Newcastle University in the United Kingdom reported that they have discovered that cows give more milk when they are called by name. The study reports that cows will produce as much as 500 pints more when named. It seems the cows respond better to humans when they are treated as individuals rather than just another bovine in the barn. The study doesn’t tell us how to find out what the cows’ names are. It would seem to me that Ol’ Bessie would not want to be called Ol’ Jill. In fact, Ol’ Jill might even take offense at Bessie being given her name. What would happen then? Less milk? They might even be moooooved to quit giving altogether.
As udderly ridiculous (sorry) as it might sound, we aren’t too unlike our hooved friends. We all like to be remembered and called by name. It makes me feel good when someone I barely know remembers my name. It makes me want to go out and buy them a gallon of milk or two. I had a friend in seminary, I forget his name, that after his first day of registration went home and wrote down the names of over 200 people he had met that day. He even included something that he had learned about them. He had a gift.
God has a gift too. Sixty buhzillion people and he knows every single one of them, by name. Not only that, he calls to us, each one of us, as he leads us on the journey. “Michael, follow me. Jennifer, over here. Leslie, it won’t be long.” Can’t hear God? Listen closer. God might be speaking through someone or something unexpected: like a friend, a book, a song, even blogs. We just need to pay attention.
The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. – John 10
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Ash Wednesday
Ash Wednesday was last week. Baptists typically don’t observe Ash Wednesday citing that it is “too Catholic.” Our church is one of the few but growing numbers of Baptist churches that do observe the day. It is my privilege each year to retrieve the dried palms that were used in last year’s Palm Sunday processional and burn them. It will be those ashes that are used to mark the foreheads of those who choose to have ashes imposed upon them in worship. It is a sacred task.
During the imposition, the worshipper comes forward to have the sign of the cross placed on their forehead. I plunge my thumb into the bowl of ashes and say, “From dust you came, to dust you shall return.” I then smear the black remnants of palms upon the forehead. It is a holy moment, each one. The act is to remind us that life is transient and all too short. We don’t have time to dawdle. There is too much to do, too much sin to deal with, too many injustices to make right, too many excesses to curtail, too many failures to overcome. Too many . . .
So with the mark upon our foreheads we enter into the season of Lent. It is a time of deep reflection as we ponder our relationship with God and with others. Some will practice the discipline of deprivation, giving up chocolate, or soft drinks, or some other craving. Others will give up time, volunteering somewhere or simply giving God the early morning hour for prayer. The 40 days, excluding Sundays, of “giving up” will allow us to be reminded daily that life is fleeting, that we are sinners saved by grace, that there is a day of great celebration that we are leaning toward. Let it also remind us daily that Christ gave up far more than we ever can. It was Christ who left the Presence and came to dwell among us, as one of us, and eventually bore a cross. A cross not of ash, but of death, for us.
During the imposition, the worshipper comes forward to have the sign of the cross placed on their forehead. I plunge my thumb into the bowl of ashes and say, “From dust you came, to dust you shall return.” I then smear the black remnants of palms upon the forehead. It is a holy moment, each one. The act is to remind us that life is transient and all too short. We don’t have time to dawdle. There is too much to do, too much sin to deal with, too many injustices to make right, too many excesses to curtail, too many failures to overcome. Too many . . .
So with the mark upon our foreheads we enter into the season of Lent. It is a time of deep reflection as we ponder our relationship with God and with others. Some will practice the discipline of deprivation, giving up chocolate, or soft drinks, or some other craving. Others will give up time, volunteering somewhere or simply giving God the early morning hour for prayer. The 40 days, excluding Sundays, of “giving up” will allow us to be reminded daily that life is fleeting, that we are sinners saved by grace, that there is a day of great celebration that we are leaning toward. Let it also remind us daily that Christ gave up far more than we ever can. It was Christ who left the Presence and came to dwell among us, as one of us, and eventually bore a cross. A cross not of ash, but of death, for us.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Water Haul
On the farm in Shake Rag there were two ponds. The pond by the house was the bait pond. Daddy Freeman had rigged a giant dipping net on the end of about a 30 foot metal pipe. It pivoted on a post so that the weight was distributed and the net would not be so heavy, especially when it was wet. We would lower the net into the water, throw some corn bread out above the net and in just a minute or two could raise the net capturing plenty of minnows and goldfish for a day of fishing.
The other pond was further away from the house, out across the pasture. That’s where the big fish were. Mamma Bea liked to fish with the minnows, us big guys (all of eight years old) liked to fish with a rod and reel. It seemed the fish in this particular pond were fond of plastic purple worms. We would rig the hook so that the worm twirled in the water as it was reeled in. This seemed like a fair proposition for the fish. They could bite or not, then if hooked, fight ferociously to escape, and they often did. I still remember a perfect cast of my line, landing my purple worm less than a foot from the bank when WHAM. The worm was gone and my line came whizzing back past my ear. It was the one that got away. My nephew, at the ripe ol’ age of 4, would hook a five pound bass one day. His didn’t get away.
A not so fair proposition for the fish was when we seined. A seine is a long net that would stretch from one bank to the other. It had floats on the top and lead weights on the bottom. On either end would be a pole that was used to pull the net through the water. This was always an exciting time because it usually meant a fish fry was coming but better than that, I could get in the pond to help with the seine. I would follow along behind the seine and if it got hung on a snag, I would free the net. Catching a snag was never good because it might tear the net but it also gave the fish an opening to escape. It was great fun to finally pull the net up on the bank to see what the catch was like. You never knew because pulling the net through the water always made it feel full, even when it wasn’t. A good haul would include large bass and catfish. For us kids, a good haul included a turtle or two and a snake. We once caught a turtle that was so big it hissed at us while snapping at anything that moved. Every so often, the net would not be held to the bottom of the pond as it was pulled through and all that would be in the net were a few tiny brim and moss. If the seine was pulled through the pond without holding the seine down again, the same thing would happen. Daddy Freeman called it a “water haul”. No matter how many times or how hard everybody worked, if done the same way, there would only be a water haul.
The disciples knew about water hauls. John tells us in his gospel that the disciples had fished all night with nothing to show for it. A stranger on the shore tells them to cast their nets on the other side of the boat. This must have given them pause. “The other side is the same as this side,” they must have thought. But there must have been something in the voice, something of the man’s silhouette that got their attention because they did it. These professionals tried something new, as insane as it must have seemed to them. They probably didn’t know our definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over all the while expecting different results. So they did it. They listened. They obeyed. WHAM! The catch was huge and they realized what maybe they suspected but were afraid to accept. It was the Lord.
Listening can be hard work. Sometimes harder still is obeying, especially when it requires something new of us. Even small changes in life can be too hard and sometimes seemingly silly. If we take stock though, and listen, maybe we realize that some changes are in order. Doing the same thing over and over, expecting something different, plodding along in our faith journey and all we have to show for it is a water haul. How about being more attentive, more intentional, more willing to venture out and do something new. Let’s listen to that voice that calls out and says, “Try the other side.” It might work. And, well, that voice just might be the Lord’s. If he appears to be a stranger to you, you definitely need to listen . . . and try something new.
The other pond was further away from the house, out across the pasture. That’s where the big fish were. Mamma Bea liked to fish with the minnows, us big guys (all of eight years old) liked to fish with a rod and reel. It seemed the fish in this particular pond were fond of plastic purple worms. We would rig the hook so that the worm twirled in the water as it was reeled in. This seemed like a fair proposition for the fish. They could bite or not, then if hooked, fight ferociously to escape, and they often did. I still remember a perfect cast of my line, landing my purple worm less than a foot from the bank when WHAM. The worm was gone and my line came whizzing back past my ear. It was the one that got away. My nephew, at the ripe ol’ age of 4, would hook a five pound bass one day. His didn’t get away.
A not so fair proposition for the fish was when we seined. A seine is a long net that would stretch from one bank to the other. It had floats on the top and lead weights on the bottom. On either end would be a pole that was used to pull the net through the water. This was always an exciting time because it usually meant a fish fry was coming but better than that, I could get in the pond to help with the seine. I would follow along behind the seine and if it got hung on a snag, I would free the net. Catching a snag was never good because it might tear the net but it also gave the fish an opening to escape. It was great fun to finally pull the net up on the bank to see what the catch was like. You never knew because pulling the net through the water always made it feel full, even when it wasn’t. A good haul would include large bass and catfish. For us kids, a good haul included a turtle or two and a snake. We once caught a turtle that was so big it hissed at us while snapping at anything that moved. Every so often, the net would not be held to the bottom of the pond as it was pulled through and all that would be in the net were a few tiny brim and moss. If the seine was pulled through the pond without holding the seine down again, the same thing would happen. Daddy Freeman called it a “water haul”. No matter how many times or how hard everybody worked, if done the same way, there would only be a water haul.
The disciples knew about water hauls. John tells us in his gospel that the disciples had fished all night with nothing to show for it. A stranger on the shore tells them to cast their nets on the other side of the boat. This must have given them pause. “The other side is the same as this side,” they must have thought. But there must have been something in the voice, something of the man’s silhouette that got their attention because they did it. These professionals tried something new, as insane as it must have seemed to them. They probably didn’t know our definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over all the while expecting different results. So they did it. They listened. They obeyed. WHAM! The catch was huge and they realized what maybe they suspected but were afraid to accept. It was the Lord.
Listening can be hard work. Sometimes harder still is obeying, especially when it requires something new of us. Even small changes in life can be too hard and sometimes seemingly silly. If we take stock though, and listen, maybe we realize that some changes are in order. Doing the same thing over and over, expecting something different, plodding along in our faith journey and all we have to show for it is a water haul. How about being more attentive, more intentional, more willing to venture out and do something new. Let’s listen to that voice that calls out and says, “Try the other side.” It might work. And, well, that voice just might be the Lord’s. If he appears to be a stranger to you, you definitely need to listen . . . and try something new.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Learning to Drive
Abigail is learning to drive. I’m learning patience.
Now that she has her permit she has staked a claim to the front left seat of the car – the driver’s side. You’d think the girl had just crossed hundreds of miles of treacherous terrain whilst fightin’ the savages in order to possess this small piece of real estate. She thinks she has some inalienable right to drive on every occasion. Last night it was time to leave church so she assumed the throne of teen independence and reached for the keys. I yielded knowing that to protest that it was dark and that I hadn’t brought the defibrillator wasn’t much of an excuse to not let her drive. So off we went. It is my habit to not speak too loudly about her driving but to offer quiet, assuring words of correction. There was that one time that “STOP!” was necessitated by circumstances that are better not spoken of … ever again. Anyway, I was offering a few suggestions when Zackary spoke up from the back seat and said matter-of-factly, “Abigail, objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” Now, Zackary could not see the mirror from his seat and it was dark. Apparently he had committed the words to memory, waiting on an appropriate time to offer his suggestion from his vast wealth of driving experience. Normally, that would have been enough to send Abigail clamoring over the seat to put Zackary in a hold that would make the World Wrestling Federation proud. However, she was concentrating on driving so she ignored him.
“Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” What was he thinking? No doubt he wanted to be helpful but what was Zackary offering? Maybe a warning as in, “Abigail, that Mack truck is really close.” Maybe it was a statement of fact as in, “Abigail, that’s a Mack truck, not a Tonka toy.”
Who knows? Jesus may have found the same words useful in his day. Actually, it seems he may have said something sort of similar. “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” Or how about, “The kingdom of God is at hand.” If you are like me, I tend to think that the kingdom of God is a good ways out there. It is far enough for me to have time to get things right. We (I) talk like we believe the kingdom will one day come, but, come on, really? We’ve got time. Objects in mirror are cl…o…ser than … Oops! You don’t even have to read the fine print. It’s as plain as that Mack truck. Jesus said, “The kingdom of God is at hand.” The word means “at arm’s reach” or “it can be touched”. In other words, the kingdom is here! God’s kingdom, God’s reign, is now. We’re not waiting for it, we are living it. The question is, “How are we living it?” “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done,” we pray. How about we all climb down from our own throne of independence and let God . . . well, you know.
(Addendum: This story came to mind this week as Abigail, a year later, had her first major wreck. I say first because I anticipate more. My car might be totaled. The important thing though is that she was perfectly fine afterward except for a bit of the jitters. That object in the mirror was really, really close!)
Now that she has her permit she has staked a claim to the front left seat of the car – the driver’s side. You’d think the girl had just crossed hundreds of miles of treacherous terrain whilst fightin’ the savages in order to possess this small piece of real estate. She thinks she has some inalienable right to drive on every occasion. Last night it was time to leave church so she assumed the throne of teen independence and reached for the keys. I yielded knowing that to protest that it was dark and that I hadn’t brought the defibrillator wasn’t much of an excuse to not let her drive. So off we went. It is my habit to not speak too loudly about her driving but to offer quiet, assuring words of correction. There was that one time that “STOP!” was necessitated by circumstances that are better not spoken of … ever again. Anyway, I was offering a few suggestions when Zackary spoke up from the back seat and said matter-of-factly, “Abigail, objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” Now, Zackary could not see the mirror from his seat and it was dark. Apparently he had committed the words to memory, waiting on an appropriate time to offer his suggestion from his vast wealth of driving experience. Normally, that would have been enough to send Abigail clamoring over the seat to put Zackary in a hold that would make the World Wrestling Federation proud. However, she was concentrating on driving so she ignored him.
“Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” What was he thinking? No doubt he wanted to be helpful but what was Zackary offering? Maybe a warning as in, “Abigail, that Mack truck is really close.” Maybe it was a statement of fact as in, “Abigail, that’s a Mack truck, not a Tonka toy.”
Who knows? Jesus may have found the same words useful in his day. Actually, it seems he may have said something sort of similar. “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” Or how about, “The kingdom of God is at hand.” If you are like me, I tend to think that the kingdom of God is a good ways out there. It is far enough for me to have time to get things right. We (I) talk like we believe the kingdom will one day come, but, come on, really? We’ve got time. Objects in mirror are cl…o…ser than … Oops! You don’t even have to read the fine print. It’s as plain as that Mack truck. Jesus said, “The kingdom of God is at hand.” The word means “at arm’s reach” or “it can be touched”. In other words, the kingdom is here! God’s kingdom, God’s reign, is now. We’re not waiting for it, we are living it. The question is, “How are we living it?” “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done,” we pray. How about we all climb down from our own throne of independence and let God . . . well, you know.
(Addendum: This story came to mind this week as Abigail, a year later, had her first major wreck. I say first because I anticipate more. My car might be totaled. The important thing though is that she was perfectly fine afterward except for a bit of the jitters. That object in the mirror was really, really close!)
Monday, January 31, 2011
The Big Dance
In my hometown of Grenada, MS, we didn’t really have proms. There was an organization known as the “Cotillion” that was made up of the young girls in our small community who had reached a certain age, perhaps 15 or 16. There would be a Cotillion dance about twice a year and it fell to the girls to ask the boys to the dance. I suspect that the whole event was really a way to perpetuate the segregation of our community, but it might have also been a way to keep certain “elements” from attending. Whatever the reason, it was always a stressful time for me. I wasn’t much of a catch standing at 6’ 4” and weighing 140 pounds, unless you needed a light bulb changed. Consequently, the invitations to the big dance weren’t exactly filling my mailbox.
One year, though, everything changed. A pretty girl who lived a couple of blocks from me asked me to the dance. Nancy (we’ll call her) was a year younger than me and she had always had my eye but I knew that we were operating out of two different leagues. I never gave the chances of us going out much thought. Nancy had been dating a friend of mine, Al, for a couple of years but had recently broken up. Now, nobody wants to be the rebound guy but when the girl is that dang pretty most principles go flying out the window. I waved goodbye to mine and gleefully accepted the invitation. Besides, her mother thought I was the best kid in Grenada and I had high hopes she might have some influence that would increase my future chances.
Have you ever tried to buy a suit for a kid that looks like a drinking straw? My mom had, many times, and she knew there would be nothing in small town Mississippi so we headed to Memphis. Twelve hours, and six big and tall stores later, we headed south to Grenada with suit in hand. It had been a painful endeavor for both of us but the chance to dance with Nancy was well worth enduring Mom’s grimaces. Did I say dance? That might be an exaggeration that is best not described in any great detail. Feet moved and hands waved. Enough said.
The big night arrived. I pulled into Nancy’s driveway in my 1962 Ford Galaxy with vinyl seats, rubber mats and AM radio. Nancy’s mom greeted me at the door with a big hug and a smile and then from around the corner came a sight to behold. Nancy appeared and she had to be the prettiest I had ever seen her. “Wow!” I thought. I handed her the orchid corsage that perfectly matched her gown which I had called and gotten the color of from her mom a week earlier. Nancy’s mom pinned it on, Kodak flash cubes popped and then we were off to the Cotillion.
The evening started well. A few fast dances, one slow dance, a glass of punch and we sat for a bit. Then “he” came over, Al that is. “Mind if Nancy and I dance?” he said. I didn’t mind. After all, she was my date. She had come with me. What’s the harm? Well, I found out. Two hours and too many glasses of punch later Nancy comes over to me. Al is standing a safe distance away. “Do you mind if Al takes me home?” “No, that’s fine.” I said as I pushed that giant lump in my throat back down to wherever it had come from. I left. Crushed. Betrayed.
If you are waiting for a happy ending, there isn’t one. But there was a lesson learned. My youth minister had an expression: “People will let you down, always.” Then he would say, “But God never will.” He was right. Though we may be crushed or feel betrayed, God always desires our good. He will never leave us or forsake us. He is ahead of us, above us, below us, behind us. God is working, always working God’s grace in our lives. Thanks be to God who dances the day we are born and celebrates our lives with us, even through the hard times.
. . . . for he has said, ‘I will never leave you or forsake you.’ So we can say with confidence, ‘The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid. What can anyone do to me?’ Hebrews 13
Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? . . . No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8
One year, though, everything changed. A pretty girl who lived a couple of blocks from me asked me to the dance. Nancy (we’ll call her) was a year younger than me and she had always had my eye but I knew that we were operating out of two different leagues. I never gave the chances of us going out much thought. Nancy had been dating a friend of mine, Al, for a couple of years but had recently broken up. Now, nobody wants to be the rebound guy but when the girl is that dang pretty most principles go flying out the window. I waved goodbye to mine and gleefully accepted the invitation. Besides, her mother thought I was the best kid in Grenada and I had high hopes she might have some influence that would increase my future chances.
Have you ever tried to buy a suit for a kid that looks like a drinking straw? My mom had, many times, and she knew there would be nothing in small town Mississippi so we headed to Memphis. Twelve hours, and six big and tall stores later, we headed south to Grenada with suit in hand. It had been a painful endeavor for both of us but the chance to dance with Nancy was well worth enduring Mom’s grimaces. Did I say dance? That might be an exaggeration that is best not described in any great detail. Feet moved and hands waved. Enough said.
The big night arrived. I pulled into Nancy’s driveway in my 1962 Ford Galaxy with vinyl seats, rubber mats and AM radio. Nancy’s mom greeted me at the door with a big hug and a smile and then from around the corner came a sight to behold. Nancy appeared and she had to be the prettiest I had ever seen her. “Wow!” I thought. I handed her the orchid corsage that perfectly matched her gown which I had called and gotten the color of from her mom a week earlier. Nancy’s mom pinned it on, Kodak flash cubes popped and then we were off to the Cotillion.
The evening started well. A few fast dances, one slow dance, a glass of punch and we sat for a bit. Then “he” came over, Al that is. “Mind if Nancy and I dance?” he said. I didn’t mind. After all, she was my date. She had come with me. What’s the harm? Well, I found out. Two hours and too many glasses of punch later Nancy comes over to me. Al is standing a safe distance away. “Do you mind if Al takes me home?” “No, that’s fine.” I said as I pushed that giant lump in my throat back down to wherever it had come from. I left. Crushed. Betrayed.
If you are waiting for a happy ending, there isn’t one. But there was a lesson learned. My youth minister had an expression: “People will let you down, always.” Then he would say, “But God never will.” He was right. Though we may be crushed or feel betrayed, God always desires our good. He will never leave us or forsake us. He is ahead of us, above us, below us, behind us. God is working, always working God’s grace in our lives. Thanks be to God who dances the day we are born and celebrates our lives with us, even through the hard times.
. . . . for he has said, ‘I will never leave you or forsake you.’ So we can say with confidence, ‘The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid. What can anyone do to me?’ Hebrews 13
Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? . . . No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Possum
When we lived in Waco, TX, we had a friend and church member that was quite the character. He had been educated at Baylor University and had taught biology for a while and then worked a few years as a restaurant inspector. When we knew him, he was in his late 50’s and had been dubbed “Possum” by another friend. I’m not sure why he was called Possum, he just was. Somewhere along the way Possum had decided that the traditional lifestyle was not for him. He didn’t have any family and never married, although he did have a girl friend for a brief time while we were living in Waco. He gave up his 8 – 5 job and mowed yards for a living. You could see him most any summer day in his little pickup hauling his push mower, rake and broom up and down the streets of Waco. He still lived in the house he had grown up in and inherited from his parents. Possum had an odd way about him that endeared him to everyone and reflected a deep wisdom that only comes from a life well lived. He was fond of saying, “Don’t criticize your enemies until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes. Then you’ll be a mile away from them and you’ll have their shoes.”
He frequently pulled into my driveway to chat. He would go to the door and then go back and stand by his pickup, waiting on me to come out. I could never get him to come in the house. We talked about many things: sermons, the weather, mutual friends, politics, the “Missus” and a hundred other topics. One of those other topics was the vacation that Possum was planning. Possum was always planning a vacation, usually to Wyoming to go fly fishing. We would discuss the route, the things he would need, even settle on a date. The day would inevitably come, Possum would pack, loading his pickup with every conceivable item and then go to bed to rest before the early start the next day. Possum would get up bright and early, go out, and unload his pickup, almost every time. Some of the guys at church even promised to pay for the trip if he would just go. One year, he actually left town headed north. He got as far as Fort Worth, about 100 miles, and turned around and came home. As far as I know, Possum has never made it to Wyoming.
The trip was obviously very important to Possum or he would not have planned it so meticulously every year. However, his reasons for not going were even more important, at least to him. We don’t like it but the fact is that many of us are just like Possum. We make big plans, especially this time of year, to make changes in our lives. We make meticulous plans to jolt us out of our ruts only to fall back on excuses for the status quo. Too much work. Not enough time. Next year for sure. Something came up. It’s my children. It’s my parents. The list really can be long, can’t it?
Maybe it’s time to stop making resolutions and work on making covenants. A covenant is a promise, not a wish. It’s a promise to another, or to God, and sometimes both. Maybe it’s time we see our need for change not as a physical or mental issue but as a spiritual issue. Give it to God. Regularly pray about it. Be accountable to another. If you fail at first, don’t consider yourself a failure. God doesn’t! Continue working and praying and working. Allow the Spirit access to empower.
Let me know how it goes.
See you in Wyoming.
He frequently pulled into my driveway to chat. He would go to the door and then go back and stand by his pickup, waiting on me to come out. I could never get him to come in the house. We talked about many things: sermons, the weather, mutual friends, politics, the “Missus” and a hundred other topics. One of those other topics was the vacation that Possum was planning. Possum was always planning a vacation, usually to Wyoming to go fly fishing. We would discuss the route, the things he would need, even settle on a date. The day would inevitably come, Possum would pack, loading his pickup with every conceivable item and then go to bed to rest before the early start the next day. Possum would get up bright and early, go out, and unload his pickup, almost every time. Some of the guys at church even promised to pay for the trip if he would just go. One year, he actually left town headed north. He got as far as Fort Worth, about 100 miles, and turned around and came home. As far as I know, Possum has never made it to Wyoming.
The trip was obviously very important to Possum or he would not have planned it so meticulously every year. However, his reasons for not going were even more important, at least to him. We don’t like it but the fact is that many of us are just like Possum. We make big plans, especially this time of year, to make changes in our lives. We make meticulous plans to jolt us out of our ruts only to fall back on excuses for the status quo. Too much work. Not enough time. Next year for sure. Something came up. It’s my children. It’s my parents. The list really can be long, can’t it?
Maybe it’s time to stop making resolutions and work on making covenants. A covenant is a promise, not a wish. It’s a promise to another, or to God, and sometimes both. Maybe it’s time we see our need for change not as a physical or mental issue but as a spiritual issue. Give it to God. Regularly pray about it. Be accountable to another. If you fail at first, don’t consider yourself a failure. God doesn’t! Continue working and praying and working. Allow the Spirit access to empower.
Let me know how it goes.
See you in Wyoming.
Monday, December 20, 2010
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.
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.
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