As I write this, the sun is shining brightly in the sky outside. I’m sitting beside a hospital bed, listening to the loud beeping of an alarm that should be telling a nurse somewhere to come change an IV medicine bag.
My friends are posting Christmas carols today. I did that earlier this week. Somehow, Christmas isn’t close to my thoughts today.
Even though a niece has started her road trip toward our house from northern latitudes this morning, and a sister-in-law will fly in from eastern longitudes later this week to be with us for Christmas, I find myself contemplating life and its uncertanties on this day.
Sitting in a waiting room of a hospital for nine hours a day ago will do that to a person. Visits with friends who pass by in the hallway—an activity one would expect to lift spirits—allows the shadows to creep into the mind.
A few days ago, I lifted my candle with a thousand other folks and said that the darkness could not overcome the light. I don’t repent of the declaration. It is still true.
Still, the lights of physical life can dim, while the light of Redeeming Grace shines the brighter.
As I waited for the result of a loved one’s surgery yesterday, I learned of a couple of families I know who are facing the loss of their loved ones this holiday season. Somehow, for them, the light won’t seem so bright in this season we call festive.
And, my heart weeps with them.
And, that’s as it should be.
But still, I watched the sunrise this morning before coming to sit beside the bed of my loved one who remains in pain, and I just couldn’t stop the words from welling up.
“When morning guilds the skies My heart awaking cries, ‘May Jesus Christ be praised.'”
As the day goes on, I don’t doubt that my spirit will flag. Sitting beside a bed is hard work. Elation is not the emotion one feels most in that locale.
But, it doesn’t change the fact that every morning we arise to meet the day is one in which we are blessed by our Creator.
“It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because His compassions fail not; they are new every morning. Great is Thy faithfulness.” (Lamentations 3: 22-24, KJV)
It was true when the words were written. It’s still true today.
Christmas will come. This Advent season builds the anticipation for the day when we’ll celebrate our Savior’s birth.
I’ll sing the carols. I will.
I hope your voice will blend with mine as we give thanks for His good and perfect gifts.
Even if our voices don’t blend all that well, it will be a joyful noise raised up to the God who bends low—the God who hears us, who understands our frailties, and still He came for us.
I’d still like to have the song in my mouth when the evening comes.
“Yea, Lord, we greet thee, born this happy morning. Jesus to thee be all glory given.” (from O Come All Ye Faithful, by John Francis Wade)
“The sun comes up; It’s a new day dawning. It’s time to sing Your song again. Whatever may pass And whatever lies before me, Let me be singing When the evening comes.”
I will never understand it. The Christmas season is one filled with light and hope, yet more people are feeling sad than at any other time of the year.
I checked to be sure I’m not spreading fake news. The National Alliance on Mental Illness tells us a 2021 survey shows that 3 in 5 people in America say the holidays make them sad.
A friend who has had a rough year posted her annual birthday note a couple of days ago to share her trials and joys with her tribe. I responded and suggested that sometimes the best we can do is stay in the vicinity of the light. In the shadows, but never far from the light.
But, I don’t really believe that. I don’t.
I wrote recently about preparations for the Christmas Candlelight Service at the local Christian university—one in which I have participated for well more than forty years. Nearly every time I have participated, I have found a new truth to enlighten my journey. I’ve shared many of those truths with my readers.
This year is no exception, even though my participation was in a very different capacity than those services for the past four decades.
When I played my horn with the brass group for the event, we always left the stage soon after the halfway point in the service. Sitting in pews reserved for us, we simply became audience members, enjoying the beautiful choral music the young folks (getting younger every year, seemingly) presented.
I was carried away. Every time.
This year as a vocalist, I stayed on the stage until, as my sweet mother-in-law would have put it, the last dog was hung. (I’m not sure what that means, but it seems to indicate staying until the entire event is finished, so I’ll go with it.)
Right up at the top of the risers, I and my compatriots stood or sat, depending on our part in the program. With a bird’s-eye view, one might say.
We were on display to the whole audience, but we also had a clear line of sight to every part of the cathedral. The view was eye-opening. Well, it took me until the last night to open my eyes, but I can’t unsee it in my mind now.
Forty-five times, I had seen it from the same perspective. Yet, it was always moving.
This is different.
I’m mostly thinking about the candlelighting ceremony at the end of the service.
Over the years, we would sit in the pews, with the student candle-lighters stopping at the ends of each row, lighting the candle of the person sitting there. Then that person would pass the flame to their neighbor, and they to theirs, until all the candles were aflame.
As we sang the words to the old Christmas carol, Silent Night, we held the candles close until the third verse. Then, as we began to sing about the radiant beams from His face, each of us would lift our candle high, flooding the huge building with brilliant light.
It was always moving. I know—I’m repeating myself. It’s still true. Again and again, I’ve been moved.
It all changed drastically this year, especially on the final night. I had always thought it was only that last verse—when we raised our candles—that was moving.
But, on this final night, I had tears in my eyes through every verse of the carol. The tears started before the music did.
I have known how it worked—the sharing of the flame, one person to the next. Yet I’ve never seen the big picture of how it occurred, except from my limited perspective amongst the folks right beside me.
I suppose it may be a bit like Job felt in the Old Testament. He had heard with his ears—he knew a little of what he was supposed to know—but seeing with his own eyes made all the difference. Now, he had experienced it. (Job 42:5)
Experiencing it is different than just having a head knowledge. I’m sure of it.
Throughout the entire service (all three nights) I had looked at the dim cathedral and knew there were individuals there—a number of them friends and acquaintances— but because of the darkness, I couldn’t see any individual faces, only a huge indistinct crowd of humanity.
And, as the ceremony began, from my bird’s-eye view, I watched the young folks carry their candles to the dark pews to spread the light. And finally, on the last night, I saw it clearly.
Through the whole room, looking completely random and without plan, the light spread. I could see flames shift from one person to the next, moving laterally along each pew. It wasn’t uniform. There was no pattern—or seemingly not. Row after row, I watched the lights flicker across from side to side.
Now, what was it that I was supposed to be seeing? Sure, the candles were lit in preparation for the holding forth of the light later on, but that wasn’t it.
There! I saw it!
Faces appeared behind the candles. Individual faces. On my left. In front of me, not far back. Then, way back to the right.
Faces.
No longer simply a mass of humanity, the bodies in the pews had faces—identities that could be clearly and individually seen.
“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” (Isaiah 9:2, NIV)
How did I miss that?
We who have come to His light come as individuals out of profound darkness. And, His light shines on us.
It shines on us. You. Me.
Yes, we’re part of the great cloud of witnesses—like John the Baptist, bearing witness to The Light—but we come to our Savior and He knows each one of us.
He knows me.
He knows you.
And now, we have the great privilege of reflecting The Light.
Again, from that vantage point, I watched the flames—held close throughout the song—as they were thrust forward and upward to the ceiling. If I had been moved through all of those years when I was sitting in the audience, it was spectacular seeing it from above and in front of it!
Spectacular. An explosion of light!
We can spread the light—one to another. It’s in His plan that we do that. We can even hold our light close and have light for the journey.
He knows each one of us and loves us in our individuality.
But, it’s also in His plan that the world around us be overwhelmed by the brilliance of His Light, shared by His people collectively, walking in love for Him and for our neighbors, the people who dwell in the profound darkness.
Overwhelmed.
I’m not sure we’re doing that yet.
But, it’s not too late.
I’m pretty sure it will be spectacular.
Spectacular.
“I will make you a light to the nations, so you can bring my deliverance to the remote regions of the earth.” (Isaiah 49:6b, NET)
“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” (Matthew 5:16, KJV)
“Silent night! Holy night! Son of God, love’s pure light radiant beams from Thy holy face with the dawn of redeeming grace, Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth! Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth!“ (from Silent Night by Joseph Mohr)
I don’t like change. Well—sometimes, I do. And then—I wish things hadn’t changed after they do.
I’m not explaining this very clearly, am I?
Let’s see if I can do better.
I like trees—especially old ones. Old trees exude comfort and reassurance that all is well with the world. They are a constant—a connection from former generations to the future.
They’ve seen it all, lasting through the storms and the seasons, standing firm.
It makes me sad when old trees are cut down. Except when it doesn’t.
Oh. Here I go again—talking in circles.
Give me another chance, will you?
The old mulberry tree stood outside the kitchen window. For well more than sixty years, it gave shade from the sun blasting down in summer. There were berries in the spring. Berries that fed the birds by the thousands and provided the residents of the old house with flavorful complements to their cereal and, perhaps, even filling a pie or two.
The tree has been a constant throughout the life of the Lovely Lady who lives in the old house with me. She was brought to this home from the maternity ward in the hospital and doesn’t remember a day when it wasn’t there.
Even I, as a relative newcomer (not yet fifty years) to the family, have walked under it on many spring days, pulling down a handful of the purple fruit to munch on, tossing the stems to the ground under the lovely old tree. I have stood under its shade on many a sweltering summer afternoon, grateful for the protection from the sun.
The twisted, gnarled old tree always brings a smile to my face when I think of it. I loved it and thought I would never want it gone.
I don’t like change.
But, it has been evident over the last three years that the funny little tree was reaching the end of its life. The branches at the top began to lose their leaves, drooping lifelessly toward the ground below. And this year, there were almost no leaves to be seen anywhere on the tree, except the few that popped from the trunk itself. Not a single branch bore any sign of green.
I hate to cut down trees. Especially old friends such as this lovely little mulberry. And, it could have stayed right where it was, limbs drooping to the ground, for several more years. Except for one thing; those drooping limbs (and a large part of the upper trunk) hung right over the power line dropping down to the house.
Winter is coming. It is. We live in a relatively temperate area, but in most winters we get at least one or two storms coming through that drop what the meteorologists like to call freezing rain. Simply put, water falls from the sky into the extremely cold air near the ground and freezes solid on every surface upon which it lands.
Water is heavy. Freezing water coating the limbs is a disaster waiting to happen.
I wanted the problem taken care of before winter comes. My heater won’t work if the electricity is interrupted, and I need heat in the winter. Most folks do.
My old friend, Isaac, came by last week to remove the old oak tree across the street (a story for another day) and I asked him if he could extend his stay in the neighborhood long enough to take care of my problem.
He wondered if I could wait for a few weeks. I couldn’t. Even the few days I had to wait for him to finish the other job was a few days too many. The tree needed to come down ASAP!
You see? Sometimes, I do like change.
Yesterday, Isaac took the tree down. Limb by limb, section by section, it came to the ground. I was happy to see the limbs on the grass. Especially that section that hung over the power line.
Soon, all that remained was the twisted and gnarled old trunk. My friend knows what he is doing. He left enough weight above the trunk on the side to which he wanted it to fall.
He didn’t even have to cut a notch near the ground like you see most of the lumberjacks doing in the movies. Just a straight cut right above the level of the dirt. A push, and it was done.
The mulberry tree lay on the ground waiting to be cut into smaller pieces the tractor would lift into the trailer.
I wish it hadn’t.
You see, I don’t like change.
Most of us don’t. We hold on to the things that make us comfortable. Even when it’s clear that they are rotting and decaying, we hold on to them. And then, when they are finally wrenched from our grasping, clinging hands, we bemoan their loss.
As if those things could ever last forever.
Years ago, I played the old portable pump organ (and sometimes a real piano) for my Dad at the nursing homes where he preached on Sunday afternoons. He would let the old folks pick the songs they wanted us to sing. One we sang again and again was “Abide With Me”. It was far from my favorite then.
I like it now. I think it’s because I understand it better.
“Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day; earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away. Change and decay in all around I see. O thou who changest not, abide with me.” (from Abide With Me, by Henry Francis Lyte)
Come to think of it, part of the change we’ve lived through is the moving away from common use of the old hymns. It’s part of the natural ebb and flow of life, but we don’t like that change, either.
All things move on. They always have.
My young friend, who writes songs for followers of Christ today, wrote a line in one of his songs a few years ago. It’s as powerful as the last line in the old hymn above.
“You cannot change, yet you change everything.” (from Rest in You, by Leonard/Jordan/Fox)
It’s true—there is decay in everything around us. Science tells us that everything is decaying. And yet, there is new life. And growth.
And, these places of discomfort we move into become places of comfort. Places we’ll eventually move on from again. And again.
Change and decay in all around I see.
But God—He never changes.
A Rock. A Fortress. The place we run into and find rest. Before change comes—again.
More trees will grow. And fall.
We have a certain anchor in every storm.
In a world of change and decay, a Solid Rock.
I still miss the old tree.
“Change is the law of life. And those who look only to the past or present are certain to miss the future.” (John F Kennedy)
“Long ago you laid the foundation of the earth and made the heavens with your hands. They will perish, but you remain forever; they will wear out like old clothing. You will change them like a garment and discard them. But you are always the same; you will live forever.”
(Psalm 102: 25-27, NLT)
It was over thirty years ago, but I still remember my brother-in-law’s words:
“Your grandma’s covered, Paul. The preacher is the one who messed up.”
A famous television evangelist had been exposed for the charlatan he was. His diamond rings—the ones that had been air-brushed out in his publicity photos—had been reported to the world, along with his mansions and luxury cars. It was finally clear that he was fleecing the little old ladies who had faithfully sent him their five and ten-dollar bills for decades.
I was angry. I could only air my unhappiness to the family member standing beside me that day, but I was pulled up short by my brother-in-law’s declaration.
I had wondered aloud what the little old ladies (and anyone else who had supported the man) were feeling knowing their money was supporting a lavish lifestyle for a very wealthy man and his family but had not gone to the ministries they intended to help at all.
We’ve all done it—given to help someone, only to find they didn’t really need it, or they used our gift for some other purpose altogether. We are hurt and angry, deciding to never help that person again.
Then there is the person we’ve helped again and again in their need, giving money or furniture or time, only to realize that they will never be there to help us when we need something.
I read the statement on social media the other day. My first thought was to agree. I’ve been there. Giving and not receiving.
“I regret the good things I did for the wrong people.“
Perhaps your response is the same as mine was initially.
I simply sat nodding my head. Remembering the hurt—the resentment.
Then, the words came to my mind. Quietly, but with purpose. I don’t know where they came from; they were just there.
“I wonder if God ever feels like that.”
Oh.
That hits home.
I don’t think He feels like that.
But, I do know what He did. And what He does.
“But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”
(Romans 5:8, NIV)
That’s what Love does.
But the world lies. It lies.
All around us, the catchphrases and memes fly.
“You deserve to be loved!” “Don’t waste your time on people who don’t reciprocate.” “Don’t give to people who don’t deserve your gift.” “Stay away from negative people.”
We’re not the world! We’re not.
In His prayer for His followers, Jesus said, “They do not belong to this world any more than I do.” And yes, He was talking about His followers throughout the ages to come as well. He went on to pray, “I am praying not only for these disciples but also for all who will ever believe in me through their message.“ (John 17: 16,20—NLT)
That’s us! Not of this world.
So why do we adopt their philosophies? Their slogans? Their lifestyles?
If I refuse to give to anyone who can’t or won’t give back, I’m nothing but a businessman, making a transaction. Tit for tat. Quid pro quo.
Here’s the thing: The one transaction that matters has already been made in the gift given to each of us who claim to be followers of Christ. The only thing required of us, who have freely received, is to give freely.
Freely. No encumbrances.
No anticipation of reimbursement.
Open hands, giving from open hearts.
We are responsible for our responses to God’s instruction. Others will answer for how they responded, but that’s none of our affair.
One of my favorite moments in the Narnia series of books by C.S. Lewis is in The Horse and His Boy. The protagonist, Shasta, is introduced to Aslan the Lion in a terrifying manner. Even in his fear, he asks several questions—one of them about an injury that happened to his companion.
The Lion answers back clearly.
“Child, I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.”
In modern terminology, the instructions are to stay in our lane. God has given each of us a road to walk, with our own tasks to accomplish. What others do should not determine how we respond to Him.
But, along the way, our road will intersect with others who have needs—needs we are equipped to help fulfill. We need to be obedient in aiding them, regardless of what they do afterward.
There is no regret to be felt when we do good, especially the good our Creator has asked us to do.
Don’t let someone else’s actions turn you away from the journey, or its destination.
Don’t regret what you failed to do, worrying about how they would respond.
Open hands. Open heart.
No regrets.
It seems a good way to honor our Savior who somehow I doubt feels regret for what he did to help us at all.
“Get rid of all bitterness, rage, anger, harsh words, and slander, as well as all types of evil behavior. Instead, be kind to each other, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God through Christ has forgiven you.” (Ephesians 4:31-32, NLT)
“’Then it was you who wounded Aravis?’ ‘It was I.’ ‘But what for?’ ‘Child,’ said the Voice, ‘I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.’ ‘Who are you?’ asked Shasta. ‘Myself,’ said the Voice, very deep and low so that the earth shook: and again, ‘Myself,’ loud and clear and gay: and then the third time, ‘Myself,’ whispered so softly you could hardly hear it, and yet it seemed to come from all around you as if the leaves rustled with it.” (from The Horse and His Boy, by C.S. Lewis)
Sometimes it’s just hard to give up control. Really hard.
I went to the car wash recently. It’s been a few years since I gave up fighting the trend and started running my car through the wash tunnel. For most of my life, I insisted on using the old-style quarter machines to do it myself. But, I’m getting old, and sitting in my car while it gets laundered seems a good idea now.
It took me a while. I didn’t want to give up on doing it myself. But, I always seemed to put off the job. It could be hard work. Sometimes, it was too cold outside. Or, too hot.
So, the car was almost always dirty.
And, I like clean. I do.
The vehicle in front of me entered through the member lane. That means they had already paid for unlimited washes and there was no need to wait for the attendant to help with payment. I assumed it also meant they were familiar with the process and would make no trouble for me or anyone else behind them.
Well? It seemed a reasonable expectation.
They made trouble.
There is a white line on the pavement as one approaches the entrance to the tunnel. Folks in the know understand one needs to line up their driver’s side front wheel on the painted stripe to be straight with the steel track inside.
The driver missed it by a foot.
After the attendant helped them get the vehicle straightened out, I was sure all would be well. My own wheel was sitting on the line now as I waited my turn.
The small pickup stopped where the attendant indicated. Next, he waved his hand at the sign sitting beside the track. The instructions should have been clear;
Put your car in neutral Take hands off the steering wheel Keep foot off the brake pedal Do not open your window or turn on your wipers
The attendant walked toward me. I was next! I prepared to pull forward onto the track. But, it wasn’t to be.
Suddenly, he spun around and, racing back to the wall, slapped the big red button there. The emergency stop quickly brought the entire operation to a halt. Lights darkened, and the entire place went quiet—for a second. Then, he sprinted toward the pickup, yelling as he went.
That truck definitely wasn’t in neutral! It should have been sitting still, waiting for the conveyor to pull it along, but it was still moving under its own power toward the waiting brushes.
Brake lights went on, along with the cargo light above the truck’s bed as the driver opened his door to see what was happening.
They talked briefly and the truck’s door closed. The attendant walked back toward the big red button, shaking his head. Turning the safety release on the button, he pushed it again.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I’m sure he did, as well.
Too soon!
Both of us saw it at the same time. The conveyor had picked up the wheels of the truck and was pulling it forward, but suddenly, the backup lights shone from the rear of the vehicle!
Now, they were reversing!
Red button time again. More shouting and running. The cargo light came on again.
After the door slammed once more and the poor fellow trotted back to start the machinery up again, I waited—not as hopefully this time—to finally start through the wash myself.
There were no more delays. Still, the entire time I was being pulled through the wash tunnel, I kept my hand near the horn button—ready to blast away at that person who seemed to be reluctant to give up control of his/her vehicle to the process. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw the exit ahead of me, with no sign of the truck blocking the way.
Why is it so hard for us to give up control?
From the dim, dark reaches of my brain, the anecdote emerges. I read it somewhere a lifetime ago. But, it stuck with me.
The old fellow was sitting patiently in the hallway, waiting for the ladies meeting at the church to finish. As the custodian, it was his job to set up (and later, take down) the tables and chairs for the refreshments, and he had done it without complaint, even when the requests and directives came fast and furious from more than one of the ladies.
The pastor stopped by where he sat waiting to clear up.
“You seem so calm, John. How do you do it?”
“Well Preacher,” John said, with a smile across his face, “I just put my brain into neutral and let them push me around wherever they want me.”
I laugh every time I think of the old fellow. Still, he knew what it took to accomplish what he came to do.
But, the driver of that vehicle in the car wash the other day? They needed to do one thing. Only one.
Relax.
That was it. Sit back and let go.
The result would be a gleaming, clean truck.
The driver’s way would have resulted in chaos. It very nearly did. And not only for him. Damaged machinery. No clean cars for anyone following behind. No work for the attendants while repairs were made. Loss to the insurance company, the driver, and the car wash.
Sit back. Let go.
Moses gave the same instructions to the folks following him out there in the desert all those years ago.
“‘The Lord himself will fight for you. Just stay calm.’” (Exodus 14:14, NLT)
The Children of Israel were afraid. They wanted to go back and give themselves up to that old, gritty life of slavery. But Moses suggested they go straight ahead, into the car wash.
No, really. A great big—terrifying—car wash. Right through the middle of the sea.
He said—in essence, “Sit back and let go. God’s got you.”
And, He did.
And, He does.
In the car wash. In the hurricane. In the wildfire. In the emergency room. In the hospice bed.
He’s fighting for us.
It’s hard to let Him. Hard.
I’m still learning to let go. Maybe you are, too.
But, I did learn to put my car in neutral and take my foot off the brake. I’m going to keep working on the rest of it.
Trusting Him, we learn to rest.
And, He cleans us up in the process.
I like clean. I do.
“Some people believe holding on and hanging in there are signs of great strength. However, there are times when it takes much more strength to know when to let go and then do it.” (Ann Landers)
“But Moses told the people, ‘Don’t be afraid. Just stand still and watch the Lord rescue you today. The Egyptians you see today will never be seen again.The Lord himself will fight for you. Just stay calm.’” (Exodus 14:13-14, NLT)
It was noon. A few weeks ago. Maybe, a few months. Time seems to run together these days. I write notes to myself so I’ll not forget and then I do.
This note seemed ominous.
“Ask not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.“
I wrote the words—a quote from a writing by John Donne in the 1600s—to remind myself of that noontide reverie on a future day when I had time to flesh it out in my thoughts.
On that late morning, I had walked up to the local university where the Lovely Lady has worked for many years. As on most days, I was simply anticipating a pleasurable walk home with the one who has walked beside me for most of a half-century.
The bells would intrude.
They always do.
I stood, leaning against the brick wall outside the library building on campus, and waited. As I waited, the chimes in the Cathedral of the Ozarks tower began to sound, beginning with the familiar Westminster pattern. Then slowly, one after the other, the clock knelled out one dozen slow and distinct tones.
The words popped into my head. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls…”
It was high summer. The temperature where I was standing was well over ninety degrees Fahrenheit. Yet, suddenly I felt goosebumps on my arms.
Was it a premonition? An omen?
Nah. Just a silly thought. But, it did seem important enough that I needed a reminder for later.
Somehow, it also seemed appropriate that, as the Lovely Lady exited the building and, taking my hand, started down the sidewalk with me, the carillon in the bell tower began to play a verse of the wonderful old tune “Beautiful Savior”.
The words from the old hymn—also written in the 1600s—flowed through my mind as we walked;
“Beautiful Savior, Lord of all nations, Son of God, and Son of Man! Glory and honor, praise, adoration Now and forever more be Thine!“
I have thought about the other words that went through my mind that early afternoon any number of times since the day. Enough so that I explored the origin of the phrase. I was surprised to learn Mr. Donne simply believed we are all connected, perhaps even dependent on each other.
He wasn’t being prophetic about anyone’s death; he simply believed that any person’s passing affected all of the community of man.
If I expand the meaning a bit, it implies we all feel each other’s pain. We share in losses; we benefit from each other’s well-being.
I wonder if that’s why the Apostle for whom I am named told us to rejoice with those who rejoice and to weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)
And perhaps, it’s why he told the folks in Athens that the “unknown god” they had erected an altar to was the One who gave life and breath to every living creature and who satisfies our every need.
He went on to say, “From one man, He created all the nations throughout the earth.” (Acts 17:26, NLT)
Science bears out our relationship. We share 99.9 percent of our DNA with all other humans. There is no arguing our shared humanity, our familial connection.
But, we don’t need science to tell us that, do we? Over and over, we feel the closeness, the affinity, and yes—the sympathy that only those connected by birthright could feel for each other.
We’ve felt it in the United States this week as we’ve seen the devastation of the hurricane in the Carolinas and surrounding areas.
Each time we see news on our screens of fresh devastation of war and natural disasters, we weep along with the mourners.
We are all—without exception—made in the image of our Beautiful Savior, who still holds us in His hands.
In my reading of John Donne’s work, I noticed another famous saying which originated from the same short piece of prose. The reader will surely have heard it also.
“No man is an island, entire of itself.“
Paul Simon begged to differ when he made the familiar claim in one of his songs, “I am a rock. I am an island.“
He was wrong. But then, I think he knew that. His song was a statement of the attempts people make—unsuccessfully—to insulate themselves from hurt and pain.
I don’t want to be insulated.
Engaged. That’s what I need to be.
In engagement, we feel the extreme pain of losses. Still, we also feel the surprising joy of life’s miracles—and we experience the giddiness of undeserved triumphs and the unexpected ecstasy of prodigals who return to the arms of their waiting Father.
Yes. The bell tolls for us all. Together, we weep.
And yet, together we labor side by side to repair life’s devastation.
And—still together—we will rejoice again.
Every tear will be wiped away. Every one.
Even so…
“The voice so sweet, the words so fair As some soft chime had stroked the air.” (from The Mind, a poem by Ben Jonson)
“No man is an island, Entire of itself, Every man is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manor of thy friend’s Or of thine own were: Any man’s death diminishes me, Because I am involved in mankind, And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.“ (from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, by John Donne)
“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)
