I have walked past the flattened carcass daily for more than a week now. And when I say flattened, I mean it’s thinner than the proverbial pancake. Hardly distinguishable from the pavement.
It still stinks.
I saw the skunk lying there one day early last week. Then, it looked almost like the cat you see in the photo accompanying this article. I thought it was a cat at first. Clearly, it was not.
That first day I walked past it, there was no odor at all. I knew that couldn’t last so I called the city and asked them to pick it up before the cars began the flattening process. I think they must have been too busy.
Thus, the aroma permeating the atmosphere.
On an earlier day this week, as I worked out in my yard, the shifting breeze periodically wafting the odor to my olfactory nerves, I wondered about the cat that turned into a skunk (only in my strange brain, you understand).
And, as often happens, my thoughts began to run to human nature and practice. Before I was finished with my task, I had formulated the question that follows:
“How is it that into our lungs we draw the sweet aroma of grace and mercy breathed upon us by our God, yet the atmosphere all about us is choked with the acrid fumes of our judgment and hate?”
I saved the words in a note on my smartphone, cogitating on the idea for a while and then, I moved on mentally. But, a conversation I read on social media last night brought it back to mind with a jolt.
As with many these days, the post was political/religious in nature. I agreed—mostly—with the premise, so I followed the conversation. That may have been a mistake.
Again and again, I am shocked at the vitriol coming from the mouths and keyboards of professing followers of our Savior. I shouldn’t be by now, but I am.
And then, there was this: “Christians are the worst!”
And, I find myself agreeing. We are. The worst.
The apostle, my namesake, said the words. I often feel them deeply, too.
“Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—and I am the worst of them all.” (1 Timothy 1:15a, NLT)
The thing is, we were never intended to continue being the worst of sinners.
Never.
When I’m flattened on the road of life, I want not to stink to high heaven.
Even if I’m flatter than that ubiquitous pancake when this world gets done with me, I’d like there to be a sweet aroma of grace and peace.
And hope. Especially, hope.
That’s my prayer for all of us.
Today and until Heaven.
“The Christian’s life is to be a thing of truth and also a thing of beauty in the midst of a lost and despairing world.” (Francis Schaeffer)
“And so blessing and cursing come pouring out of the same mouth. Surely, my brothers and sisters, this is not right! Does a spring of water bubble out with both fresh water and bitter water?”
(James 3:10-11, NLT)
“Paul? Maybe you’d like to sing the baritone part instead of the tenor. Would you try it?”
The director of the combined university chorus/community choir didn’t have to ask twice. Well, except perhaps because I thought I might have heard him wrong. I hadn’t.
So I’m singing baritone. And, a little bass.
And, it feels like I’ve come home.
Do you ever feel like you don’t fit in?
You know—everyone else in the car wants to listen to music from the latest boy group, but you heard that Yo-Yo Ma recorded a duet with Alison Krauss and you’d like to listen to that. Or, you’re walking with a group of people on the fitness trail and you realize that they’re all synchronized on the left foot and you’re on your right foot. Or, the family members all want to go for tacos, but you want chicken.
I’ve felt like that all my life. If you really know me, you know I was the strange kid, always zigging when everyone else zagged. I’ve freely admitted in these little pieces I write that I’ve never felt completely at home, no matter where I’ve been.
My father-in-law used a descriptive phrase, many years ago, that I’ve always thought fit me to a T. He was a piano tuner and would often be asked to work on instruments that had been neglected for many years. When a piano is left to its own devices for too long, the strings tend to stretch, making the overall pitch drop. The result is an instrument that may be in tune with itself, but sounds horrid when played with another instrument at standard pitch.
He would say to me, “This one is playing in the cracks.”
I understood exactly what he meant. The piano didn’t play well with others (I think that phrase might have described me at many points in my childhood as well—and perhaps after).
I always had the image in my head, as he said those words, that the sounds the instrument made were what might have come from down between the ebony and ivory keys, instead of dead center on top of them.
I suspect I may have been playing in the cracks for most of my life. And for some reason, I’ve always thought I needed to be fixed—to be tuned up to standard pitch.
I’m beginning to think differently.
I’ve indeed spent most of my life singing tenor. But, I’m a baritone.
If you know vocal categories, you realize that often the baritone is left out in choral music. Music is written in SATB form (soprano, alto, tenor, bass), so there’s no place for the baritone to fit in easily. Many notes in the tenor part are comfortable and sound great when sung by a baritone, but when those soaring notes fly up above Middle C, the baritone voice begins to lose its luster. The same thing happens in the bass parts, except it’s in the lower range of that voicing that the baritone singer gets lost in the mix.
I still remember my pastor’s wife sitting in front of me in the choir during my high school years. Back then, the choir needed a bass voice, so I covered that part for them.
Mrs. Slaughter was always kind, always sweet. She’d hear me sing a bass line (that should have been full and deep, but for me, the notes were just barely audible) and she’d say, loud enough for the entire choir to hear, “Oh! Listen to that basso profundo!”
I don’t think anyone else in the choir was rude enough to laugh, but I did. Every time. I knew better.
I’m no bass singer. Nor am I a tenor.
I sing in the cracks between the two.
And, it’s finally okay.
Dr. Cho says it’s okay.
Can I make a suggestion? If you don’t fit the mold they’re pushing you into, stop trying. Be who you are. More than that—be who God made you to be.
The world will try to make you fit their standard. You don’t belong there. And, if you’re really following Christ, you’ll never fit in—never feel comfortable—singing in that key.
“This world is not my home, I’m just a-passing through…”
Living in the cracks.
Until we finally reach home.
There, we’ll be singing in His key. With His voicing.
He—the Master Conductor—says it’s okay.
You know the music will be spectacular.
I hope you’ll sing with me. I’ll be the one singing baritone.
“I’m not asking you to take them out of the world, but to keep them safe from the evil one.They do not belong to this world any more than I do.Make them holy by your truth; teach them your word, which is truth.Just as you sent me into the world, I am sending them into the world.”
(John 17:15-18, NLT)
“Harpists spend ninety percent of their lives tuning their harps, and ten percent playing out of tune.” (Igor Stravinsky)
I noticed the post on a friend’s social media page earlier:
“Getting hard to breathe as CA fires blow our way.”
She’s praying for rain, while smoke makes it hard to catch her breath. Many others are too.
I didn’t expect it, but I got a catch in my throat as I read her message.
There are no fires near me, but I had an inkling of her misery today as I mowed my lawn. There has been very little rain for a few weeks and the soil under the grass is parched. With more than a few mole tunnels pushed up across the width and length of the yard, I knew I was in for a dusty job when I headed out to begin the task.
I did borrow a face cowl from the Lovely Lady before venturing out. I had no idea how much I would need it. As it turned out, I should have found some swim goggles to go with it.
Dust billowed out from my mower—by the buckets full, it seemed to me—and yet I sped on across the yard. I soon found that, if I rode along in a straight line, I could stay ahead of the murky haze of flying dirt. But eventually, I had to turn, always back directly into the hazy cloud.
The face cowl helped considerably. I could breathe, at least. But again and again, I was overcome by the dirt in my eyes, burning and stinging. It would go dark as I was forced to close my eyelids against the irritating dust. Each time it happened, I released the grab bars that controlled my forward progress and, sitting atop the roaring machine in the diminishing fog, would wipe my eyes, either with my finger or with a handkerchief dampened from my water bottle.
I felt a little like Pigpen, the Peanuts character who raised dust wherever he walked in the comic strip. I’m certain the neighbors were almost as relieved as I was when the task was finished.
But, on a couple of the occasions I had to stop the mower today, I did so in the darkness, caused not only by the dust but also by panic. Momentarily, I would be confused as to where (and into what) the machine and its rider were headed.
Was I going to hit a tree? A gas meter or water faucet? Perhaps the flowerpot that held the Lovely Lady’s columbine plant was in my path! I’m not sure a little dirt in my eyes would have sufficed as an adequate excuse for that damage!
Do you know what it feels like to lose sight of reality? Of the straight road you’ve marked out in front of you?
It was only an inkling. Merely the tiniest glimpse of what hopelessness could feel like.
But, while I was in the midst of it, it seemed to me that I might never breathe easily, nor see clearly again. I knew I would, but it’s easy to be overwhelmed when in the grip of an uncomfortable turn of events.
As I contemplated later, clean and grit-free in my easy chair, my thoughts went back several decades and I finally began to understand.
I remember standing outside that hospital with tears in my eyes. I cried again later that evening as I attempted to understand the darkness one had to feel to attempt to end their own life.
It was years ago—in the last century—if you must know. We’ve moved more than once since then. The names have faded into obscurity; the faces almost so.
The couple, not young, lived near us in a small rental house. Their lives hadn’t been easy, but there had been no events that prepared me for hearing the ambulance outside our back door. And, I certainly didn’t anticipate following the paramedics to the hospital with an inebriated husband in my passenger seat.
The wife had taken a lot of pills. More than a handful. In her mind, it was the only alternative she had in a hopeless situation. Her husband, incapacitated as he was, was no help. But, eventually, he figured out she was in trouble and called 911.
Thus, the trip to the hospital. I offered to take him since it was clear he was in no condition to drive.
The team at the hospital was able to save her life. It didn’t fix her problems. Nor his. But, she lived. They moved away just weeks later, so I don’t know how their lives have gone, except that I heard their marriage ended soon after that.
I’m not sure the darkness ever lifted for them. I pray it has.
Did I say there were tears in my eyes? One might wonder why. They hadn’t been great neighbors. They argued loudly late at night. When he had had a little too much to drink (which was not infrequent), he sang country music at the top of his lungs from the front porch of the little house. They borrowed tools—and money—and my old bicycle, and didn’t always feel the need to return them.
And yet, I cried. For her, and her blind despair. And for him, and how he was treated by the doctor at the hospital. Rudely and with no respect nor regard for his terror that his wife might die. All the doctor saw was his drunkenness and poverty, and he had no time nor sympathy to be wasted on the man.
And so, I sat tonight and wondered anew at how we look at each other—at our neighbors and strangers on the street corners. At friends who have lost someone and can’t get over it. At people who look different, and act differently, than we do. Addicts and mentally ill. Politicians and the spectacularly wealthy (or even poverty-stricken). The list is endless.
And yet, they are neighbors. Every one of them.
We all get the dust in our eyes at some point. And, it’s easy to give up hope. For ourselves. For others.
Still, we’re all part of the human race. We share a common condition—that of being part of Adam’s fallen progeny. Our shared ancestor’s blindness has come over every one of us who walks this earth.
I know the tiniest thing about the blindness and fear that can overcome us.
And yet, hopelessness is not what has been promised to us. Not at all. We have hope. In Christ, our hope is certain. And, we walk in light.
We do. We walk in Light.
The Light that shines in every dark place. And we have the astounding privilege to share that light, carrying it within our very souls.
The smoke will clear. The rain will fall and settle the dust. It will.
And, the Light will never be overcome. Never.
That’s a promise. (John 1:5)
So for now, we get to shine. In this house, in this neighborhood—be it hillside or valley, and in this world.
You might want to bring your goggles along, too. There’s dust in the wind that’s blowing.
But, the Light shines still.
“Satan, who is the god of this world, has blinded the minds of those who don’t believe. They are unable to see the glorious light of the Good News. They don’t understand this message about the glory of Christ, who is the exact likeness of God.” (2 Corinthians 4:4, NLT)
“Carry your candle, run to the darkness.” (Christopher M Rice)
I’ve spent more than enough time the last few days living inside my head. The passing of a friend—whose loss looms larger all the while I consider our experiences together—has darkened my thoughts more than a little.
Still, contemplation of life and its losses—along with its great gifts—is never time wasted. Never wasted that is, unless the time doesn’t come to an end with a declaration of resolve and renewed direction. If that doesn’t happen, we simply remain where we are, frozen in place. I don’t think I can be content to stay in the past, or even in this place of quiet reflection.
All of life is movement, isn’t it? Or, it should be.
Movement and change.
So, onward!
I sat, in my melancholy mood, this evening and listened to music as I contemplated the week past. Quiet classical music played on my Spotify station. It helps me relax without intruding. On most nights.
Tonight though, I suddenly found myself thinking about the house I grew up in. The red-headed lady who raised me was there, sitting in her easy chair wielding a crochet hook while she pulled yarn from a skein in the basket beside her. The Christian station played on the radio sitting nearby. A man’s resonant baritone voice emanated from the speaker.
Nightsounds. That was the name of the program. Mom listened to it most nights from 11:30 to midnight. I know; your mom didn’t stay up that late, but mine did. Nearly every night. So did I.
So do I.
Nightsounds? Now, where did that come from? Oh yes! I looked at my monitor and saw that the song playing was Beau Soir by Claude Debussy (published in 1891). For many years, Beau Soir was Bill Pierce’s theme music for the late-night program of contemplative music and quiet wisdom.
I haven’t listened to or thought about that radio program since the late 1970s—almost fifty years ago now. But on this night, just a few measures into the music, my mind was transported to those days, to the time spent and lessons learned at my mother’s side.
She was a woman who lived her faith, never wavering, not even when her mind was stolen away in her last years by dementia. I have written before of one of my last memories of her—sharing a hymnal and singing songs of God’s love.
I’ve done my best to stay true to the faith of my mother, following the tenets of the Word of God. I even still treasure much of the music I learned to love as a child—classical, choral, songs of faith.
But, that brings me back to earlier today. Something that happened, seemingly not connected, yet perhaps connected, after all.
I got the note from my neighbor while I was at the grocery store.
“Your mailbox is on the ground. Just wanted to make sure you knew.”
It was. On the ground. When I left to go shopping with the Lovely Lady, it had been on the post, as sturdy as you please.
When I got home, I could plainly see the tire marks in the mud leading directly toward the post that stood there, sans mailbox, which was lying in the grass.
I knew who the tracks belonged to. I even took photos of the damage and of the tire marks. That driver was going to hear from me! The driver’s boss was going to hear from me!
It’s important to take responsibility for our actions. It is.
My mother taught me that, as did my father. They would have contacted the company and reported the transgression. The wrongdoer should be made to answer for his actions. He needs to do better!
I looked at the photos I had taken. I looked at the mailbox lying on the ground before me. Resentment grew rapidly. As I thought about the effort and resources I had expended a couple of years ago when I replaced the post, cementing it into place, and affixing the mailbox atop it, my indignation mounted almost exponentially moment by moment.
Do the right thing!
It was what I was taught. I would only be honoring my mother and father.
Do you know what I did?
No. Not that.
I put my phone away and, going to my workbench, gathered up the tools necessary to return the mailbox to its perch. Finding a scrap piece of one-by-six, I cut it to length and, removing the old screws and broken mount, fastened it into place before setting the mailbox in position. Four more screws were all it took to finish the job. It didn’t cost me a penny.
The entire job took half an hour. Well, three-quarters of an hour if you count the lovely conversation I had with my neighbors across the street, an opportunity I don’t have as often as I’d like.
Then, I deleted the photos from my phone.
Even now, as I sit at my desk, I can look out the window and see the mailbox. There is a sense of accomplishment, of satisfaction at a job well done. The animosity, the annoyance toward that faceless driver is gone—completely disappeared.
And, as I sat tonight listening to the beautiful music, I thought of another way in which I honor my mother and father. Even though they are gone from this life, years past.
I certainly honor them by remembering the tenets they taught me. I even honor them by following their example in putting those lessons into practice.
But more than that, I honor them when I see ways those tenets can be applied more appropriately—and then do that in love and grace.
I hope you don’t think that I imagine I have earned any praise for this. What I’ve described is nothing more than an old man, nearly seven decades old, finally—finally—beginning to grasp the idea of “forgiving those who trespass against us.” (Matthew 6:12)
Finally learning to sit with the Teacher as He writes in the dust and says quietly, “Let him who is without sin throw the first stone.” (John 8:7)
Finally listening—and actually hearing—as the Apostle asks, “Why not rather be wronged? Why not rather be cheated?” (1 Corinthians 6:7)
And, I’m only beginning. When it’s nearly too late. But, not too late yet.
I’m still alive. And, as Sam Gamgee’s old Gaffer used to say, “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”
I reminded my son earlier that it is every parent’s dream for his children to learn from him/her and then do better than they did. Because the right thing is what Jesus would do. Not what your parents do, or did.
I wish I could be like my namesake, the Apostle, who suggested that his readers could confidently follow his example, as he followed Christ’s. I wish.
But, we learn. And grow. Together.
Walking each other home. Honoring each other as we go.
Spreading grace and mercy freely along the way.
It is what He would do.
“I have always found that mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice.” (Abraham Lincoln)
“God blesses those who are merciful, for they will be shown mercy.”
(Matthew 5:7, NLT)
The tree is gone now, with not even a stump remaining where it stood, to bear witness to its existence.
For years, the Lovely Lady and I walked, rode, and drove past the old oak tree. It was just one oak in a grove of twenty or more bordering our local cemetery, with nothing to make it stand out.
You know by now (if you read my articles often) that I love trees. Their beauty is not only in the aesthetic qualities they have—the sturdy trunk, the spreading canopy, the soaring height—but is also in the functional part of them, the part that shades the earth from the sun and helps to fill the atmosphere with the oxygen that is necessary for life.
One day, a few weeks ago, we noticed that several limbs on the beautiful oak were dead. Completely dead. I can’t be sure, but they may have been dead for some time before that.
Still, it wasn’t long before a crew was there to trim off those dead limbs. The tree was near a very busy street and the city couldn’t risk having a limb fall into traffic and potentially injure someone. So, the lifeless limbs with their brown leaves were removed and hauled off.
All was well again. We thought.
Then last week, the crew came back. They downed the entire tree, much to our dismay. Sure, it was one of many, hardly to be missed. But, I hate it when trees are chopped down, especially trees that are alive and healthy.
However, even looking at the stump from across the street (before they brought the machine to grind it out), we could tell something was amiss. Perhaps, it hadn’t been a healthy tree after all. We walked over, exclaiming about what we found there.
The oak had been completely hollow. Rotten to the core. There was even evidence that, through a void near the ground, a wild animal of some sort had crept in and made a den inside the huge shell of a tree.
What a shock! Living, but filled with death.
The words of a prayer in The Book of Common Prayer come to mind. They were first written in Latin, way back in the 1300s.
“Media vita in morte sumus“
“In the midst of life, we are in death.”
The common usage today is for funeral services. It was not so when the words were written. They were written as a reminder to man that we ourselves are sinners, full of decay and degeneration. Alive on the outside, but inside full of nasty things.
I sat in my local coffee shop this morning, a lovely establishment, owned by a believer. As I sat sipping the delicious brew and enjoying my yogurt parfait, I listened to the quiet worship music playing. A delightful and reassuring start to my morning.
Then, I noticed writing on the edge of my yogurt cup.
Why is there always something to disturb the satisfaction of life as we’ve made it? I want to sit and enjoy the knowledge that all is well, that I’m doing just fine, yet thoughts and words intrude.
The writing on the cup was a scripture reference from Colossians 3. It included a specific verse, but I looked up the entire chapter on my laptop. It wasn’t all stuff I wanted to read.
I read it anyway.
“So put to death the sinful, earthly things lurking within you.“ (Colossians 3: 5a, NLT)
Then there is a list of the things that live inside us, but shouldn’t. Impure thoughts—immorality—lust—even greed.
And now, I can’t get the picture of that tree out of my head. And the words of the Teacher, as He castigated the religious leaders of His time for their double-mindedness. White-washed tombs, He called them.
Our thoughts matter. What’s inside of us will eventually come out. In actions. In words.
I don’t want to rot from the inside.
I’d rather stand tall, like those trees in the first Psalm. Planted on the banks of a river flowing with pure, life-giving water.
Shade for the weary traveler. Fruit for the hungry.
Alive.
Completely alive.
Put away that chainsaw, would you?
“Let the message about Christ, in all its richness, fill your lives. Teach and counsel each other with all the wisdom he gives. Sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs to God with thankful hearts. And whatever you do or say, do it as a representative of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks through him to God the Father.” (Colossians 3:16-17, NLT)
“I wish not only to be called Christian, but also to be Christian.” (Saint Ignatius)
It was only seven years ago that the Lovely Lady and I purchased her childhood home and, leaving our comfort zone far behind, labored for several months to make sure the house was ready to be lived in. We installed new appliances, replaced floors and ceilings, and generally spiffed up the inside spaces.
Set for life. I’m pretty sure those were the words I used when we moved our furniture, artwork, and books into the beautiful space. I was certain we had done good work, purchasing quality materials, and planning for future needs.
Now, it’s falling apart.
Oh, it’s not really falling apart. But, the sprayer in the kitchen sink gave up the ghost a couple of weeks ago, prompting me to order a new one from an online superstore (which shall remain nameless). The replacement arrived and was duly installed, only to fail within five days. I sent it back and went to visit the local building supply. We’ll see how long this replacement lasts.
Then, last week, our kids and grandkids came for a visit (as they do most weeks). Having eaten a little too much for supper, I suggested to the Lovely Lady that we take a walk right after bidding the rowdy bunch a loving goodbye. We returned to a house that was much warmer than the outside temperature.
With help from YouTube, I figured out what was wrong with the air conditioner compressor and effected a repair, but not before an encounter with a mathematically challenged sales rep at the local home repair center. He was kind enough to accept a return of the part he recommended in error and, still shaking his head in confusion, sent me on my way.
It’s cool inside again, but some part of me—the non-logical part—tells me the house is falling apart.
I keep installing new parts in old gadgets. The refrigerator, the stove, the storm doors.
It’s the only way I know to keep them functioning.
The Teacher had something to say about new parts in old things.
“Besides, who would patch old clothing with new cloth? For the new patch would shrink and rip away from the old cloth, leaving an even bigger tear than before.“ (Matthew 9:16, NLT)
I know—it’s not the same thing; I’m not comparing apples to apples, as the red-headed lady who raised me would have said. Still, it seems incongruous—putting new parts in old machinery.
Sooner or later, the old parts remaining in the device will fail and I’ll throw away the entire affair, new parts and old alike.
It will all fall apart eventually.
And, without invitation, the fatalism that has eaten at my core for years shows up anew. I’ve said the words before. To my shame, I’ve said them.
“What’s the use?”
I want to blame that red-headed lady, the one who raised me. She had so many catchphrases to prove her point.
“It’s just par for the course.” “It is what it is.” “Why would I expect anything better?” “The story of my life!”
I want to blame her, but it’s not her fault. It’s not. The human reaction to change and challenges is to believe the worst—to foresee failure. Even when we’ve experienced triumphs again and again we somehow seem to expect that the next time, we may not rise from the ashes victorious.
Change is hard. It pushes us to the edge of our abilities and even the limits of our hopefulness.
And sometimes, we do fail. Or, we experience losses. Despite all our blessings, we begin to anticipate the rough times.
Just last week, as I talked with a younger friend entering his middle years, I realized the pattern starts early. He spoke of difficulties, of challenges ahead, and even of losses behind. I tried to reassure him that good things still lie ahead, but in retrospect, I think my private doubts might have made my words a little dubious.
I’m not alone. Many I know are uncertain in these tempestuous days. Almost without exception, we wonder where our world, our country, and our communities are headed. And, then there are the personal issues: our families, our neighborhoods, our work, even our faith communities.
Can I say this? I may not have been resolute enough in my affirmation of good things ahead with my young friend, but I am absolutely certain of one thing.
Our Creator is making all things new. Even now, it is happening. It’s what He does.
“For I am about to do something new. See, I have already begun! Do you not see it? I will make a pathway through the wilderness. I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.” (Isaiah 43:19, NLT)
New.
Not refurbished. Not repaired. Not mended.
New.
If we are truly followers of Christ, we have already been made new in Him. But, the day is coming when all around us will be made new.
He promised.
All new.
I’m ready for that.
Until then, I’ll keep repairing the things that break.
And counting my blessings.
“And the one sitting on the throne said, ‘Look, I am making everything new!” And then he said to me, “Write this down, for what I tell you is trustworthy and true.'”
(Revelation 21:5, NLT)
“A man builds a fine house, and now he has a master and a task for life: he is to furnish, watch, show it, and keep it in repair the rest of his days.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson)
And, with that one sentence, you may know all you need to know about my day.
“The steadfast and resolute love of the Lord never wavers. There is no end to His mercies. Every morning we awake, they are fresh and new. What astounding faithfulness!” (Lamentations 3:22-23, my paraphrase)
I awoke this morning and got out of bed. There were clothes for my body and shoes for my feet. Food was available to keep up my strength—although that would wait until after I drank my first (and maybe, my second) cup of coffee.
My house is still standing and my children—and grandchildren—can still put their arms around my neck and tell me they love me.
But the words in those verses above have nothing to do with all those things. Well, except for the “every morning we awake” part.
We glibly speak (and sing) the words of Lamentations, yet rarely think of the weight of the words to the people who first heard the words of the weeping prophet, Jeremiah.
They are heavy words. Words to give a foundation when all around turns to quicksand. Words to offer food and drink when all about has become a barren and desolate desert.
The people for whom the words were originally intended were under an aggressive physical attack. They were being starved and their homes destroyed. There was rape and cannibalism among them. Life was horrible.
Things are not that bad here. Not yet.
Still, everywhere I look, folks are using hyperbole to tell us it can’t get any worse. You’ve seen—and read—and heard what I’m talking about. It doesn’t seem to matter what one’s faith tradition is, nor even their political leaning.
“Disaster!”, they all cry.
And yet, in the midst of a real (not imagined) disaster, Jeremiah wrote the words that would stand for a thousand generations. And for many more.
Those words have the same weight today as they did the day he took up quill, ink, and scroll to write them down.
Maybe it’s time to quit doom-scrolling. I’m certain the words appearing on your phone’s screen today won’t be remembered at all a thousand years from now. Perhaps, not even a week from now.
All those Chicken Little folks who think the sky is falling won’t change the resolute will of our Creator one iota. And, He is for us!
He is for us!
In our corner.
On our side.
And, I woke up this morning. You too, I bet.
I’m going on. Today, at least.
Are you coming with?
“But let all who take refuge in you rejoice; let them sing joyful praises forever. Spread your protection over them, that all who love your name may be filled with joy.” (Psalm 5:11, NLT)
“One day Henny-penny was picking up corn in the corn yard when—whack!—something hit her upon the head. ‘Goodness gracious me!’ said Henny-penny; ‘the sky’s a-going to fall; I must go and tell the king.'” (from the English fairy tale, Henny-Penny)
The visit to the specialist was going well until he asked the question. Now I’m wondering about lots of things in my life.
I have struggled with back pain for years, but the weeks before my appointment had been especially difficult, with a flare-up that left me mostly housebound. A visit with my family doctor led to a few tests and a follow-up with the neurologist.
Eyes on the computer screen where the MRI images showed, he asked the question that kept me awake most of that night.
“Did you do something to earn this?”
After a short reply about 35 years of moving pianos, he clarified the question. He wanted to know if there was one thing I could point to that had brought on the current crisis.
I couldn’t.
It doesn’t mean I didn’t earn it.
I’m going to be a little circumspect here. Meaning—I think I may creep around the edges of this discussion rather than engaging aggressively. You’ll understand better as we proceed.
I have never—until now—made decisions regarding actions I would take based on whether they might damage my spine or not. If I wanted to play soccer with the kids, I did. If I needed to dig out a stump in the yard, I did. When the opportunity to help move furniture for friends was presented, I showed up.
And, I really did move pianos for thirty-five years. Knowing full well that there could be a price to pay, I agreed every time a customer asked.
Did I earn the back pain—the inability to function normally for the last few weeks?
I did.
Not with one action, but with a plethora of them. A lifetime of insignificant choices, seemingly. One by one, the transgressions color the injured area with hurt—with unnoticed harm, followed by unnoticed harm, until all at once the body feels nothing else.
I earned this.
Why am I so reluctant to accept responsibility for the situations I find myself in when I have led my life as if I want to be exactly where I am?
The preacher’s son in me wants to hammer this point home and, moving past the tangible world of physicality, would like to discuss consequences of all kinds. Relationship problems. Legal entanglements. Most any type of abstract ailment you might care to argue about.
I want to.
But, as I said—circumspection is key here. I know there are many different perspectives and many different situations. Not all have a villain at whom we can point a finger. Perhaps, I’ll simply leave the reader to work out the ways in which my doctor’s question might apply to them and their own milieu, physical or otherwise.
Besides, my wandering mind has another question that captures me more completely today. It did during my recent sleepless night, too.
No, that’s not correct. It’s not another question.
It’s the same one. Precisely, the same one.
“Did you do something to earn this?”
But, it seems to be applied to a different scenario.
This time, instead of awful pain and the dread and sadness that accompany loss of function, I look at the beautiful family, at the lovely home, at the nice vehicles I have and I wonder.
“Did you do something to earn this?”
Of course, in my head, the immediate answer is yes. I worked all my life to make a living, to build a legacy. I labored with my wife to raise our children. I earned this!
And then, my memory is drawn to the fellow with a sign, standing on the street corner near the grocery store. Or the folks last winter in the parking lot with two flat tires on the car in which they live. Or the lady I know who works two full-time jobs just to pay her rent and keep the lights on for her children.
One after the other, they are drawn to mind and I wonder how I have the audacity to say I have earned my ease and comfort when they live in such straits.
My mind is drawn to the phrase traditionally attributed to the English martyr, John Bradford, who is reputed to have said, as he sat in Newgate Prison awaiting his own execution: “There but for the grace of God goes John Bradford.”
He was speaking of murderers being taken to the gallows to be punished for their sins. I remember wondering, years ago, when I first heard the story, if he was speaking of the execution, or the crime the men had committed to be punished so.
Since my visit with the radiologist, now weeks ago, I have asked again and again (about numerous things), “Did you do anything to earn this?”
There are so many things—and people—in my life that I can only point to grace and mercy as an explanation for their presence. I could never have earned them myself.
Not if I had worked for an entire lifetime. Or ten lifetimes.
And again, my mind jumps ahead of itself. But, this time, I don’t wonder at all.
I think about my relationship with my Creator and all my pride seeps out completely. If anything, all I’ve earned here is sorrow. And separation.
But sorrow and separation are not what I have. Thanks to nothing I have done—not one thing—I have assurance of walking with Him and being followed by His goodness and mercy for all of the days of my life. And, into eternity.
I am no better than any of the millions taunting God and His followers today. Not even a little bit better. I have nothing for which I may stand tall and say, “This is mine and you can’t have it unless you earn it.”
Our Creator’s grace and mercy reach. They just do.
I earned my back problems. Perhaps, I even earned that look from the Lovely Lady when I took a second plate of food at lunch yesterday.
But, God’s gifts to me, I could never even begin to earn.
I didn’t do anything to earn this.
But, it’s good. Really good.
And, it’s yours too—if you want it.
“For by grace you are saved through faith, and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God; it is not from works, so that no one can boast.” (Ephesians 2:8-9, NET)
“Your worst days are never so bad that you are beyond the reach of God’s grace. And your best days are never so good that you are beyond the need of God’s grace.” (Anonymous)
I was unhappy. It’s not a mistake I’d usually make. I’m a stickler for correct grammar and punctuation. Oh, that doesn’t mean I don’t make errors; it simply means they usually have been corrected by the time I deem something fit for public consumption and click the button to post it. After I’ve read it over five or ten times.
But there it was, as clear as you please.
I was reposting an old note I had written a couple of years ago on my social media account. At a time when I was tired, hot, and covered in dust, I had seen the beauty of the sun shining through the trees, making the humid, dusty atmosphere glow with the bright rays of heavenly light.
“As I mowed my neighbors’ yard yesterday, I looked up from the hot and dusty task before me to see this.” Those were the words with which I started my post.
Except there is just one person who lives there. The fact that I placed the apostrophe after the s that made the word neighbor plural meant more than one person was living there. I should have placed the apostrophe between the r and the s to make it a singular possessive word.
You see, my neighbor is a widow—her husband having passed away nearly two years ag. . .
Oh.
When I wrote it, two people were living in the house next door. One of them, my friend Skip, would leave this world for the next a mere two months after it was written.
I did! I did put the apostrophe in the right place!
I feel as if I should be happier. Being right should be more joyful than this.
And yet, I’ve been looking at that apostrophe for the last hour or two. It was in the right place when I wrote the post, but it’s not now.
I’m not sad about how a sentence was written two years ago. I’m sad that all it takes to correct the loss of my friend is to move an apostrophe, the tiniest of punctuation marks, one space over.
One space—his loving wife’s loneliness and loss, shown in that tiny action. All the sadness of his children and old friends summed up in a movement of less than a quarter of an inch.
Perhaps though, my sadness is even more deeply rooted than this one exercise in grammatical nerdiness.
I stood with dear friends in church today and, speaking with them, realized anew that I will not do that with one or both of them many more times in this world. Health fails; the body refuses to continue on in its earthly mission.
Life on this spinning ball of water and rock is precarious. It’s short. And, unpredictable.
Today is a good day to hold close those our Creator has given us. It’s the perfect day to say, “I love you,” to everyone to whom the words apply.
Do (and say) the important things now, while the apostrophes and commas are still holding firm.
Tomorrow, the commas may all turn to periods—the apostrophes may slip over a space. The Author of our story writes and edits as He sees fit.
Of course, if the punctuation holds fast and isn’t moved until years in the future, we’ll simply have made the world a better place to be for all those extra days. And, our longer stories will be more lovely to read because of it.
And that seems to be acceptable. To me, anyway.
I hope you agree. If you don’t, send me a note.
Just try to get the punctuation right, will you?
“The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. May the name of the Lord be blessed!”
(Job 1:21, NET)
“As I mowed my neighbors’ yard yesterday, I looked up from the hot and dusty task before me to see this.
Nothing spectacular. Just the sun’s rays shining through the dust that hung in the air. Somehow, life just seems a little sweeter in the light.
The heat seems unbearable. It’s not.
The sadness seems crushing. It’s not.
The dread of what lies ahead seems overwhelming. It’s not.
Our hope never was in the stuff of this world. Time to look higher.
‘The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.’” (John 1:5, NIV) (from a Facebook post on July 7, 2022)
It was a fifth Sunday this week. An event that happens 4 times a year. My church used to have a dinner every time the day rolled around. Nowadays, we get together to sing on the fifth Sundays. Songs by Request, we call it.
The Lovely Lady plays the piano. I usually get roped into leading the singing. Folks in the audience yell out hymn numbers (yes, we pull out the old hymnbooks for the event) and we sing a couple of verses from each request.
Arriving early on Sunday evening, we noticed a microphone on a regular stand near the center of the stage. Knowing that a boom stand would work better to get the microphone close to me, I went looking and found one in the back of the equipment room.
It wasn’t until the end of the first song that I noticed the problem. It might have been the reason the stand was stowed where it had been in the little room off the stage.
As we sang, the weight of the microphone pushed the end of the boom down toward the music stand that held my hymnbook. I pulled it back into position, tightening the adjustment knob to hold it there.
We sang another song. By the end of a couple more verses, the mic was right back where it had been. You understand, don’t you, that a mic has to be close to one’s mouth to be effective at all?
Repeating the process, we soldiered on. But, after another two verses, it was clear the boom stand wasn’t up to the job. Begging the pardon of the waiting audience, I went in search of the original stand. They of course had been entertained by the extracurricular activities, so there was a fair amount of laughter from their seats in the interim.
Amid the laughter, I heard a voice from someone suggesting I prop up the end of the boom with the regular stand. I thought about that for about two seconds and rejected the idea, instead trading out one stand for the other.
I’ve mentioned before that I like things to be orderly, haven’t I? I sort my potato chips into stacks of broken and whole—my M&Ms by color. Don’t tell the Lovely Lady, but I even like my blue jeans hung up by the degree of fading (when they’re not sorted by waist size, that is).
It would be messy to have a regular mic stand sitting under the business end of a boom stand propping it up. I wouldn’t like the optics.
So, I set the microphone atop the regular stand and disposed of the boom behind me, forgetting that the mic wouldn’t be close to my mouth unless I leaned in next to it. Even with it sitting beside my hymnal, instead of behind it, I’d have to adjust my stance to get the sensitivity necessary for clear sound to reach the audience.
For the rest of the hour, I repeated hymn numbers over and over as folks would say, “What number again?” When I asked the fellow with whom I had arranged beforehand to pray a closing prayer, another man nearby touched his chest and mouthed, “Who, me?” because he couldn’t hear me clearly.
Because I wanted to keep things neat, folks were inconvenienced. Perhaps, even embarrassed.
But, there was no mess on the stage!
I know, if you ask any of the good folks who attended, none would remember either the mess or lack thereof. They probably weren’t even annoyed much by the need for me to repeat myself. I may be the only one having any second thoughts about my choices that night.
But, I want to remember.
I want to remember that life is messy. Our interactions with strangers can be awkward. Our exchanges with family members are often without tact and require apologies afterward. We don’t always fit together without fidgeting and rubbing off some rough corners.
I want to remember that sometimes you leave the errant green bean, that somehow escaped from someone’s plate and onto the floor, to be cleaned up later. The joyous cacophony around the dinner table won’t be flawed at all because of a little mess underneath it.
I want to remember that sometimes the notes don’t come out perfectly and my voice cracks when I sing the high ones. And, once in a while, the Lovely Lady plays a natural when it should have been a flat. And, we don’t stop and correct it, because the music is beautiful despite the mess.
Beautiful and messy.
And, that’s all of life, isn’t it? A glorious mess.
Still. I think I’ll check out the mic stand before the next hymn night. It never hurts to plan ahead.
“Life is a journey that must be traveled, no matter how bad the roads and accommodations.” (Oliver Goldsmith, Irish novelist/poet)
“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling.” (1 Peter 4:8-9, NIV)
