Debbie got out her trumpet and sat down to play with the group of old people.  The high school junior had been invited to be a part of the annual tradition in which some of these old geezers had participated for twice as long as she had been alive.  To say that she was a little nervous would be an understatement.  A time or two, she thanked them timorously for asking her to be part of the little brass ensemble, as if she wasn’t sure she belonged there.  The diffidence in her tone led more than one of the old guys to wonder if she would be up to the task.  After all, in a few short weeks, this group would be playing to a packed house of nearly a thousand people, not once, but on three consecutive evenings.  They needed a competent player, someone who could be counted on to hit the notes and to blend with the ensemble.  Perhaps, this wasn’t such a good choice, after all.  Then the young lady placed the mouthpiece to her lips and all doubts were removed.

The girl wasn’t a show off, she had no intention of flaunting her abilities, but you can’t hide a talent like that.  Quietly and inconspicuously, she simply played her part.  The smooth, mellow tone flowed from the silver horn as if there were no effort involved.  Whether the sounds coming out of the horn were in the low range or up to the highest reaches of the instrument’s limits, the control exercised over the tone and volume were almost beyond belief.  She actually changed keys when the printed music did!  Her ability to play with the ensemble wasn’t in question beyond the first page or two of the music they covered.  This girl could play!  The performances were approached with confidence by the whole group and the result was completely satisfactory, even, it appeared, from the audiences’ point of view.  As the last musical evening came to an end, she repeated once more, without a hint of ego, “I’m really glad that you were willing to let me play with you.”

I heard a few weeks later that Debbie had been selected to be part of the All-State band.  First Band, First Chair!  The epitome of placement for a high school musician in the state!  She was better than every other high school trumpet player in the entire state.  I congratulated her the next time I saw her.  She ducked her head and said quietly, “I think they must have made a mistake in scoring.”  I knew better.  She honestly didn’t believe that she was that good.  When the tryouts in her senior year came along twelve months later, with the same results, I reminded her of her words.  “You do know that this proves that they were right last year?”  I queried.  “I guess so,”  she replied.  “I’m still not sure, though.”  She wasn’t acting.  The young lady really didn’t want to claim the title of best trumpet player in the state.  She just did what she was created to do quietly and contentedly.  I can only look at the young lady, wise beyond her years, and be amazed.

I’m amazed because I remember a young man thirty-some years before who tried out for All Region Band and made it!  The fact that he was seated eighth chair in the Horn section of the first band didn’t dampen his spirits at all.  Everyone within earshot knew of his exploits.  The young man was the “eighth best Horn player in the region!”  There was no end to the braggart’s arrogance.  Again and again, he repeated the news of his own triumph to anyone who would listen.  Soon enough, everyone had heard about how good the young man believed himself to be and how the result proved it.  Eighth chair!  In the region!  Not the state, but just the region of the state.  I’m old enough now to be exempt from embarrassment at the teenager’s insolence, but not so old that I don’t still recognize that the foolishness of youth frequently follows one into his adult years.  I still struggle with this same problem, hoping for the approval of my friends and family, as well as all who are acquainted with me.  It seems likely to be a lifelong battle.  Oh!  If I recall aright, the young man flubbed a line in his music at the performance of the All Region Band that year.  Another reminder that pride goes before a fall.  Sometimes the lessons to be learned have to be assimilated the hard way. 

A friend today posted a (by now) familiar verse online.  “Let a stranger praise you and not you, yourself.”  I will attest that they are not easy words to live by.  We are, it seems, a boastful breed; seeking ways to exalt ourselves.  I recognize that the problem I struggle with is not familiar to me only, but is common to most humans.  Maybe we can help each other to do better.  I hope you’ll be gentle with me.  But, I trust that you will remind me when I need a subtle (or even, not-so-subtle) nudge.

The amazing thing is that there is a quiet beauty in humility, while arrogance always seems to be stridently ugly.  I’d like to be a little prettier than I am.  The makeover is taking a good bit longer than I had anticipated.  I’ll keep working on it.

“Humility is the only certain defense against humiliation.”
(Anonymous)

“Do not act out of selfish ambition or conceit, but with humility, think of others as being better than yourselves.”
(Philippians 2:3)

It was a horrible job.  The young man wasn’t much more than thirty, but he had a wife and two young sons to support.  Each day he would head reluctantly to the sawmill to put in another ten or twelve hours for the few cents which manual laborers were paid for a day’s work in the 1930s.  The sawmill was powered by a self-fueled steam engine, with the boiler fed by the scraps and sawdust which the operation generated.  That wimp, Mike, of modern television’s “Dirty Jobs” had nothing on EJ.  This was no setup, with a few shovelfuls of dirt strewn here and there to make it look like it was hot, dirty work.  This genuinely dirty job entailed standing in a pit below the huge saw, with the sawdust and scraps dropping down from above, and shoveling the filthy stuff into the open door of the boiler.  The steam produced by the heat turned the huge gears and the long belt, which spun the saw blade as it sliced through the pine logs, showering still more debris on his head.  The humid, East Texas heat turned the hole into an oven down where the young man stood caked in sawdust and sweating from the heavy labor.  And, still the men who fed the saw up above, a job not much easier than EJ’s, called for more power.  The fellow cursed the heat, cursed the men up above and, on at least one occasion, cursed God and dared Him to blow up the boiler and kill him as he worked.  As he cursed, he fed it faster and raised the pressure higher than the metal tank had ever been tested to, even when it was made.  The tiny prison was almost more than the young man could bear, but day after day he returned to the job he hated, to leave after his shift, discouraged and angry at the world.

My father tells the story of his own father, and I feel the heat, and the anger, and the disappointment with life.  When I knew my grandfather, physically, he was a shell of his former self.  Hard work and hard living had taken its toll on the once strong and vigorous man, leaving him gasping for breath and moving slowly.  I would ride with him in the old 1949 Pontiac late at night, to wait for my grandmother who was getting off work from her job as a nurse’s aide at the local nursing home.  Emphysema had left Grandpa unable to work at all, so Grandma worked to supplement their meager pension.  I had always thought my grandfather was a little lazy, since he never worked in my lifetime.  I might have viewed him a little differently if I had known how hard he had worked to support his little family when he was younger.  But, as I listened to Dad tell the story, I not only gained a new respect for my grandfather, but I was struck with the dichotomy that was represented by the job he did for that sawmill so many years ago.

If he did his job well, the sawdust came down that much faster.  Think about it.  The faster he worked, the faster he had to work to keep up.  If he let the boiler get low on steam, the saw ran slowly and the debris which rained down on him slowed to a sprinkle.  But, if he purposely slowed down, the floor began to fill up around him and he would be hampered in his attempts to shovel it into the firebox.  The situation we commonly call a “catch-22” was his constant milieu.  Work harder, and you make more work for yourself.  Work less, and soon you can’t do your job.  Can you imagine the hopelessness that grew, day after day, knowing that your boss could never be satisfied, that you would never be able to look at your work and say that the project was completed?  The only reward for your hard work (besides a meager paycheck) was more hard work.

The Lovely Lady was peeling sweet potatoes for Sunday dinner one recent afternoon, and I noticed that quite a number of peels had fallen to the floor.  Being the sweet, considerate husband that I am, I stooped down and picked them up, only to have more fall as I tossed the first batch in the trash.  In her defense, she did make some comment about efficiency and picking up after the job instead of during.  It didn’t really matter, because my brain was already drifting elsewhere, to a time seventy years ago, and the feelings of that young man as he “cleaned up” while the workers above him inconsiderately made a perpetual job as he slaved away down in the pit.  No, I don’t want you to think that I deserve some kind of sympathy because of the peelings dropped on the floor;  it just made me think about it again.

“Life is hard and then you die.”  I remember my older brother telling me that when I was much younger.  He thought it was cute; that I would quit my griping about whatever little annoyance was irking me.  I don’t think he realized how true it actually is.  One might even say it is Biblical.  Genesis relates the words of the Creator to a sinful man;  “By the sweat of your brow will you eat your food until you return to the ground…”  Now, that’s something to look forward to!  But, you know, the longer I consider it, the more I realize that it’s not such a bad system.  We work to be given more responsibility, more work.  It seems that maybe that’s the way character is developed.  Solomon said it this way, “Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all of your might.”   If we don’t become discouraged and quit, the character we develop through hard work will shine through.

I’m not sure why our society tells us that the reward for hard work is the chance to do nothing.  I’ve heard about more people who become sickly and die soon after quitting their jobs to”retire”.  The more I think about it, the less I like this idea of working hard all my life, just to drop out and act like a bum for the final few years.  I think maybe my dad has the right idea.  At eighty-one, he is still hard at work pastoring a church full-time.  No tee times or fishing trips for him.  He’s hoping to do the work he loves until the day he dies. It seems like a good plan to me.

I think I’ll keep shoveling for another year or two and see if the work keeps dropping on top of me.  You never know either; I may rethink the retirement thing some day, as well.  Why don’t you check back in another fifteen years or so?

“Difficulties strengthen the mind, as labor does the body.”
(Seneca~Roman philosopher~First century AD)

“…If a man will not work, he shall not eat.”
(2 Thessalonians 3:10b)

Love hurts. 

At least, that’s what I’m told.  I think I understand it–almost. 

Loving someone guarantees pain someplace along the road.  Sad goodbyes are said as a spouse goes off to war and each is left to weep in the darkness, alone.  We hurt as the one we love goes through personal pain—the loss of a job, the death of a parent, the separation of lifelong friends as someone moves a thousand miles away. 

For some reason though, that’s not the kind of pain most of us understand from the original statement.  To most of the world, love hurts means we’re guaranteed the person we love will be the one who hurts us.  Anger will separate us.  Arguments will cause irreparable damage to the relationship.  Fights will make us forget why we cared for each other in the first place. 

Honestly, I’d rather neither view was correct, but I have observed both. Quite recently.

One day, not too long ago, I boarded a jet bound for Los Angeles from Houston.  The flight would  be completely full, we were told.  The airline on which I flew doesn’t assign seats, just a boarding order.  Each person sits in either a convenient seat or an obligatory one, depending on if they are lower or higher in the boarding order.  I was in the former group and opted for a window seat, with another gentleman sitting on the aisle seat nearby.  In the latter group, a man came down the aisle and sat in the middle seat of the row ahead of me.  Still later, a woman got on—unaccompanied, one would assume.  She sat in the middle seat beside me.  Quite soon though, it became obvious that the man and woman were together.  They fought the whole way from Houston to L.A.  Three hours.

“Honey.  Sweetheart.  What did you do with that forty dollars?” the man started.

“None of your business!  It’s my money, not yours,” came the sullen reply. 

Back and forth it went, with most of the talking being done by the man.  Each exchange was prefaced with, “Honey.  Sweetheart,” and terminated with him turning to the front of the plane again, shaking his head.  Eventually, the lady fell silent, unresponsive to the argumentative young man.

She did speak when the attendant came by to ask if we wished to have anything to drink. 

“Give me a Jack Daniels and Diet Coke.”

The response was instant from the seat in front. 

“Honey!  Sweetheart!  Please don’t drink.  We have to get a rental car when we get off the plane.”

She responded, “I’m not staying.  I’m going back as soon as we land.”

The young man didn’t simply shake his head this time, but actually head-butted the seat in front of him and was rewarded by a frightened yelp from the startled woman sitting in it. 

It was evident he had plans in Los Angeles and couldn’t accomplish them without her money and sobriety, neither of which, it appeared, were likely to be within his reach upon disembarking the aircraft.

I won’t burden you with every bit of their hateful conversation.  The woman had obviously spent a good part of the forty dollars in question in the bar at the Houston airport.  The Jack Daniels and Diet Coke didn’t help to sober her up any during the flight.  She stumbled out of the airplane and up the jet-way after we touched down, as he stalked ahead of her into the terminal. 

Love hurts.

Back in my hometown, while I was away, there was a memorial service for a lady who had passed away during the preceding week.  Lynda was born in this little town.  She married the love of her life forty-seven years ago.  For thirty-five of those forty-seven years, she suffered with Multiple Sclerosis.  The crippling disease had gradually taken away her ability to care for herself in any way.  She couldn’t walk, couldn’t feed herself, couldn’t bathe herself.  It didn’t matter. 

Jim, the love of her life, was there.

Day after day, week after week, month after month, year after….well, you get the picture.  Jim was there.  And, I don’t just mean he was there to take care of her at home.  They went everywhere together. 

Concert at the Fine Arts Center?  There were Jim and Lynda; she in her wheelchair; Jim beside her to make sure she didn’t need anything. 

Wedding of a friend?  They were there. 

Basketball game at the local University?  They were both there, cheering on the team. 

Picnic in the park?  Yep.  Wheelchair and all, Lynda was there with Jim at her side.

She got so she couldn’t sit up in the wheelchair, so they got one which allowed her to recline and still go everywhere she went before.  The little Volkswagon became difficult to get her in and out of, but they kept going places until finally, a friend let other friends know that they needed a specially equipped van.  Lots of people chipped in to get that van for them.  They put many miles on it and wore it out going places together. 

When Lynda passed into the presence of her Savior last week, Jim was at her side and she was surrounded by her family.  At home.  Tears flowed and memories were shared. 

Love hurts.

I can’t help but compare the two situations.  I do know that they seem so disparate, so unrelated.  Perhaps, it’s specifically that extreme which makes me need to view them side by side.

On the one hand, I see two selfish, damaged people intent on inflicting more pain on their partner.  Hmmm—maybe partner isn’t the right word to use there, since that implies two people working toward a common goal.  I see no hope for the relationship, envisioning only a termination of their cohabitation with one thing in mind: to forget the other person as quickly as possible.  Any memories left from that period will be unhappy ones, suitable only for putting out of mind.

But on the other hand, we see two people committed to each other, no matter what the personal cost.  If it had been Jim stricken with disease, I don’t think the outcome would have been different.  Their love was obvious to all.  True partners, who were all in with each other, holding nothing back. 

Was there pain?  You bet.  But, their love was greater than, their commitment superior to, the hurt.

Love does hurt.  Life is not always pretty, nor always fair.  Things get messy along the way. 

I wish I could say that I’m like Jim, instead of like our friend on the airplane. 

The ugly truth is that sometimes I want what I want.  Selfishness makes me do things I’d rather not talk about here.  That said, I constantly have in the back of my mind a quiet voice that reminds me of the words of our old friend, the Apostle Paul:  “Husbands, love your wives.  Give yourselves for them, just as Jesus did for the Church.” 

I know of another good example now, a man who also remembered those words and lived them for over thirty-five years.

Pain, joy, hard work—all go into a loving relationship. 

The result is a thing of beauty.  I’m pretty sure it’s worth it.

Joy comes in the morning.

 

 

Love isn’t finding a perfect person.  It’s seeing an imperfect person perfectly.”(Sam Keen~American philosopher and writer)

 

…if we love one another, God lives in us and His love is made complete in us.”(I John 4:12)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2013. All Rights Reserved.

It used to be the best sledding hill in town.  The valley that cuts through the middle of this beautiful little community boasts a wonderful creek, with fountains and natural stone retaining walls, that flows in one direction to the downtown area and then doubles back the other way as it passes through the once bustling town center.  The drawback of the beautiful valley is that, of necessity, the access to and from it will always be either down or up a hill.  Most of the year it is, at worst, a nuisance when afoot or on a human powered vehicle.  After a snowfall, however, the roads tend to get a little treacherous even in a motor vehicle, causing more than a few fender-benders and visits to the nearest ditch.  Way back then, the city’s road-preparation crew consisted of two men and a pickup truck.  One man drove, the other stood in the bed of the truck and tossed shovels-full of sand onto the pavement below, giving the illusion of aiding traffic, but you were well advised just to stay out of the valley in that kind of weather. 

The best sledding hill in town was simply one of those roadways…the steepest of them, which was impossible to traverse when icy.  The city fathers wisely closed off this section of road with barriers at both the bottom and top of the hill when it iced up.  Thus, the hill was left to the youngsters (and the young at heart) in town to slide down and trudge up as many times as they could manage, without fear of any cars to interrupt their fun.  It was a heart-stopping experience, riding down that hill…either on a sled or an inner tube (and sometimes a tray “borrowed” from the cafeteria of the local university).   At the top, you stood and considered the steep drop, assuming from that vantage point that the ride down would be a piece of cake.  Onto the sled you would drop, after pushing it several running steps while leaning over and holding on securely.  The first thing you felt was a rapid acceleration, cresting the top onto the sharply angled face of the hill.  For the rookies, the sensation of “losing your stomach” was common, leading to a little panic, then the realization that there was no time for that.  You see, the road led down the hill, but it also sagged a bit toward both sides, along each of which runs a ditch, cut deep by the copious amounts of water that run off down the hillside during the warmer months of the year.  Disaster awaits there!  The slightly sickening sensation in the tummy ignored, extreme care must be taken to steer a course down the center of the roadway.  Then, for a moment, you feel free as a bird, flying down the hill, controlling the direction while enjoying the amazing sensation.  But, as one nears the lower end of the incline, suddenly you realize that the barrier at the bottom is approaching at a rapid speed.  It is not advisable to pass the barrier, since it borders the busy road along which all the frustrated motorists, who have been diverted away from the sledding surface, are driving.  This time, the ditch seems the better option than hoping to avoid the wheels of moving cars, and the sled is stopped short of the traffic.  Immediately, the fear and knot in the stomach are forgotten and the cry of “Let’s do it again!” fills the air, as the erstwhile flyers trudge back up the snowy slope to repeat the scary performance.

As with most outdoor winter activities, the exposure to the elements takes a toll.  Snow in the tops of boots soon turns to cold dampness on the feet, the hands, likewise are wet and freezing, and it seems like the fun is over.  Somehow, Mrs. Simpson knows when the time is right and comes out of her doorway.  Mrs. Simpson?  Oh, she is a nice lady who lives in one of the houses along the road, a little frame bungalow with 2 or 3 tiny bedrooms and a nice warm kitchen.  She has lived there with Mr. Simpson for years, never unhappy to live in the tiny tract house.  She has made it a very comfortable home for them both.  On these cold evenings, though, she is not content to just sit and listen to the kid’s excited shouts, nor has she been sitting idle.  “You look cold, kids!  Come on inside for some hot chocolate!”  No one has to be asked twice and the kids (and a grownup or two) are soon inside enjoying a mug of the steaming comfort.  The puddles on the linoleum floor will have to be mopped up, but Mrs. Simpson is in her element, handing out the hot, sweet nectar.  Soon, the group is ready to tackle the hill again, with more warmth inside them than just what can be attributed to the hot drink and heated house.  What a great memory of exciting winter activities and neighborly hospitality!

Sadly, Mrs. Simpson passed away, leaving Mr. Simpson lonely.  After a period of time, he finds that an old flame of his from school days has also lost her spouse.  They spend time together, eventually deciding to marry.  The new Mrs. Simpson isn’t quite the same personality as the old one, though.  The little frame bungalow, comfortable for two before, isn’t nearly large enough, nor impressive enough.  A new house must be built.  The impressive brick edifice is built on the property next door.  Local lore tells of contractor after contractor who walks off the job.  Mr. Simpson is not the reason for them quitting.  One sub-contractor speaks of arriving on the job as it neared completion and being told proudly that an ignorant previous contractor wanted to short them on insulation in the attic, but that she had insisted that he double the amount of insulation, winning the argument before he too, walked off the job.  During the course of the sub-contractor’s duties, he was in the attic, where he could attest to the fact that she had indeed received double the amount of insulation…all piled up in one corner of the attic!

I won’t bore you with the litany of stories from various sources.  I will tell you this – there was never again hot chocolate and a warm kitchen awaiting any sledder at the bottom of that hill.  Instead, I observed a head poking out the front door, not with a kind invitation on the lips, but with threats and orders to vacate being shouted at the kids.  I even noticed the arrival of the city police on one occasion, called because she was tired of the incessant noise from the revelry.  Eventually, she got her wish of ridding the hill of sledders altogether when the city acquired new equipment which actually cleared the pavement for continuous traffic up and down the best sledding hill in the city, no matter the weather.  Her palatial home was safe from the troublesome urchins and eventually, the lowlifes on the corner moved out too, certainly increasing property values when they left.

I cannot help but compare the two Mrs. Simpsons, wondering which of them had the better life.  The kind, old Mrs. Simpson lived in a tiny home, unimpressive and cramped, but warm and inviting.  She was happy.  The kids loved her.  I’m convinced that memories of her will remain warm and gentle.  Hers was a wealth that could never be taken from her.  The new Mrs. Simpson, also gone now, stands in memory as a sad, unhappy woman.  Her beautiful, expansive home was a cold unwelcoming place, in spite of the extra insulation.  No amount of luxury could overcome the miserly mindset, denying joy and comfort to those outside.  Because she would not share her blessings, poverty held tightly to its place in her spirit also.  Need I go on? 

The moral is clear (to me, anyway).  Wealth and creature comforts will never make a building a home; nor do lighted driveways and impressive doorways offer a welcome, unless the inhabitants thereof have warm hearts and open arms.  Impromptu gatherings in warm kitchens filled with joy and laughter (and wet floors) seem to me to be infinitely better than a cold, forbidding edifice where no uninvited guest is allowed entrance.

Perhaps the instructions of the Word aren’t so silly after all.  “Don’t forget to show hospitality to strangers.  Some, by doing this, have entertained angels without knowing it.”  Oh!  And, one more.  “As you have done it to the least of these, you have done it unto Me.” 

Words to live by, especially as we approach this season that marks the greatest act of hospitality known, the opening of the halls of Heaven itself!

“It is better to live in the corner of a roof, than in a house with a contentious woman.”
(Proverbs 25:24)

“Christmas!  ‘Tis the season for kindling the fire of hospitality in the hall, the genial fire of charity in the heart.”
(Washington Irving~American author~1783-1859)

The old Native American answered my greeting hesitantly as he entered the store.  Since he’s one of my regular guitar quality-control technicians (loves to play all the new stuff!), and is almost always upbeat, it was a little disconcerting when he answered my usual, “How’s it going today?” with a mumbled, “Oh…getting by, I guess.”  Not wanting to intrude on his privacy, I switched subjects.  “It’s sure been a cloudy, dreary couple of days, hasn’t it?”  The weather is always a great fall-back area of discussion which doesn’t require a lot of personal information.  Not this time.

“That’s just it!” He exclaimed.  “I hate this!  And, there’s months more of it to come.”  I felt a relief, as we talked, realizing that his initial response wasn’t because of a family crisis; had nothing to do with a health problem or even financial woes (as I see more and more often).  Here was a kindred spirit who suffers from the same affliction I do this time of year.  The gray, overcast days actually cause a physical and emotional malaise, robbing us of our normal optimistic outlook on life.  Instead, our spirits are dampened to the point where we dwell on the negative, remembering with regret happier times and friends who are no longer with us.  Songs and photographs, along with other memories which should evoke warm emotions, instead deepen the feelings of loss and melancholy.  We sat, the old Indian fellow and I, and commiserated about our shared disability.  When he finally had to leave, oddly enough, I think we both felt better. 

The phone rang awhile later and I answered, to find one our African American customers from a large Eastern metropolis, who wanted to place another order.  I was happy to talk with her again, joking as we communicated about the items she needed today.  She said there were five items she needed and launched into the list.  Three titles later, she halted.  I could hear her muttering to herself, “I knew I should have written them down.  Why can’t I remember the others?”  Immediately, I realized that here again was a kindred spirit.  How many times over the last few years (maybe all my life)  have I forgotten people’s names, important dates, appointments, and miscellaneous other vital details?  I tried to put her at ease as she cast about in embarrassment to remember the lost information.  A few moments later, as  we consoled each other regarding this defect in our condition, the misplaced titles came to her and we sped on to the conclusion of our transaction.  In spite of the speed bump, we were able to salvage a potentially losing situation for both parties.  She will receive the music which is necessary for her church family to enjoy; I appreciate the profit from the sale, which enables us to pay the bills for a few moments more.  Better than that, we both realize that we’re not the only ones with a flawed memory.  Shared imperfections build bridges where no connections existed before.

Several other times today, my conversations reminded me of the common ground I share with so many folks…folks from many different walks of life, from diverse geographic regions, even from vastly different ethnicity.  I understand, of course, that the examples cited here lean to the negative connections, but we share so much more.  I talked with each of these folks about the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday and without fail, each one expressed their intent to share the day with family and loved ones, and talked about their enjoyment at the prospect.  Failures and infirmities, hopes and blessings – we all participate daily in a common lot.  Color, social status, nationality, environment…all of these things change the particulars, but they cannot alter the reality that we are really all one race, the Human Race.  We love; we laugh, we cry; we carry on.  I am excited to recognize the shared qualities of our humanity in many places I wasn’t expecting to find them.

Over and over in recent days, the news media has communicated the intent (and active programs) of many to splinter us.  There are some who would separate us by color, some who seek to ostracize those who are wealthier (or poorer) than they, some who want to point the finger of judgement at people of different faiths.  I refuse to participate.  Making clear that I believe firmly in a God who requires faith in His Son for salvation from the punishment for sin, I steadfastly maintain that His love compels us to love, not hate.  Compassion is a requisite in our treatment of those who are fallen, those who are needy, those who have no hope.  It is our calling and our lifelong quest.

Okay!  Done preaching now.  Over the last few weeks, I have noticed many of my friends listing the things they are thankful for, each day of this month leading up to the official day of Thanksgiving.  I don’t have the discipline to do that each day, but I will today tell you that, of all the things for which I am thankful (and they are innumerable), the one I am intensely aware of on a daily basis is the blessing of communication, of fellowship.  I love to talk (now, that will be a surprise to you!) and to listen.  I love learning new tidbits of useful (and useless) information from the people who cross my path every day.  Most of all, I love the opportunities I have to use what I learn of people to share the blessings I enjoy freely.  What a joy all of you with whom I interact are to me! 

I hope the blessing of people ranks high on your list of things to be thankful for too.  In everything…Give Thanks!

“In Christ there is no East or West,
In Him no South or North.
But one great fellowship of love
Throughout the whole wide earth.”
(William Dunkerly~English businessman and writer~1852-1941)

“Now thank we all our God, with heart, and hands, and voices…”
(Martin Rinkart~German pastor and musician~1586-1659)