New Beginnings

I have to confess, I'm one of those. I resolve at the beginning of most new years, that "this time" things are gonna be different. Less junk food, more time on the bike; less spending, more saving, less time in front of the boob tube (that's what Daddy called it), more time in the Word or with family or working on a stress-relieving hobby ... My guess is that you know the resolution routine as well. Some of us have made headway before, but rarely do any of us make it past the first weeks, much less the first months. And, everything 'new' becomes old again.

I was reminded this week that in the face of all the things we want to be different or are afraid will be different, there is one bankable truth we would do well to remember: Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow (Hebrews 13:8). No matter what will be new in my life or for how long, Jesus is the always ... He is always my friend, always my brother, always leading toward his best, always patient when I meander, always loving, always challenging. I can depend on Jesus to be the same strength, the same peace, the same courage, the same Life-giver as always, regardless of what is shifting in my life.

You know, God offers Job an answer that is helpful for us to hear. While I think I've got a pretty good handle on things, it's really God who's got it under control. In the face of Job's increased whining and lack of understanding though he is faithful, God reminds Job of just how capable He really is. (Check out Job 38 and 39.) For instance, who takes care of the desert with nobody in it? God does. Who's responsible for sending the lightning bolts on their way? God is. Who sees the fawn born when no one else is around but Mom Doe and who delights in the wonder and beauty (yes, beauty!) of, say, the ostrich? God, that's Who! If God gives a whit about the uninhabited desert, the here-and-gone lightning bolts, fawns born under the protection of forest depth and creatures like the ostrich who, on a good day, are a little goofy, God gives more than a whit about you, about me! Oh, by the way, God does give a whit about all those things and more ... He is the creator of it all, of course God cares about His!

God cares that you want to see changes in your life. More than that, God longs to be the Power in your life that will enable those changes. Paul wrote in his letter to the Christians at Corinth that Jesus is God's "YES!" to all the promises God's ever made. Jesus is your "YES!" And, mine, too. Tomorrow may be a new beginning, but I'm sure glad to have the same, steady companion on the journey with me. The One who makes all things possible, the One who never changes, but makes it possible for me to change every day! He is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow! You can bank on it.

Songs of Joy, Songs of Life

The last time it happened was in 2005. Christmas Day was on a Sunday. I have to admit that I was both bummed and thrilled over the prospect of "working" on Christmas Day. The hours spent in church that morning would certainly slow us down and the road has always been our home on Christmas ... trying to get from one place to the other so that no one feels left out or let down. At the same time, how cool was this going to be to start Christmas morning with those who call themselves by the name of this Baby King and live our lives for Him?!

Little did I know just how cool these intimate, holy moments would be. Elizabeth was seven years old that year and, for her first solo contribution to worship, she was going to welcome Christ to our hearts and home again with this beautiful little song, "Happy Birthday, Jesus." With no announcements and a short, soft prelude finished, Elizabeth took her place at the center of the platform and began to sing. Her voice was clear and, of course, child-like, but powerful. After that first chorus, she took a breath to begin the first verse. The tears started at the same time. Like Peter focusing on the waves and wind instead of his Lord, Elizabeth began to really see all the faces looking back at her and felt small in that huge expanse of worship space. Faster than Santa and his reindeer, Elizabeth's mom appeared at the top step of the platform. She put her arm tight around her daughter's waist and we could hear two voices instead of one. Elizabeth never stopped singing. Some words were cloaked in tears, some were basically inaudible through the sobs, but she never stopped singing. And you know it, when verse two rolled around, she stood straighter and sang louder, clearer, more confidently. Before we could realize it, we could only hear Elizabeth's voice. Though Mom was sitting right there at her feet, Elizabeth was offering her gift the way she wanted to ... she never stopped singing.

Sounds crazy to say, but those of us gathered for worship on Christmas Day were surprised by the presence of Christ that morning. In Elizabeth's mom we saw just what God was doing with-skin-on in Jesus. God comes alongside us giving us life and strength, staying close and empowering us to offer ourselves the best way we can so that others can see what life in Him is like. And, in Elizabeth ... well, in Elizabeth we heard the same call and words of hope that the shepherds heard, that Simeon and Anna clung to, and - if you've heard the legend - that the little drummer boy was willing to trust. You, that's the best gift to offer this Baby King. Sometimes our words (and actions and thoughts and attitudes) will be cloaked with tears or worse. Sometimes our 'offerings' such as they are will be indistinguishable through the crud in our lives that is not of God. But, this Baby King loves us just the same and, I believe, was blown away by Elizabeth singing "Happy Birthday, Jesus" and is glorified and thrilled by us giving Him what we have.

Christmas Day doesn't have to be on Sunday for any of us to feel the holy weight of the moment. Those moments with Elizabeth and her mom changed my understanding of Christmas forever. This year, may you feel His presence, may you understand that Jesus was born for you, and may you never stop singing!

The Hard Work of Waiting

The Advent season is about waiting. And, watching. Those who call themselves by the name of Christ spend these weeks leading to the celebration of Christmas preparing for Christ's coming. Busy work is a part of that - decorating the house, attending parties, softening our hearts, watching for hints of the Divine to come (and already present). But, the bigger part of the work will always be waiting. That shouldn't be a surprise to us; we do a lot of waiting in our lives. We wait on everyone and everything at some time or another: at the bank, on the check-out clerk, for a call back from the Doc, at red lights and moving trains, on a family member or a friend, for lab results, a grade on our paper, or a phone call from a friend. I'm beginning to realize that how we wait is a bigger issue than if we will wait ... 'cause we're gonna wait.

The concept of waiting has caused great angst in my household in most recent days. For an entire week, Izzy (one of my four-legged girls) kept her nose in the outlet beside my rocker. Oh, she took breaks for treats or for a nap on my lap, certainly to take care of business and to get slurps of water. But, the rest of her waking moments? Trained on that outlet so as not to miss a thing. When I discovered that it wasn't the charm of the outlet but the smell of a mouse that had her wrapt attention, I set traps. In all the important places from one end of the house to the other. Fifteen minutes after the first trap was placed behind the refrigerator, I heard a loud "SNAP!" echo from the kitchen. Simultaneously, I was proud, relieved, and grossed out at the prospect of what that sound meant. And, I headed down the hall toward the kitchen only to be met by Izzy coming from the kitchen. And, licking her lips! Now, I was only horrified at the prospect of all that might be ... until Izzy turned to head back to her hunting grounds and revealed the sprung trap (minus the little hunk of cheese and smear of peanut butter meant to entice a mouse) hanging from the curls on her left back haunch! What's Izzy doing with her free time these days, you ask? Well, she's not mesmerized by the outlet any longer, but she does have a newfound hope in the tiny space bewteen the refrigerator and the wall. Waiting on whatever is there, whatever might show up keeps her occupied for the most part.

I don't believe that God baits us like I did that mouse (and, oh how I hope it's only one, the one we caught!). I do believe, however, that we give up on the promise of good stuff, of God-stuff coming to us and we don't wait like Izzy. We won't. When our prayers aren't answered the way we hoped or asked, we are tempted to think that God didn't hear, doesn't want to hear, or that somehow we didn't ask rightly. Often, when the circumstances of our lives don't get righted the way we figured God would fix them, we quickly assume that God's punishing us or that God doesn't care enough to fix things. The next step in this thought parade is to give up waiting on God and find another plan B to work on ourselves. We all need to be reminded that the Truth is that God is always right on time. Also, the truth is that we'd much rather God work according to our own agenda and timeline.

What happens when we faithfully, diligently, and confidently wait on God? Things like this ... Zechariah and Elizabeth get that baby boy they've been praying over for decades (Luke 1:5ff)), a Godly young girl is chosen to bear Salvation to the world (Luke 1:26ff), her beloved trusts God even in the face of small town small-mindedness and is, in turn, trusted to raise the Son of God in a carpentry shop and under God's law of love (Matthew 1:18ff). And, Simeon and Anna - as old and tired as they both are - not only get to see it but they hold Salvation for all people in their own arms (Luke 2:22ff). All of that ... because they were willing to wait on God.

I don't know about you, but I want to learn how to wait like Izzy. My guess is that her nosed is jammed in that little crack this very moment just because good stuff came once before and she doesn't want to miss it when it comes again. With confidence, diligence, and supreme trust, I want to wait on God to show up again ... and again, and again, and again. 'Cause that's just who God is. I get it now. How we wait is much more important than if we will wait ... 'cause we're gonna wait. And, if we're smart, we'll wait on God no matter what, or how long. My suspicion is that with God, not only is everything possible, but it will always be worth the wait!

Hush Y'all!

Two of the lections from last Sunday's lectionary readings (a three-year schedule of readings from the Old Testament, Psalms, Gospels, and New Testaments to be used in Christian worship ... covers the whole of Scripture in that three-year cycle) set tongues a-waggin', literally!
In the 3rd chapter of James, there's quite a discourse on how powerful our mouths can be, usually in destructive ways. In the 8th chapter of Mark, we find Peter's confession of Christ immediately followed by his reproof of Jesus when he started talking about hard stuff. The truth from James' letter ... salt water and fresh water don't come from the same spring, but we let hurtful words spew from the same "well" that God would ordain as a spring of helpful words.

So, from last week's sermon, let me share 5 guidelines that might help us help our mouths and what comes out of 'em be better representations of love, mercy and grace.

• If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. (Building yourself up by tearing others down just makes you a cowardly bully.)
• You don't have to say everything you know. (Wielding your knowledge as power, or some sort of weapon, shows how selfish you are.)
• If you're not a part of the problem, and you're not a part of the solution, then you're not a part of the conversation. (Enough said. Now, mind your own business.)
• You don't have to convince the world to still be right. (Stop trying to reason with unreasonable people; have confidence in yourself and the One who goes before you.)
• When you tell a half-truth, then you've told a whole lie. (Your version of the truth isn't necessary ... just the truth, the whole truth, and nothin' but the truth, so help you God!)

Jesus didn't chase down the Rich Young Ruler to offer him a better deal when the invitation to come to Christ was too hard; Jesus stood silent before Pilate because he knew you can't reason with unreasonable people. He knew the power of words and the temptation we still face to use our words as weapons, lures, and the like.

Somebody might wanna forward this to Joe Wilson, Serena Williams, and Kanye West. Better yet, let's just guard our own tongues and see what happens ...

On the drive between my house and the Big City is a beautiful farm, Woodburn Farm. No matter my mood, no matter the weather, passing by their expanse of pasture and the critters who live there is always a delight. Maybe it's just the country girl in me that appreciates the lushness of the green hills and the smell of new-mown hay, but I do like it. Every calving season, those little babies seem to run and jump and chase and kick by the dozens ... and really close to the fence that I pass. To be honest, that's the only stretch of that road I don't mind the slower-than-Christmas speed limit on! Now, I'm no expert, but I recognize among the herd Black Holstein and Angus, even a Brangus or two maybe. The bulls are kept separate from the cows and calves for the most part. Which leads me to the sight I witnessed last week when I was driving by early on Sunday evening.

On average, a bull can weigh about 1,550 pounds at a year of age. We're talking beef cattle in these pastures that are probably over a year old, so no telling how heavy they are. But, two were standing their ground in the front pasture - right off the road and in front of the barn. I pulled over on the side of the road for almost five minutes to make sure I really was seeing what I thought I was seeing. There were those two bulls, head to head literally, at a stand still right there in that beautiful pasture. Both pushing against the other, neither gaining ground or proving his point. And, neither willing to give up or give in. They hadn't locked horns like they really meant business; mostly because they're polled cattle which means they have no horns. They weren't snorting and bellowing like their lives or their reputation with the herd depended on it. Just looking kinda silly in their stuck place, if you ask me. I left them that way.

The reason why this sight moves me to words instead of just thoughts? It struck me that I've met several folks in the last two or three weeks ready to lock-up with someone, eyeball to eyeball, if "you" don't see things their way. And, their way is the "rule" of the pasture. Anger and frustration building because they don't know what to do with the conflict or how to work through it ... The disheartening thing about my realization is that most of these bull-ish folks, I've met in the church. The people who are supposed to be about peace, supposed to be making peace. Clergy and laity alike who decide that puffing up a little and getting louder in order to push others around the pasture is fine, normal, just what's done. Just what's done in order to preserve what's 'right.'

Well, you can be "right" (in your own mind) if you want to, but I'm not pushing back. That accomplishes one thing only - looking silly. I've noticed something else driving past this and other pastures. Most bulls end up alone. Can't be trusted with the herd or by the herd, they're put some place where there's nobody to push around.

MJ and Jesus

I have no place talking about Michael Jackson. Oh, I have an opinion about his music from "5" days to his last; I have an opinion about what was deemed newsworthy in his life from the get-go as well. Just because I have those opinions (and many others) doesn't mean I have to, nor should I, share them anytime, any place, with just anybody. Seems like many of my brothers and sisters that I also call "friend" (reference: Facebook lingo) have lost their discernment, if they even know how to exercise it, in sharing their opinions about others.

So, I do I have a place in speaking about those matters ... which just happened to springboard from Michael Jackson's life and legacy. I snapped last night. I have to admit that I was moved to tears several times over as bits of MJ's memorial service were replayed on a hundred channels ... I'm still not sure exactly what every tear was about. That wasn't my emotional break, though. This was ...

A "sister" in Christ who uses scripture and inspirational quotes all the time to reveal herself and encourage those who follow her life commented on the choice of casket in which MJ was placed and asked that God would forgive our arrogance. As strong as it sounds, my prayer is that God would forgive hers. Who are any of us to question the way another grieves? As I saw brothers standing shoulder to shoulder on a stage with sequined gloves themselves, I saw grown men trying to figure out how to say a goodbye they didn't see coming. As I saw the 24K casket (though I wouldn't choose it for myself), I saw not a dead man's arrogance, but a family's attempt to love their son/brother/father well in a way that would still fall short even though precious because it didn't restore life. Al Sharpton isn't my favorite public speaker/preacher, but I applauded in my heart when he straightened the truth out for MJ's children ... who gets to define 'weird' anyway? Though the memorial experience yesterday felt like "show" in moments, I was left with a longing for our churches to spend even half the effort preparing the things we will do/sing/say in worship each week and be clear about why we do it that way. (That service yesterday was truly the work of the people - MJ's family, friends, co-laborers, companions on the journey - when most of what we do as Christians is a solo effort. And, we are content to watch others do it "for" us most Sundays.)

The reason I've stretched my tyrade from last night's Facebook update to this page? I was absolutely floored by the response to my peppery words. I "spoke" them on the computer screen hoping, honestly, that the offending sister would read them and shut her trap, feeling embarrassed and set right. What I discovered was that within 2 hours, no less than 2 dozen people (many of whom didn't see the remark that angered me), voiced their agreement with me. When I checked my email and FB before I went to bed, I was struck not just by the numbers of folks who shouted their "Amen!" to the sentiment of patience, prayer, and love without condition for others. I was struck by two other thoughts that plagued my sleep ...

First, why didn't one of those folks say something before I did? If you had strong feelings, too, why keep silent? It is silence that enables the less-than-true and less-than-loving to have the loudest word. If you won't say it, who will? Stop depending on me and speak for yourself! Sometimes the quiet witness is no witness at all.

Second, my secret hope that the sister would feel sufficiently put in her place was a wish to swing the pendulum so far in the other direction that I was the one disturbing the peace - hers and mine. I may not be able to make you speak when you "oughta," but I can apologize when I'm wrong. I was wrong to want my, our sister to feel the things she wished MJ's family would feel. I only want her to change her mind because I think Jesus calls us to a different understanding and a different way of relating to one another. But, if I want to "teach" that with my words, my actions must match. I was wrong.

Needless to say, Michael Jackson has caused a big ruckus in my mind and in my spirit these days. It has nothing to do with the moonwalk or Billie Jean or any of that. It has everything to do with Jesus, though, and his call to follow him ... to be like him. To love MJ and his family like Jesus would. To love all my sisters and brothers the way he's loved me.

Freedom

Yes, I know it's a pitiful sight. Izzy had surgery a couple of weeks ago for what revealed itself as a benign mass on her little ankle. It was beginning to interfere with her wrestling career, so Dr. Frank took care of it. This was post-surgery about 2 hours. She regained her energy and her tenacity - especially in regards to removing bandages that aren't supposed to be removed yet and chewing on stitches that itch. So, it got more pitiful still. See ...

But, we're way on the other side of the pity party. Izzy got word from Doc this past Monday that the staples and the collar are history because she's healing. It's been a long time since I've seen a truer sense of freedom displayed right in front of my eyes. When we left Doc's "office" with no extra stuff, Izzy began to vibrate. She almost didn't know what to do with herself no longer constrained by metal in her flesh and the burden around her head and shoulders. First three things she did because she could? Smelled her own behind, stuck her head out of the open car window to lick at the wind, and drank out of the toilet once we hit the door (no longer literally sans collar) at home. Now, I wouldn't have chosen those three things, but for a dog they might be heaven.

As I changed clothes to head into my day at the office, Izzy spent another 30 minutes - and that was just while I was home watching - literally bouncing off the walls, and the ottoman, and Grace, and the rocking chair. She was smelling the grass without choking herself and jumping off the porch without impaling herself. And, wrestling with Grace.

I was struck watching that crazy dog. I think that most of us, if we ever had it at all, have lost our pure joy at the freedom that is ours. Most of the folks you and I know, selves included, will allow Saturday to be more about burgers and cold beverages and swimming and fireworks than the freedom that is ours because of our geography and someone else's bravery. Let's be clear that freedom and autonomy are not synonyms. The kind of freedom that Izzy's Monday reminded me of is even bigger than geography and bravery ... it's bigger than we could ever imagine. We think our grandest goal is to be autonomous as individuals, as a country - to do what we want, when we want, how we want without having to answer to anyone. But, God longs to see us throw off every hindrance (even bigger ones than E-collars and staples) and know the absolute freedom that is ours in Christ.

Funny thing is that Grace enjoyed (and still is enjoying) Izzy's new freedom as much as Izzy did/is and not just vicariously. Izzy's freedom meant Grace had her friend back, fully, truly. Maybe that's a clear sign of true freedom ... that it absolutely affects not only the one released but the others with whom one shares life.

I may never forget watching that crazy dog do really stupid pet tricks just because she could ... and genuinely enjoying the abundance of life in the process. I pray I never forget the awareness that was mine when I realized I often constrain myself or let others do it to me, resigning my freedom for something less than God intended for me. This weekend, I pray that you are aware of the blessing of geography and bravery that are represented in stars and stripes, in fireworks, and maybe even in burgers and watermelon with family and friends. Better yet, I pray that you claim and live into a freedom that's forever bigger than that, freedom that is already yours in Jesus Christ.

Letters to God

I have great backyard neighbors. Most evenings we meet at the fence to chat for a moment, so that I can hear how their boys' day has done, so the dogs can bark and run the fenceline with each other. Sometimes we exchange news; sometimes we exchange samples from the grill or the oven; sometimes we exchange nothing but "good to see ya's!"; and, then, sometimes we exchange questions and thoughts about the reality of God in our lives.

I made such a trip to the fence this morning. When my presence was requested by Mitchell, he's the rising first-grader, I knew it would be a notable experience and not just because it was early. When I crossed the threshold of my back door, I could see the whole family was in tow. I knew at 7 a.m. they were only minutes from departure for a few days of family vacation. Before we were really close enough to count being "at the fence" Mitchell asked the favor he needed from me. He held out to me a folded piece of notebook paper, announcing that he'd written God a letter. "That's so thoughtful, " I said, but I was interupting. Mitchell laid it all out for me ... "Ms. Sandra, I need you to take this by the cemetery today so God can get it." The puzzlement I was attempting to work out in my brain must have shown on my face because Mitchell explained. "God picks up people at the cemetery, so He can get my letter there, too." I have to admit, that's a pretty logical conclusion for someone who trusts God so much. And, I have to admit, that I tried to talk Mitchell into another manner of delivery. I - along with his Dad - tried to explain where and what the altar was in the church. Trying to keep things simple, I reminded Mitchell of the "railing" that we sat by in Children's Time each Sunday. When he nodded that he was with me, I told Mitchell that's where people prayed and left letters from their heart to God all the time. Mitchell furrowed his brow and quickly said to me, "I haven't ever seen anybody pray there. I'm not sure God will be looking for it there. Can you just take my letter to the cemetery?"

On my way home from the office today, I'll be making a stop at the cemetery here in town. I don't think God will mind that I read His mail ... "God, pepol aron you love yuo very much Evin yuor son Jesus loves yuo very much" I believe Gandhi got it right (check out the quote for the day). And, Mitchell has both the heart and the words. It makes me sad that the witness we've borne for him in these eight odd weeks that his family has been visiting our church is that the altar of our church is not the place where we leave our heart-letters to God AND that God may have just quit looking for any from us. It gives me hope, though, that my friend and God's has borne a different witness!

Anyway, I gotta run. I'm on my way to the cemetery.

True Gifts

I have to admit that when I saw the quote by Thoreau about giving, I wanted to slam the book closed and move on to the next thing. But, I believe it's true. Any true gift is a portion of you or me. Doesn't have to be much, but some days it feels like everything I've got left. When the phone rings I sometimes cringe; when suddenly I'm no longer shopping alone, but with neighbors (who expect some sort of interaction), my heart sinks at times. I don't mean to be, well, mean, but there are days I feel like one more question, one more request, one more intrusion will be my undoing. And, I find myself hiding out ... in my house, on the road, on a desolate aisle (wishing it was an isle instead) ... trying to keep from giving myself away, trying to push away.



Now, that can be a healthy thing. Jesus did it alot, this pulling away for a "season" to regroup. Perhaps if I had set better boundaries, I wouldn't feel so frazzled in the first place. Then again, there are just some days, weeks, seasons where no matter what you do to protect yourself or others, life comes from all angles. I almost pulled away this past Monday, Memorial Day, and stayed inside the quiet of my house and my own thoughts. But, it would be hard to avoid the party going on in the neighbors' backyard. Tyler had invited me to his 5th birthday party and, it seemed, the whole neighborhood was there. I got there late, but in plenty of time to watch all the shenanigans in the pool, to see the fun games that the kids played with each other and on each other. I even participated in a little banter with the adults who were close enough to the pool to see all the action, but were just beyond the splash zone. It was all better than tolerable, but I kept telling myself ... "another few minutes and it'll be o.k. to leave. You made your appearance ..." Some gift. Especially in comparison to the one Tyler gave me.



A couple of the kids had ballgames to get dressed for, so the gift-opening came rather abruptly. A circle was made of soaking little bodies all around Tyler and the loot was laid at his feet. After each bag was unstuffed or box unwrapped, everyone oo'ed and aahh'ed or wow'ed, Tyler wrinkled up his nose in an embarrassed little grin (like "all this is for me?") and moved quickly to the next. The present from his mom and dad, of course came last. Tyler hadn't even noticed that one from them was missing from the pile ... he thought the party was his present. His dad rolled a new bicycle out the back steps of the house, right into the middle of that circle ... a circle of kids now drooling over the sleek, shiny, new bike. They looked at Tyler like he was the luckiest kid on the planet; the look on Tyler's face echoed that sentiment. And, he let his dad get him started motoring through the grass on the new wheels (not an easy things to do when you have spaghetti legs from swimming and a host on on-lookers). Before he'd pedaled 20 feet, Tyler stopped, leaned back over his shoulder, and said, "George, you wanna ride my new bike?"



I probably need to tell you that George, though physically a neighbor, is the newest friend in Tyler's circle. They're very different kids: Tyler is rough-and-tumble, never stops moving; George, not so much. Tyler is the baby of four; George is an only child. You can imagine all the differences and I would tell you there are even more. George had struggled just a bit during the party so far to really fit in; he got into the mix of things, but only when his mom pushed or another kid pulled. Everyone one of us there heard those booming words; Tyler singled George out and invited him to ride his brand new bike! Now that's a gift! Maybe even better than the bike itself. And, all from the heart of a 5-year-old.



All of us party-go-ers that day got a better present than anything Tyler unwrapped. That truth might be hard to sell to a kid, but those a little older got the message. It was like we were watching Jesus with red hair and freckles and a voice that sounds like one of my favorite 5-year-olds. The only true gift you or I will ever give anyone else, will have a little of ourselves wrapped up in it. Instead of making an appearance, or smiling through my irritation the next time I'm feeling frazzled or even put upon, I'm gonna do my best to leave a little of myself in that moment. You never know what effect it might have on a person ... even yourself!

I love the original Little Rascals. I particularly love the way Stymie and Buckwheat think. Do you remember the talent show that they worked on? Not the one they took into the radio station, but the one held right there in the little barn. Buckwheat waltzed right onto the stage, with his little belly pooched out and a wide grin on his face. Spanky asked with amazement that he'd even get an answer ... "What YOU gonna do, Buckwheat?" And his answer ... "I dunna istle!" Porky proceeded to play a record of a great whistler performing an amazing piece and Buckwheat pretended it was him ... until the record skipped and the gig was up.

I don't 'istle very well either. But my Daddy did. I've been working on recording moments and stories from my life and recovered this jewel the other night. My dad had one particular whistle noise that he did with his lips AND cheek that sounded just like a bird (or some other flying creature). He could get anyone's attention with that 'istle. And, one day (much to my mother's disapproval) he really got someone.

Camping was not just back to nature for us, it was second nature. And, Blanchard Springs, AR was a favorite place. But, our parents were all about learning when you could, too, so that meant attending naturalists programs, looking at every little thing you saw along a hike, etc. At Blanchard Springs, a trip through the caverns was a must no matter how many times you'd heard the spiel about stalactites and stalagmites. One weekend, when I was in mid-elementary school, we crammed into the cave with a million other people to hear Ranger Rick talk about the wonder of nature there ... which included the bats. And, they were noisy that day! Seeing an opportunity that he just could not let pass by, Daddy leaned forward ever so slightly toward Mrs. Bouffant, who'd made it into the cave just in front of us with her gaggle of children. He did that funny whistle, as if he were a bat swooping down to speak just to that sweet lady, right in her left ear. And, amid the shrieks and squeals, that lady beat her big hair into a big flat blanket that covered her forehead and shoulders. (And, Mom would've beaten Daddy, too, if everybody wasn't already looking in that general direction!)

I have no idea why I've shared this with anybody. But, the story is a treasure to me for several reasons. It reminds me of my Dad's great sense of humor that he willingly shared with everybody - friend, family, stranger alike. It also reminds me that there are plenty of things to be aware of in the dark cave moments of our lives, both expected and unexpected. I'm also inclined to think that learning to expect the unexpected diminishes the fear of it all without robbing it of the mystery. The next time I find myself in a dark cave moment, I'll remember that though it is quite possible that a bat - or some other varmint - would love to find a welcome home or at least a momentary perch somewhere one my perch, it is also quite possible that a really good 'istler is a companion on the journey and has a gift to offer that makes the place not so dark ... tee hee.

Dancing Fool

In my head (and in my dreams), I am a fabulous dancer. There, I am more "fly" than J-Lo ever dreamed and can rival any celebrity who wants to dance with the stars. In reality? I can hold my own, but I'm no Ginger ... never will be. And, truth be told, don't want to be. I'm o.k. with being mediocre at best and just loving the moment of being "one with the music." The sheer gift of movement and the ability to follow the music - aloud or in your head - is not about being as good as or better than anyone else. Rather, I think dancing is a larger life issue.

A lot of things in my immediate line of vision are dancing these days. The budding limbs of the redbud tree in my backyard AND the birds trying to perch there, the heavy heads of tulips just about to burst open with color, and all those little weeds popping up in my front yard. The thing I most love to watch dancing in the spring breeze (or cyclone, depending on the day) is a wind dancer that I received as a gift a few years ago. It's just like a million other whirly things except that it's "legs" are open on the bottom, so that when the wind turns it about it really does look a lot like a dancer, leaping and spinning as it goes. Watching it spin like a madwoman in the wind a few days back ... well, I thought for a moment I was seeing myself. Not necessarily enjoying the music of the moment, however, just spinning like a demon. Which got me to thinking ...

Sometimes the dancing you and I do - alright, I'll own it - sometimes the dancing that I do is not to my own music, but someone else's. As the beat gets faster and more demanding, I've felt more than once like I have to dance faster and with a more powerful, more definitive step-ball-change. I preached a sermon several years ago to this effect and, evidently, I wasn't listening to myself that day because I'm learning the same lesson AGAIN. The psalmists write quite a bit about dancing as an act of worship. King David was criticized heavily for his heartfelt dance when it didn't fit his wife's idea of a polite offering before God (well, really before everyone else who was looking.) And, that's the big idea. If I'm dancing as a sheer celebration of the gift of movement and being able to hear the music, if I'm dancing as a response to the joy and call of life then whatever steps I make are beautiful. Yours are, too ... don't let anyone tell you otherwise. (Now, we might not be ready to make a music video that inspires the world, but that's not the point anyway.) BUT, if my quick-stepping, as it were, is in an effort to please someone else then I've already lost the music in my heart and head. And, that's not dancing.

By now, I hope you've realized I'm not talking just about literally moving my feet, and the rest of my body if it will cooperate, to the music on my IPOD. I'm talking about any and all of the things that I, that we do with our bodies and minds and hearts and spirits. ANYthing. Really hearing the rhythm of the day and coming alongside that rhythm with thoughts and words and action turns my to-do list, my busy calendar, the day's expectations and obligations, into a dance. There are moments when that wind dancer looks more like it's twisting in the wind ... and haven't we all felt like we've been left to that - than dancing. Still, there are beautiful moments when that wind dancer seems to be taking advantage of the wind - dancing with it, if you will.

I don't want to waste the dance any more. Why should I waste my time (and the music) dancing how and when and why someone else wants me to dance? I want to stop twisting in the wind and start taking advantage of the rhythm of the day ... and dancing like nobody's business!

Tolerance and True Love

Last week I found myself at a clergy meeting designed to meet and encourage those discerning a call into ministry. Not that I'm not clear how I got there ... Anyway, one young man, whom I'd never seen, met, or even heard of, introduced himself and we began, as a gathering of about a dozen, to listen to his journey to this point. He's serving as a minister to students in a fairly large church and has a pretty high profile with the full congregation - appreciated and affirmed by everyone. He's served in a couple of other churches before this one and each a different denomination or tradition. When asked to name one of the greatest lessons he's learned in his discernment and service to this point, he said " tolerance and love are not the same thing."

I've been chewing on that statement, that revelation ever since. Tolerance, at least by definition, is the ability and/or willingness to respect another's beliefs, practices, etc., without sharing them. You could also define tolerance as the 'putting up with' another's beliefs, practices, etc. Paul hit the nail on the head (1 Cor 13) when he told us more of what love is NOT than what love is. Again, by definition, love is at least a passionate affection for another person. Aha ... now I see what the young man was saying! Matter of fact, I've lived it. And, if I'm gonna confess, might as well go all the way ... I even practice that some now, sad to say.

How many people do you really hold a passionate affection for in your office? Your classroom? your neighborhood? on your team? on your pew at church? See ... you and I have traded connection and passion (not, "ooh baby you make me hot" but "i so believe in this I'm taking care of it no matter what!") for just getting by. Partly because - and I'm owning this - that we don't want to be known. (You may not like what you see or hear and you might just reject me!) And, partly because we don't want the responsibility of one more thing or one more person and 'knowing' would lead to that.

I'm not advocating that we ditch our efforts at tolerance; let's just name them by the correct name. Tolerance and apathy-with-a-smile can look and smell a lot alike. I'm not sure we tolerate one another as much as we smile as if we care when truth is it takes too much out of us to care. The treasure for us, I believe, is found in two words - respect and choice. Love is always a choice, first. I choose to love. You choose to love. Or, we don't.

Tolerance is about respecting another's views, thoughts, perspectives, circumstance, etc., even if I can't relate or resonate. In my experience, many of us are so convinced that we're right about whatever the topic is that I cease to value you or anything you hold as truth when you disagree with me. Tolerance gets me through the quick line even when the "idiot" checking me out today is distracted, slow, and not doing her job as well as she could. Love tells me that she may really be that divested from her job OR that she may be facing difficult decisions, may not feel or be well, etc. Tolerance gets me through meeting with other pastoral leaders in this area who are less educated than me, slower on the draw, you get the point. Love reminds me that I have as much to learn as I do to teach, as much to receive as I do to give ... and Love Himself reminds me that God likes using the unlikely and the unexpected.

A passionate affection ... that's what love looks like. If I'm gonna love the weird, demanding, frustrating, suck-the-life-right-out-of-you people in my life the same way that God loves me (and that I love the easy folks), it'll begin with tolerance. But, it'll never stay there. If it's true love, it won't stay put ... it can't.

Another Ride on the Zippin Pippin!

Yeah, I know ... long time, no write. I'm not gonna whine about the busyness and blur that was the close of Advent and the movement from Christmastide into Epiphany. But, I could and most of it would be true ... it just wouldn't be pretty. And, really all of us are busy and deal with the blur of one moment into another.

I received a special gift through Facebook about a week ago and it's been marinating in my brain since then. A cousin of mine (of whom I am tremendously proud because her determination and success at getting healthy has led to way over 100 pounds lost!) where was I ... Allecia sent me a nostalgic ride on the Zippin Pippin! Now, those were the days!

Do you remember the wind in your hair, the clackety-clack of all that wheels on wooden boards action, and the whiplash of it all?! Can I just say it for all of us that riding the Z.P. at 13, 14 is not the same experience as riding it at 30-something or 40-something. As much as I loved it back in the day, I'm not loving the Z.P. I seem to be riding these days. A similar disconcerting sound in the wind of things bumping together violently - sometimes it's my knees minus a little cartilage now; sometimes it's the dreams and hopes I've carried for the perfect life crashing into the reality of my every day ... day after day. And, a similar whiplash when the steep hills and the quick turns threaten to toss me out of my seat. I still long to raise my arms with confidence and courage, even a little rash boldness and scream at the top of my lungs with that mix of joy and thrill that faces fear and sees it squashed.

That's not the sound coming from my lungs these days. Whimpers and fatigued groans is more like it. These past weeks have been filled with making the preparations to help my mother move to an independent living situation just short of assisted living. And, I have to say that this whiplash of emotion, the sads and the glads all mixed together, is turning out to be one of the toughest roller-coaster rides so far. It's tougher than I though to watch this graceful and gracious woman reduce the symbols and signs of a full life well-lived into what will fit into just a few boxes, choosing between the better and the best of all she has and is.

But, I believe in a God for whom all things are possible and the Lord of All has proven the Truth of that in so many big and small ways these past weeks. I'm trusting that when I, when we catch our breath once the fridge is stocked and the shower curtain hung, the t.v. hooked up, and the security code learned, that we will also feel that familiar rush at the end of a Z.P. ride ... not the adrenaline that leaves you feeling like you've got to have more of the same. No, the rush I'm talking about is that powerful peace at having done more than just survived something, but finding new life in that little death, a new hope even with end of the "ride." I'm hoping and trusting ... even as we pack these last boxes.