The Camera

My home growing up in Grenada, MS was a two story red brick house. The house had three bedrooms, a kitchen, living room, dining room and a single bathroom. All of them were downstairs. Upstairs, the house had never been completed. Consequently, it became a huge attic where all sorts of things found their resting place. As a kid, I loved going up into the attic. It was easy as there was an enclosed stairway that went straight up to it. Up in the attic there were canning jars, my dad’s wool army uniform, a couple of boxes of broken toys and piles of magazines. A drum set that I had received one year found its way into the attic, I suspect rather quickly. Over to one side there were wreaths of plastic flowers that hung loosely on their Styrofoam forms, memories of an infant little sister who died just days after birth. An old black and white television took up one corner. Dad hated throwing things away.

One of my favorite trophies in the attic was an old Kodak box camera. No one thought much about the camera. It had been in the attic forever and was in the box with the broken toys. The camera intrigued me. It was nothing like my Polaroid Swinger so it was hard for me to imagine how it worked. Often times I would gaze through the scratched square lens and imagine. Surely it had been on safari, had captured wild animals and amazing moments in history. I would snap the shutter and wait on it to spit out a picture like my Swinger did. Nothing ever happened.

High school and college came and went. Seminary took me off to the far country, Texas, and thoughts about the attic and its treasures faded. Mom died. Jana and I met and were married. Life continued. While home for a visit with my dad, the old attic called my name so up the stairs I went. Nothing much had changed. The old newspaper with JFK’s assassination sat right where it had been since 1963. There were a few more magazines. Some tattered quilts had also ascended the stairs. Over in the old cardboard box of broken toys was the camera. I picked it up and stared through the scratched lens. The thought occurred to me, “What if there were pictures inside.” Impossible. 30 years of Mississippi summer heat and the cold of winter would have ruined them. I found the latch and gently opened the old camera. You guessed it. Inside was a roll of film. As if I had found the arc of the covenant, I carried the film back to a lab in Fort Worth. Three days later there were treasures of immense value. Photographs. Six of them actually. There was a slender young woman on the steps of our house laughing at a really short little boy playing in the snow. Mom and me! Snapshots of a blink in time that was long since gone. Lost moments now remembered. Captured, kept, and now treasured.

God remembers, too. It is mentioned over 70 times that God remembers his people. No cameras required! Our Jewish friends have something called the Yizkor prayer. It is a prayer offered for those who have departed. Rabbi Tielson says this of Yizkor, “Yizkor is a Hebrew word that means "He will remember." Our memory is most fleeting, it is a blink of the eye. Our memory is short and fuzzy and so very partial. "He will remember" means "God will remember." God is beyond the realm of time, not bound by the clock or the calendar. God is beyond the realm of forgetfulness, for God remembers.”

God remembers . . . us. God loves us. God keeps us. God treasures us. Like a mother treasures her child, on a snowy day in Mississippi.

Christmas Laughter

Several years ago I was associate pastor in a church very similar to my current church of Weatherly Heights. We followed the liturgical calendar, supported women in ministry, believed strongly in missions and shared a few other distinctives. We also had a Christmas Eve service. The service began at 11:00 pm every Christmas Eve and was a strange mix of formal and informal. The ministers wore robes, the organ played, we sang the familiar Christmas hymns and we would light the Christ candle. In an effort to encourage young families, children were invited to come in their pajamas. It was a wonderful service.

One year during the service we had entered into a most solemn time. It was an extended period of silence in which we prayed and reflected on the coming of Christ into the world. As I stood next to my pastor on the platform and pondered on the significance of the moment, I folded my arms across my chest. I was in deep, deep thought. Then, as if on cue, came a faint sound, a musical something. It came swirling around my head and began to gain momentum and volume. The sound was a tune, an electronic tune. It was “Here Comes Santa Clause.” It could have been a cell phone today but it wasn’t. Its point of origin began to awaken within me a most terrifying thought. Could it be? It was. It was me! My new Christmas tie had a button in it and when I had folded my arms I unleashed its power. The coming of Christ had been upstaged by the coming of Santa. I tried to stop it. I grabbed the tie that had bunkered itself under my heavy robe. I found the button and pressed it. The tune started over. I pressed it again. It started over again. What do I do? I decided a dash to the U-Haul store might be appropriate but remembered it wouldn’t be open for a couple more days. Maybe if I look at my pastor with a quizzical expression the good folks in the congregation would think it was him. I looked over and he wasn’t smiling so I ruled that out. I finally managed to grab the tie and shove the device under my arm and held it there. Now only a faint sound, somebody said amen, the organ began, and we began singing. Saved.

I’ve got to believe that at such times that God must certainly smile, even laugh, at us and with us during such foibles. Seeing a young minister become glowing red enough to challenge Rudolf on the night of such importance must bring God a sense of pleasure in knowing that meaning well is enough when things go awry.

It also causes me to appreciate the gift of forgiveness. The pastor never said a critical word. The congregation chuckled about the experience, especially at Christmas time in the years following. It really was a small thing. I’ve done much worse. But every time there have been those gracious souls that have smiled and forgiven. I’ve tried to do the same. There are many gifts that Santa brings this time of year but none, none, so great as the gift that came with the Child – the gift of forgiveness . . . of ourselves . . . and of others. Thanks be to God.

Beagles

As my keyboard meandered its way through the woods of Shake Rag chasing turkeys last week, I was reminded that I also hunted rabbits in those same woods. Armed with Daddy Freeman’s single shot 20 gauge shotgun, I would call the dogs up to the house and then head for the woods. Daddy Freeman’s dogs were service animals first, then pets. Mike was an English Setter that had been around since God had planted the grass. He was a pretty good bird dog but what I liked most about Mike was his snake hunting abilities. Mike and Mama Bea shared an equitable amount of hatred for water moccasins. He and I would often just go snake hunting. He would spot a snake at the water’s edge, grab it and shake it until there was nothing left to shake. There is no telling how many times he was bitten. Then there was Mary and her clan. Mary was the queen beagle. She had a great nose and a distinctive yelp. You could always tell when they were on a rabbit. Often, she and the other beagles would go out hunting all night and make it home in time for breakfast which was usually a pan of corn bread that Mama Bea had cooked the night before.

So off we would head into the woods. I would make my way to briar patch after briar patch giving it a kick and a stomp. Eventually a rabbit would pop out and the hunt would be on. Hunting rabbits with beagles is not like the pictures you see of dogs hunting foxes. Beagles tend to walk rather than run, relying on their noses rather than their eyes to follow the rabbit. Surprisingly, the rabbit isn’t much faster. It does have that initial burst out of the briar patch. After all, a beagle’s bite is worse than its bark so it clears out pretty fast. But then, after a bit of distance, it will slow down, rest, hop a bit, rest some more. The rabbit will stay a safe distance out in front of the dogs. Funny thing about rabbits: they run in circles, big circles. Always. No one knows why since no one can speak rabbit. Some speculate that it is because they are just staying within the area they call home. They don’t know what lies beyond so why risk going there. Some think they are doubling back to confuse the dogs. Whichever, they run in circles.

The beagles never catch on to this, noses to the ground, they’ll trail right along behind that rabbit when what they should do is just sit and wait. If they would just pause long enough to take a look around, maybe they would spot the furry critter and get a clue. Nope. Noses to the ground, yelping, following, trailing, persistently, predictably, hunting. They run until they get tired or the hunter has, well, you know. Then they head home for a pan of cornbread.

Ever felt like you were running in circles? Are you going through life with nose to the ground, predictably doing what you always do? You might do it well, but it’s the same ol’, same ol’. We all do at some time or another. I suspect even my surgeon friend over in Mississippi looks down occasionally and even thinks, “Same old gall bladder-ectomy.” When that happens to me, it’s time to not just pause and look around, but look up. Brother Lawrence, a monk in the seventeenth century saw God in the mundane. He said, “It is enough for me to pick up but a straw from the ground for the love of God." All we do, even chasing rabbits, is done for the kingdom and our Lord. Even much of what we do during Advent and the Christmas season can make it seem like we are running in circles. Before we wear ourselves out, let’s pause in those times, look up and thank God that we are able to do, to be, to love, and to share . . . for others . . . and more importantly . . . for the Christ child’s sake.