourselves. Before that, in one of his letters to the people at Corinth, he made it clear that we’re not to do good solely for ourselves, but constantly for others around us.
But, it was only a puppy. Which would have been a good thing, wouldn’t it? I would never say opening your heart and home to a puppy was bad.
And yet. . .
Better—and more excellent—things await just ahead. Maybe even over the next mountaintop.
Oh. So you know—I’m going to keep petting the puppies.
I just can’t take them home.
“Don’t accept your dog’s admiration as conclusive evidence that you are wonderful.” (Ann Landers)
“You say, ‘I am allowed to do anything’—but not everything is good for you. You say, ‘I am allowed to do anything’—but not everything is beneficial. Don’t be concerned for your own good but for the good of others.” (1 Corinthians 10:23-24, NLT)
I remember hearing about a family who visited a live nativity production a few years ago. They had seen Mary and Joseph with the Baby Jesus, the shepherds had come, and the production was over. Some of the kids were going over where the animals were kept so they could pet them.
One little girl’s mom suggested that she might want to go to pet the sheep, but she had a different idea.
“No, Mom. I just want to stay at the manger for a while, okay?”
It’s a simple story; sounding perhaps a bit too contrived. But, I’m wondering why we couldn’t do that.
This morning at our church, the hymns and carols finished, a bearded man mounted the steps to the platform. He almost looked like Santa Claus himself, with his full white beard and twinkling eyes.
He wasn’t. It was simply one of our elders, preparing for prayer time. He started out with a friendly, “Merry Christmas,” to the congregation (which we responded to in kind) and then began to pray.
“Lord, what more can we say?” He had hardly started to pray when a youngster’s voice piped up from somewhere near the front.
“Happy New Year!”
Of course, a ripple of laughter ran through the entire auditorium. We were amused that the child had responded so vocally.
The thing is, others thought the phrase. We’ve been taught that the two go together. Merry Christmas is followed by a Happy New Year. In the calendar, as well as in our greetings to each other.
But, I’m wondering if we could just slow down a bit and stay at the manger awhile.
We’re always in such a hurry to get to what comes next. Through all of our lives, we find it hard to live in the moment because other things, perhaps bigger and better, are coming.
I’m guilty of it, too. I know I’ve written before at Christmastime, assuring readers that we don’t worship a mere baby in a manger, but we worship a Savior who died and rose again for us.
As if the Baby in the manger wasn’t already the Savior of the world.
You think I’m wrong?
What did the angel say to the shepherds?
“For unto you is born this day, in the City of David, a Savior which is Christ the Lord.” (Luke 2: 11, KJV)
At no time in His time on earth was He any more the Savior than when He was born and laid in that manger.
Or, when He taught the teachers in the Temple. Or, when He turned the water into wine. Or, when he wept at the tomb of His friend, Lazarus. Or, when he washed His disciples’ feet. Or, when he healed the ear of the servant in the garden.
Or indeed, when He died on the cross for the sins of the world.
Our friend, Simeon, whom I referenced the last time I wrote, made it clear. He had heard, had known all his life, of the salvation of the Lord. But, as he held the Child in his arms, he saw it.
“For my eyes have seen your salvation.” (Luke 2: 30, NET)
He saw the baby and he saw in that moment—he held in his own arms—the salvation promised for all of human history.
I’m reminded of the story of Job in the Old Testament when he saw the power of God. Job said:
“My ears have heard of you, but now my eyes have seen you. Therefore I despise myself and I repent in dust and ashes.” (Job 42:5-6, NIV)
In the manger, for the first time, humans could see the salvation for which provision had been made before time began.
“…the Lamb, slain from the foundation of the world.” (from Revelation 13:8, KJV)
I have a hunch that when our eyes are on Him, they can’t be focused on ourselves, our plans, or our silly little time schedules.
So, I’d like to stay at the manger a little longer, if you don’t mind.
The shepherds will visit and return to their fields and the magi will bring their gifts and depart again to their countries. Here and now, the new year will come and go—the parties will go past in a dizzying flash—the demands of the world around us will go on and on.
The Savior—our Salvation, our Light—remains.
You’ve got time.
Stay awhile.
Look now! for glad and golden hours come swiftly on the wing. O rest beside the weary road, and hear the angels sing!
(from It Came Upon The Midnight Clear, by Edmund H Sears)
I can’t be the only one who does it. Then again, perhaps I am. I’ve always been a little strange.
Still. I spend at least a few moments every day thinking about where I came from. And, where I’m headed. And sometimes even, where I’ve been along the way.
Sometimes, I get my words mixed up while I think about all these confusing things.
One of my brothers was fond of reminding me (when I was still a youngster, mind you) that we start dying the day we’re born. Just something extra for the weird sibling to chew on, you know?
For some reason, my mind wanders (as it often does), and I hear the words of the Skin Horse as he explains to the Velveteen Rabbit how to become real.
“‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.'”
(from The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams Bianco)
It’s just a child’s story, but I remember the thought from many years ago when I first read it. I especially remember those powerful two words, “You become.” It seemed to that much younger (but already strange) me that those two words encapsulated what happens to us along the road of life.
For most of my life, I’ve been becoming.
A long obedience in the same direction is the way Eugene Peterson described it. Well, he borrowed the words from Nietzsche, but the thought was that one should continue as one had begun, headed for the goal.
Step by step, day by day. Becoming.
It doesn’t mean there haven’t been missteps. Nor does it mean that there haven’t been falls along the way. But, again and again, we stand up, shake ourselves off, and head again for the goal.
Becoming.
The disciple who was loved by our Savior, and who later taught so powerfully about love, muddies the waters a bit for us:
“My dear friends, we are now God’s children, but it is not yet clear what we shall become.” (1 John 3:2a, Good News Translation)
I laugh to myself as I read the words of John again. The uncertainty is not what I want. I’m not even sure I need it.
And, in a way, the uncertainty about what I am becoming is what got me tangled up in this subject in the first place.
As I consider the past (while looking to the future), it seems there is a disconnect of sorts, an interruption in the long obedience in the same direction.
For many years, the becoming was easy, the path ahead clear. A profession that allowed me to minister—to share, to care—was mine for many years. I had grown into it, seeing more clearly than ever as the opportunities and the years unfolded.
Then, a few years ago, my world became smaller. Or so it seemed to me. My business closed and my daily contact with all those folks ended. With COVID and changing circumstances at the university where I had played music with the young folks for years, my practical interaction with performing musicians came to a screeching halt.
And as I contemplated, a surprising thought came to mind:
I’m not becoming. I’m unbecoming!
It is, of course, untrue. That doesn’t stop the wheels from turning.
Did I say my mind wanders? It does.
I’m seeing a white-haired old gentleman, one hand on the scarred-up black steering wheel of the old blue 1967 Dodge van, the other waving in the general direction of a 30-ish young man sitting in the passenger seat as they careen down a dirt road in rural Arkansas. The dust flies behind them.
As they always did when delivering pianos, travel time is spent in discussion. The old man wasn’t happy this day.
“There’s no place for me at our church anymore. I’m thinking about finding a little country church where I can be of some use again.”
The young man, paying more attention to the unattached seat he’s attempting to stay upright in than to the old man, grabs tightly to the door handle and chokes out what he thinks is a wise answer.
“I thought you’d be happy to let younger folks take over and just enjoy the ride. You’ve earned some rest.”
Did I call him an old man? My father-in-law was younger than I am now when he said the words.
And, I answered him back with foolishness. The foolishness of youth.
Unbecoming, did I say it was? It would be easy to sit back and get comfortable with the thought of throwing in the towel. The old man never did, but I might.
But, unbecoming is not fitting or appropriate—unseemly.
No, really. That’s the definition the Oxford Dictionary gives for the word.
I don’t want to be any of those things.
The mind wanders even further back, and I see an old man standing in an ancient Jewish temple. The young couple has brought their tiny baby to be consecrated to God as the Law of Moses decreed.
They brought the child; God brought the old man. He wasn’t a priest—was not a religious official at all. But God had given him something to do before he died.
And, he was doing what God had told him to do. He wasn’t unbecoming at all.
He was becoming. What a moment!
Luke 2 says the Holy Spirit directed him to the temple at the exact time Jesus was brought in. Simeon’s words have always been one of my favorite passages from what we call the Christmas story.
“Now let your servant depart in peace, for I have seen the salvation of the Lord.”
My hair’s not white yet. I can still walk a few miles without faltering and push a lawnmower around the yard with no sign of fainting. I forget names, but I remember faces.
And, God doesn’t throw His servants into the trash heap when He’s done with them.
He just keeps changing us. From glory to glory, we’re told in 2 Corinthians 3:18.
Becoming.
I’m going on.
You’re coming with, aren’t you?
“My dear friends, we are now God’s children, but it is not yet clear what we shall become. But we know that when Christ appears, we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he really is.” (1 John 3:2, GNT)
“Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” (Dylan Thomas – Welsh Poet – 1914-1953)
“Simeon took him in his arms and blessed God, saying, ‘Now, according to your word, Sovereign Lord, permit your servant to depart in peace. For my eyes have seen your salvation that you have prepared in the presence of all peoples: a light, for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel.'” (Luke 2:25-32, NET)
Some people think dogs are smarter than humans. I don’t argue with those folks. Their dogs may actually be smarter than they are.
Still, I don’t know. . .
I sat at my desk this afternoon, watching the world outside my window. I like to imagine that I’m being creative at times like this. Reality is probably not as impressive as that.
Still, I saw the little dog run out of the neighbor’s yard and around the end of the gulley. The little fellow headed down the lane toward another neighbor’s house, mostly hidden in the woods.
“Uh-oh. Ollie’s out. I wonder if they know.” I got up from my chair to walk down that direction, but sat down again immediately.
They knew.
The pup’s owner came into view, walking calmly toward the little lane. This guy is always calm. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him ruffled.
Moments later, I saw him coming back toward the end of the gulley, the pup running ahead of him. The dog wasn’t running in a straight line, but then, Ollie never does.
Wait. He wasn’t running in a straight line because he was running in a circle. Right back down the lane where he had been a moment before. His owner simply turned around and walked back there, too.
When this happened another couple of times, I decided to amble down that way and see if there was anything I could do to help.
Well? There wasn’t anything creative happening where I was sitting; I might as well get some sun and fresh air!
Ollie’s other owner came out of the front door as I started down the road. I don’t think Ollie was all that happy to see her. She was calm too, though.
Still, he continued to run. They both called to him, but the little pup had other fish to fry. So to speak.
I walked to the end of the dirt lane and squatted down. Slapping the inside of my leg, I called out. “C’mere, Ollie!”
The curly-haired bundle of energy stopped dead. Then, turning toward me, he ran in a straight line to where I waited, haunches on heels, and stopped right in from of me, letting me grasp his harness.
I turned him over to his owners after petting him an appropriate amount. The leash snapped in place on his harness and it was as if the event had never happened.
“He found the cat feces. They’re scattered all along the lane and he’s fascinated with them.” Ollie’s unflappable owner shook his head, almost in disbelief.
Well? It’s not something a human would do. Why would material like that be so attractive to a dog?
I had a fleeting thought, there in the dirt lane. Why would the little dog come to me and not to his owners? I was just a poser. I wasn’t going to walk him—never going to give him a bath—certainly not going to pay his veterinary bills.
I was only a distraction for a few moments, nothing more.
I’m back at my desk again, looking out over the sunlit landscape. And, something creative may be happening now.
I’ve mentioned before that I don’t really have control over my memories, haven’t I? Out of nowhere, things I haven’t thought of for years—decades, even—just pop up, screaming to be noticed again.
Surely there is no connection at all to the episode with Ollie, but in my mind, I’m sitting on a shop stool in a dusty, greasy garage. There is a wood stove, fashioned from a 55-gallon drum near me. The smoke that chokes the air around me is not only from the stove, but also from several of the men in the vicinity who hold lit cigarettes in their hands.
You’ve seen similar scenes—the shop where several men are sitting or standing while one man works, lying on a mechanic’s creeper under an old jalopy, asking for tools to be passed to him occasionally. Not much is being accomplished, but there is lots of talk.
The phone on the wall rings (cell phones wouldn’t appear for twenty more years), and the guy on the creeper pushes out from under the car, complaining as he goes to answer it. He yells for one of the guys standing in the cloud of smoke and pushes the receiver into his hands, telling him it’s his wife.
After talking for a few minutes, the guy hangs the receiver up and, walking back across the garage, shakes his head as he explains his wife has sent the kids over to their grandparents and is making his favorite meal in expectation of a romantic evening at home with him.
The guys laugh a bit and tease him, expecting him to head for the door very soon.
Two hours later, the fellow is still in the shop, drinking coffee and telling jokes with the guys sitting/standing around the stove. While his wife waits at home.
Maybe dogs are smarter than humans. Or, just as smart, anyway.
The fellows in the shop are the posers; the stories and jokes, simply attractive nuisances (not in legal terms, but still. . .) of sorts—a lot like the cat feces in little Ollie’s adventure.
Perhaps, there is a connection between my memory of that shop and Ollie’s amusing attempted breakout to freedom.
Do I need to say the words? To wonder why we follow the posers and sniff the trash along the road when we are meant to be following the God of Creation and eating at His table?
He waits, standing with the door flung open for us. Inside, the table is filled with life-giving and delicious food.
But aimlessly we wander, sniffing the garbage piles and following fakers who have no intention of providing for even the slightest of our needs.
And yet, He awaits—unflappable and infinitely patient. He knows us; knows that we are weak, coming from dust and yet He loved us enough to send His Son to save us from a life of shame and waste.
We say we follow Him.
It’s time to walk away from the garbage and back into His arms.
“It is common for those that have called themselves His servants, after awhile to give Him the slip, and return again to me.”
(from The Pilgrim’s Progress, John Bunyan)
“Your words were found, and I ate them, and your words became to me a joy and the delight of my heart, for I am called by your name, O Lord, God of hosts.”
(Jeremiah 15:16, ESV)
I never intended to mention light again this soon. If one writes too often about the same subject, folks begin to whisper about obsessions. And, one-track minds.
That’s why I usually ignore little nudges to write about the things I’ve mentioned recently. Readers don’t need much of an excuse to poke each other and say, “I told you so. He’s taken leave of his. . .”
Well, you get the idea. Still, I did go to the Candlelight Service at the local university yesterday. And, the lights on the tree onstage at our local fellowship shorted out this morning. And, it’s Advent.
So, lights it is. Again.
Did I mention the Candlelight Service? I went to hear the brass. And the choir. I wasn’t disappointed.
But, they lit candles first. I watched the students carry their brass poles with the adjustable wicks down the aisles toward the platform which had scores of candles awaiting the flame at the ends of those wicks.
Just so you know, I really did want the brass poles to have a special name so I could impress you with my knowledge of said designation, but I’m informed by reliable sources they’re just called candlelighters.
Imagine my disappointment at learning that the candlelighters carry candlelighters to light the candles.
But, as they walked the long aisles to the front, at least 3 of the young folks had the misfortune to have the flame extinguished from their wicks.
I watched one young man whose lighter was burning healthily until he was halfway to the front, but it suddenly turned to a brightly glowing ember as he walked. The ember dimmed for a few steps, then disappeared into a stream of smoke which quickly thinned to a wisp and then, nothing.
The two young ladies striding down the opposite aisle had a similar experience, each arriving at the front with useless candlelighters in their hands, as well.
Do you suppose the young lady who found herself the only one with a flame took the opportunity to excoriate the others about the pace with which they had walked, causing their flames to blow out? Did she spend the next few minutes reminding them how precious that flame was, and how careless they had been with it?
Perhaps, she just went ahead and lit all the multitude of candles herself. Without any help. Clearly, it was all up to her.
She didn’t.
Stopping at the base of the steps, she motioned all three of them over and had them light the lifeless wicks of their candlelighters from her flame.
And for all the help she offered them, her flame was drawn down not the slightest bit. It blazed and shone as she ascended the steps, ready to light all the waiting candles on their stands.
They also mounted the steps, lending their aid in lighting the forest of candles, making short work of the task.
The candles were all set ablaze to the background of the violins, violas, and cellos. Then I heard the brass music. For over an hour, I reveled in the music of the choirs and even the organ pieces played by the Lovely Lady’s brother. All of it was lovely.
But the lesson of the candlelighters was what I carried from the Cathedral last night. It was a lesson reinforced by the traditional candle-lighting ceremony at the end of the evening.
From that one candlelighter—yes, every flame in the room that night could trace its origin to that single young lady—each person in the seats eventually held high a flaming candle as we sang the sweet words of “Silent Night.”
And, it cost her nothing.
Nothing except kindness. And generosity.
I want to preach. I want to hammer the message home, reminding all of us of those around who have not tended their flames as well, perhaps, as we have.
There would be hypocrisy in my words.
And, dishonesty in the telling.
It is, as I have said before, a season of lights—the time of remembering the coming of the One who is The Light that has, and will, shatter the darkness, sending it scuttling back into the emptiness from which it emerged eons ago.
His Light is ours to share.
It was never ours to hoard.
“Carry your candle, run to the darkness. . . Take your candle, go light your world.”
(from Go Light Your World by Chris Rice)
“Don’t be selfish; don’t try to impress others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourselves.Don’t look out only for your own interests, but take an interest in others, too.” (Philippians 2:3-4, NLT)
The light was almost blinding. Not like the super bright LED headlights that had been shining in my eyes for the last hundred miles or so. No. This brilliant light simply shone in the profound darkness of the Minnesota plains we were driving through.
For a moment, we could see nothing else but the tree, bare of any leaves, but budding forth with the bright light of thousands of bulbs wrapped around every single limb, from the ground to the sky. It stood on a slight knoll with long wild grass growing beneath it. We saw no house lights—no business sign—and no indication whatsoever of a power source or reason for the tree being there.
It just shone in the darkness.
I’ve thought about it for several days now—this lighted tree. The Lovely Lady and I took a trip from our home in Arkansas up to the big city of Minneapolis last week to listen to the beautiful music of the young voices in the St Olaf choirs.
Brighter lights were shining in the city. They lit up buildings. Some told us when to stop and when to go. Others shouted out messages to attract business.
They had purpose. They incited action.
The tree on the knoll by the highway just screamed, “Look at me!”
We looked and passed on, unchanged.
We’re entering the time of year when we celebrate the coming of the Light, the Son of God. He came to shine that light into the heart of every person who would recognize it.
“The one who is the true light, who gives light to everyone, was coming into the world.“ (John 1:9, NLT)
He came with a purpose. He came to draw all men to His Father.
“But to all who believed him and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God.“ (John 1:12, NLT)
And, then He gave us the same purpose.
“You are the light of the world. . .In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven.” (Matthew 5:14-16, NIV)
It is a season of lights. The little town we live in was having its annual Christmas parade the same weekend we were up north, the floats and vehicles all covered with lights. There were lights flung across the street corners and silhouetting the downtown buildings.
There is joy in light.
Our Creator made it so. Our hearts are lifted at the coming of dawn—at the brightness of light in a dark room—at the warmth of candlelight—even at the brilliant displays of lights on houses and trees in this season.
But the emotion fades. And, darkness returns to all of them eventually.
Our world today is full of a different kind of light—stars, we call them. They shine brilliantly, solely to draw our eyes toward themselves—to notice and revere them. Never before have there been so many crying out for us to look and be dazzled as there are right now.
But, they too fade. And, darkness reigns still.
The Light who came for us never fades—never dims. He turns our hearts to the Father of Lights.
Surely the light kindled in our hearts should do the same for those around us—for those who have never truly experienced light.
It won’t be some bulb-adorned tree growing on a grass-covered knoll along the way that is passed by in the night, leaving the traveler unchanged.
With purpose this Light shines, effecting everlasting change, pointing the way to that eternal day that can never be swallowed up in night.
It’s our time to shine.
“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)
“Jesus bids us shine with a clear pure light, like a little candle burning in the night; in this world of darkness we must shine – you in your small corner, and I in mine.” (Jesus Bids Us Shine, song by Susan Warner)
