Veterans in the Valley

… thy kingdom come, thy will be done … The Lord’s Prayer

The following is a true story, although some details may be in error. The fault lies with this writer and not with the original teller of the tale.

Some years ago – decades, really – my father was in the army. He was an infantry soldier serving in Europe after the Second World War; he and his fellow GIs were based in Italy near Trieste, standing watch on the border with Yugoslavia. Negotiations had been underway between Italy, the Soviet Union, Yugoslavia, and the United Nations and the border was being moved.

Orders came down from on high to turn over the border installation to the Soviets at noon on the day my Dad stood his watch. That morning he observed a Soviet armored column climb the mountain road toward his position and notified his commanding officer – a First Lieutenant whose name has been lost to the mists of time. It was about ten in the morning when the lead tank arrived at the border crossing – which was secured by a red and white swing-gate (and a couple of privates).

My father was sitting behind a few sandbags, hands resting comfortably on a machine gun. The lieutenant stepped over to the tank commander, saluted, welcomed him to Italy, and asked how he might be of assistance. The Soviet commander returned the salute and explained he was there to escort the American troops out of Yugoslavia.

The lieutenant thanked him for his offer and then informed him that they would not need an escort and that they would turn the position over at noon in accordance with the newly ratified treaty (and the orders under which he was operating).

The Soviet commander’s demeanor darkened. “The border changed at Noon, Moscow Time,” he said, adding, “You must leave now.”

The young lieutenant looked at his troops – a handful of American GIs with M-1 rifles and a single machine gun – and looked at the tank column stretched out along the road – and then back to the Soviet commander and said, “I’m sorry, but I am under orders, and cannot turn this position over to you until Noon local time. You’re welcome to wait here and join me for some coffee, if you’d like.”

The Soviet commander stepped back and spoke with his officers in a heated exchange. They had their orders: Escort the Americans off the mountain and secure the position. The Americans had their orders: Hold the position until Noon, at which time they were to turn command over to the Soviets. Compromise was out of the question as neither officer had the authority to change their orders.

After a few minutes, the Soviet commander reached over to his left wrist, removed his watch, and put it into his pocket. He walked back over to the American lieutenant and stood still. He seemed unsure how to say what he wanted to say. Troops on both sides of the border crossing looked at each other – Dad from his machine gun nest, and the Russian tank commanders from their iron monsters. Finally, the Soviet commander spoke.

“I seem to have misplaced my watch. Looking at the sky here, I cannot tell what time it is in Moscow. Can you?”

The young American lieutenant thought for a moment and said, “I’m not really sure, but I would guess it is about 10:00 a.m. in Moscow. I could check with headquarters, but I am sure it would take them a couple hours to figure it out. You know how slow generals can be.”

The Soviet war dog smiled. “Yes, I know. Let us watch the pass together and protect it from intruders until you feel it is safe to depart.”

And with that, peace prevailed.

I am thankful for the young rifleman who stood watch for us that day so many years ago. The dangers he and his fellows faced were no less grave than those faced by soldiers, sailors, marines, airmen, or merchant marines during active war-time.

I am thankful, too, for the friendly, clear-headed actions of a young American lieutenant (who knew his duty) and of a grizzled veteran who had nothing to prove – who had seen more than enough blood spilt in the past decade to last a thousand lifetimes.

I am thankful for the countless veterans who serve (and have served) their nation to preserve our freedoms at great personal cost and sacrifice. I remember them before God, and I thank God for them – each and every one – from the bottom of my heart here in this, our valley.

Saints in the Valley

“My regimen is lust and avarice for exercise, gluttony and sloth for relaxation.” Mason Cooley

Halloween is almost here. As a child, I am pretty sure Halloween ranked right up there next to Christmas as days and seasons of unbridled avarice and greed. Costumes and dressing up seemed pretty silly, but if that’s what one needed to do in order to acquire a bag full of sweets, then one would just have to bite the bullet, dress up as a pirate or fiend, smear grease paints upon cheek and brow, and have at it, so to speak.

Our aims were pretty modest as a family (growing up). When the time came finally to hit the streets, my brother, sisters, and I knew how far we were allowed to go. We were limited to our neighborhood, which meant a couple blocks in each direction. We weren’t turned loose and allowed to plunder the entire north end of Seattle (like some kids seemed to). We had bags that were very modest in size and when full, we knew we had gone far enough – and back to home we would trundle.

Having a sweet tooth, Halloween is still amongst my favorite holidays. A few weeks ago I picked up a bag of chocolates candies for our neighborhood saints and sinners – I think it has a couple hundred individually wrapped treats. When I brought it home, my own personal sweetie took a look at the bag and raised up an eyebrow. Knowing the question on her mind I told her it was for Halloween.

“How many kids did we have last year?” she asked.

“About fifteen or twenty, as I recall,” said I, “but this year we could have more, and I certainly don’t want anyone coming to our door to go away disappointed because we ran out. That would be scandalous and violate every principal and tenet of hospitality we hold most dear,” I added.

She rolled her eyes in apparent approval of the holiness of my intentions and let the matter drop. I drooled in true, honest, and sincere appreciation.

So, what exactly is Halloween? Why do we celebrate it?

In a land that honors and celebrates the separation of church and state, the truth is that the reason for the season is mostly lost on the world around us. We celebrate Halloween primarily because the date is on our calendars and the stores are filled with costumes and we learn at an early age that it is the one day we are allowed to go from house to house extorting our neighbors to hand over their bounty lest they find their homes egged or tee peed in the morning.

My, how quaint a tradition, eh?

In truth, Halloween is a contraction of All Hallows Eve – the evening before All Saints (or All Hallows) Day (which falls annually on November 1). On that day, Christians celebrate the lives of all the saints who “from their labors rest”.

Who are the saints? “Those are the people,” answered the little girl – pointing at the stained glass windows in church – “the light shines through.”

Christians are a diverse lot, so I can’t speak for all (or even most) of them, but what I mean when I use the term “saint” is someone who’s life has been touched by God, and who passes that on in their living.

It is customary to think of saints as people who have died – especially good people, like St. Mary, the mother of Jesus, or the apostles Peter and Paul, or giants of the faith, like Francis of Assisi. In medieval Europe, people dressed up like the saints of old – to thank God for the example of those lives that made the world a better place.

Dressing up as ghosts and goblins came much later, and the goal was not to scare people, but to make fun of the devil (whose defeat is certain). That’s the reasoning behind the costumes. And why ask for treats?

I think we look to our neighbors, asking them for help in sweetening our dispositions. By myself, I am a hoodlum. With my neighbor (acknowledging I am not alone in this world), I can become a better person. “Trick or Treat” then becomes a cry for help, and that I am glad to do amongst you saints here in this, our valley.

Resting in the Valley

Jesus said, “Come away to a deserted place … and rest a while.” Mark 6

The other day I looked out the window and there, standing in the window looking back, was a nice buck. He seemed curious to see what I was doing, just as I was curious what he was doing – for one cannot peer into the house through that window without leaving the yard and trespassing onto the deck. He seemed awfully bold.

I decided I should have a conversation with this mulie who’d come a calling, but as soon as I got to the back door he beat a hasty retreat, doing a near-back-flip away from the window and over the rail to the yard below and off into the sunset (several hours early, I might add).

While it isn’t unusual to have twenty or thirty deer enjoying breakfast, lunch, and dinner in our yard (not to mention regular morning and afternoon siestas), it is unusual to have them up on the deck. For one thing, we don’t have much for them to eat, although it does give them access to the more tender branches of our aspens out back. Still, there’s a lot of tender stuff at ground level they could have anytime they should choose to.

A while later I found the buck back on the deck. He and a buddy were playing King of the Mountain on the steps and seemed to be having a wonderful time jousting for fun.

Ah, the life of a deer – especially our town herd. They have no predators to speak of. They have plenty of gardens and trees from which to grab their munchies, a river and some creeks from which to drink, and grassy fields in which to bear their young. Trees and homes shelter them from the icy blasts in winter and from the scorching heat in summer.

They seem to do a better job of living out the twenty-third psalm (The Lord is my Shepherd) than we humans. I’m afraid I have a harder time relaxing than does our local mule deer population.

I wonder how they can relax so easily. Haven’t they heard about Ebola? Haven’t they heard about ISIS/ISIL? Has no one told them about global warming?

Maybe they know something we don’t. Maybe they know something we have forgotten – that it is enough to live. They fight and run when they must for survival; they remain alert to their surroundings for purposes of safety, security, and survival; but mostly they just live in a symbiotic relationship with the world they inhabit.

Jesus knows we aren’t deer; we aren’t sheep. We are fretters. We adorn ourselves with chains of gold and links of purest fear. We fret about the past – which cannot be changed – and we fret about the future. I detest that commercial on TV – Will you have what you need when you retire? Of course not, unless you invest with us!

Making wise financial decisions is important, but I hate it when folks capitalize on fear. I think that’s why Jesus got out of Dodge as often as he could – crossing the lake to the “other side” – away from town; away from the hustle and bustle of Galilee’s commercial center; away from talk of politics, sex, and (yes) away from the insanity (and very real dangers) of religious debates.

It is hard, in our culture, to admit we need a break. Many might see that as a sign of weakness or as an escape from “reality”, but I think Jesus sees it as a return to sanity. When you get away from the jingle and jangle of a crazy world, you can actually hear yourself think. Like Dr. Seuss’s Horton, when all is quiet, you can hear the Who, and come to discover the Who is the “God in you”!

When we can think, we can choose a direction that makes sense and which promotes life and well-being. We can play on the deck for the joy of playing, and not for the sake of winning. We can sit beneath the quaking aspens and rejoice that it is they which quake, and not us.

We can discover we are in the presence of a God who “restoreth my soul” and who “leadeth me beside the still waters” in this, our valley – and that’s more than enough.

YES in the Valley

“Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.” Jesus (Luke 5)

The other day I got a call from a friend asking me if I could help move a piano. I checked my bucket list real fast and noticed that moving pianos was nowhere to be found. I truly didn’t want to move a piano and, fortunately, I was sick.

It’s true. I was down with one of those viruses that requires a “Night-time, Sniffling, Sneezing, Coughing, Aching, Stuffy-head, Fever, So-You-Can-Rest Medicine” so I declined his request.

I felt bad. I didn’t want to let my friend down. I didn’t want him to think I was making excuses (which I can do when push comes to shove – especially when the push-comes-to-shove involves a baby grand), but I have learned that when people ask for help, the only proper response has got to be “yes, of course I will help”.

There are times when it is OK to say “No”.  Saying “no” for reasons of health makes sense; saying “no, I will not lie for you” sets an appropriate boundary for friends and loved ones. Saying “no” when someone wants you to do something for them that they need (and are able) to do for themselves is also appropriate so as not to create an unhealthy dependency.

But basically, while there are exceptions, I think we need to cultivate a culture that knows how to say “Yes” better than it says “no”.

I was thinking of Jesus needing to address a large crowd by the lakeshore. The best way to do that would be to get into a boat and use it as a pulpit. Seashore acoustics are great that way. He asked a local fisherman to help. The poor fellow had been working all night to no avail. He was tired, hungry, and ready to go home and crash. But he (no doubt rolling his eyes) said yes, shoved the boat back off the beach and into the water, and rowed Jesus out 10-20 yards, where the young man could speak, preach, and teach.

When they were done, Jesus didn’t let poor Peter off the fish hook (so to speak). He told him to put out into the deeper water and cast his nets. Peter knew there were no fish out there, but he did as he was told (probably muttering under his breath: “I’ll show him there’s no fish; who’s the fisherman out here, anyway?”)

Of course you know the result. So many fish! Peter had to call for help so his friends and partners got into their boats and came to the rescue. Artists generally paint Jesus sitting or standing idly by while the fishermen heave and pull, but I am sure Jesus put his back into the effort, and I am equally sure there was a ton of laughter and joy as well.

Peter was just a fisherman, but when he said “yes” something happened. I am sure he and Jesus knew each other in passing – you know how small towns are – but working together, they developed a deep and lasting friendship.

Saying “yes” is so important – a gift of love. “Yes” scares us, because it means we have to leave our comfort zone. We have to let go of what we want to do, or subordinate our own desires momentarily to the wants and needs of someone else. So there is a price to be paid when we say “yes” and the reward isn’t always apparent, isn’t always dramatic, and may even be barely discernible, and yet ...

… sometimes it is sufficient to experience the warm feeling of having done something nice.

God often sends people our way who will push us out into deeper waters, forcing us to do things we never thought we could. They may anger us, they may frustrate us, they may irritate the heck out of us, and yet, when all is said and done, we are stronger than we thought we were, more capable than we ever thought possible, and better off than we ever hoped we might be – and all because someone with vision knew where we would find the fish for which we so desperately searched all of our lives.

Darkness in the Valley

“It is almost as important to know what is not serious as to know what is.” John Kenneth Galbraith

Some many years ago I was walking home from school in Seattle and, as was my custom, stopped in at the local grocery store to pick up something to munch on. As I scoured the candy rack for something sweet enough to keep the family dentist in business, the shop-keeper and a customer were watching the news on a little black and white television set behind the counter. There was some sort of report involving the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I wasn’t paying much attention, but the shop-owner snarled mid-report and said, “Somebody ought to shoot that (man).”

I was shocked. First, I had always considered the owner of the store to be a nice guy. Secondly, while I didn’t know much about Dr. King, I knew that his focus was on improving relations between white people and black people through just and peaceable means.

I was shocked and wondered why anyone would want to kill a man of peace. That was insanity and in good conscience I could not and would not spend another dime in that store ever again.

Events in Ferguson Missouri brought back those memories of the tensions and riots in the 1960s (and the martyrdom of MLK, Jr.). They also reminded me of another incident.

 

(1974, Spokane, WA I was part of Spokane PD's 

Larceny Squad - patroling from a Vespa)

After I graduated from college and before I went off to seminary, I was a police officer in the city of Spokane. One night my partner and I responded to a silent alarm call on the city’s south hill. It was winter; it was a moonless night (about 1 a.m.), and despite the snow that lay upon the ground, it was quite dark. We pulled up to the address of an antique shop and my partner went one way on foot around the building while I went the other.

As I rounded the corner I confronted a man standing at a window in back. He was dressed in a dark coat and wore a knitted ski-cap pulled down low. He hadn’t heard my approach, but when I saw him I drew my weapon, identified myself, and ordered him to freeze.

Startled, he turned and I glimpsed a silver flash in the beam of my flashlight. I tensed, applied several pounds of pressure to my Smith and Wesson’s trigger (which takes three pounds of pressure to fire) and ordered him to drop his gun NOW! I suspect there might have been an expletive or two thrown in for good measure – and it worked.

He dropped his weapon. It turned out to be a screwdriver he was using to pry open the window of the shop he was burgling. He came within a half-pound of trigger pull of being shot.

Looking back, I find myself wondering if I would have exercised the same level of restraint on my trigger if he had been black. I like to think I am color blind when it comes to race, but I also know that racism is not a matter of the intellect, but of the gut. If he had been black, this story might have ended differently; I cannot dismiss that possibility.

When the adrenaline pumps, humans shift gears from the intellectual brain to the more primal, ancient, reptilian brain – the Fight/Flight center. We are afraid of that which we do not know or understand, and so we react out of that fear. Racism is rooted in xenophobia (fear of the stranger) and we need to quit denying it exists. If we acknowledge it, we can begin work needed to overcome it – like most any defect of character.

I don’t know precisely what happened in Ferguson that fateful day. I hope, pray, and expect the investigators will be thorough and that justice will prevail, but I hope, too, that each of us will look deep within ourselves and know just how far we have yet to go.

I am human. I am fearful, and ugliness of thought and deed are very much alive and well in this soul of mine.

We can overcome our baser instincts, but first we’ve got to face reality, admit the problem, and then be willing to seek solutions and work together to achieve them in this, our valley (and beyond).

Life Unfolding in the Valley

“Many things get done in the world because someone had a vision of something better.” Herbert O’Driscoll

I have recently taken to watching more and more how-to shows on television. Of special interest are woodworking programs on our local PBS station.

The show I like best exhibits all sorts of projects that make life easier, more beautiful and, best of all, better organized. I look at a team of professionals (each taking a part of any one project) and, beginning with a couple scraps of this and that (and a spot of white glue), before you know it, they’ve put together chests and cabinets that open, close, fold, bend, and twist in ways too numerous to count.

Unfortunately, they go through the steps so quickly that I don’t quite understand how everything relates or connects. Consequently, my projects start off as pieces of wood in standard dimensions that end up making my garage (which is my “shop” – very loosely defined) look like a FEMA disaster area, and the project looking somewhat primitive (which it is). That’s very discouraging, or it could be if I let it be.

Fortunately, I know I am an amateur (or rank amateur – heavy on the “rank”) and so I do not expect perfection. For me, the fun is in the trying. My first goal is always to make something functional. My second goal is to make it pleasant to look at. My ultimate goal, however, is to make something I can show off. You see, inside this carcass of mine is a kindergartner screaming to be noticed.

I find that setting goals is important. If I “settle” for functional, that is generally what I will produce. So it is important to set higher goals. Nothing will ever be perfect, but anything can be improved, and that’s where the joy is to be found.

One of the problems we face is in determining what the “better” looks like.

Take your life, for instance. Is it where you would like it to be? Do you have friends you can depend on? Do you have a job that satisfies and delights you day in and day out? Do you face challenges that push you toward excellence? At the end of the day, do you look back with a “Whew, that was a good one,” or with a “Whew, that was a colossal waste of time”?

One of the things I like about wood working is that a project is literally in one’s own hands. The finished product is dependant to some degree upon the quality of the tools, but more so on the skills of the carpenter. The sharpest blade in my shop will not restore an inch of wood to a board I cut too short – no matter how many times I cut it, it will still be too short. Measuring accurately and cutting with precision takes time, practice, and patience.

The rules I follow in the shop seem appropriate for an improved life. First: Be safe. I like my fingers (all of them); I like being able to see; I like being able to hear. So safety has GOT to be rule one.

In life, watch where you’re going. Speak kindly – don’t cut others down. Wear gloves when dealing with rough people or messy situations.

Rule Number Two: No whining, complaining, or excuses. It’s no use crying the blade is too dull, the wood is too hard, or the measuring tape is inaccurate. If the blade is dull, sharpen it; if the wood is hard, sharpen the blade again; if the cut is “off” measure twice or three times or whatever it takes to cut it right the next time.

In life, don’t blame others (or yourself). Just pay attention and make adjustments as needed (in your own words, attitudes, or deeds).

Rule Number Three: Be early. If I wait to start a project too late, I lose interest or momentum before I’ve even started, so I find I need to start early for best results.

In life, be early. If tempted to sleep in ‘cause there’s nothing to do and you’re bored, get up early and do something different. Be responsible for producing something of value, whether it is a chest or a memory. Take charge and live the dream.

I think you’ll be glad you did in this, our valley.

Ants in the Valley

“To live is to change, and to be perfect is to have changed often.” John Henry Newman

The other day I bought something online that I could not get locally to take care of a problem with pests. Specifically, we have lots of ants in the yard and one cannot weed or stand in one place for long before a gang of ants decides we would make a wonderful trophy to mount over their little ant fire places.

We tried to take care of the problem with a local pest control service for a couple years, but that didn’t work, and we tried various over-the-counter pesticides, but they only got the ants high (and craving munchies), so we took to the web (figuring spiders would know best how to deal with pesky insects) and found a solution that seemed reasonably priced and – best of all – looked like something a normal person could do themselves.

While the “normal” might be hard for me to pull off, never-the-less I decided I would give it a shot.

That’s what we did; we ordered the product, which came with easy-to-follow instructions, and we set out the bait stations (which are certified safe from anything that isn’t an ant – like dogs, cats, deer, and other critters of that ilk).

After a few days, it seems like the ants have taken the bait and, much to my delight, they appear to be disappearing!

The problem with pesticides, I find, is that they attack the critters above ground, but they don’t get to the Queen – that egg-laying machine who stays safe and secure in her underground cell. If we can get to her, we can solve the problem – and I think we have.

It seems like that’s also a good illustration of how we deal with many of our personal problems. So often we attack issues on the surface without really getting at the heart of the matter, which lies beneath.

The “Queen” who lies beneath, for me, is my ego. I know, I know. It sounds highly unlikely to my dear readers that I would have an ego problem, but believe me – I am alive; ergo, ego-maniacal thoughts, feelings, and attitudes make their appearance from time to time.

When I get mad, it is generally because I’m not getting my way about something. The weather is too hot, cold, wet, dry, or windy. The cars and drivers around me are going too slow or too fast. Some person, place, thing, or situation isn’t the way I want it to be and – BOOM – the Queen gives birth to an Anger Ant who charges into battle.

An ant stings with a stinger, rends with its mandibles, and is just generally an irritable sort of beast – and that’s me. When I don’t get my way I can sometimes pout, and sulk, get depressed, or behave quite boorishly.

Now, I must confess most of that stuff takes place between my ears. Because I am a man of the cloth, my outer self is quite calm, cool, and collected. I bear the slings and arrows of life with remarkable equanimity and peace. That demeanor, though, is not completely an act (or fake)

Over the years I’ve come to learn that I have very little control over the people and situations that surround me. I can allow the frustrations to eat me up, or I can choose a different path. What path might that be?

I’ve learned to knock the ego down to size with several tools at my disposal. First, relax. Controlling the world is above my pay grade. That’s God’s job, not mine. The Bible tells us God loves the world. It does not say anywhere that God controls the world.

Consequently, my task is to love the people and the world I live in, and to forget trying to control it. When I do that I have peace and serenity, and I like that.

Secondly, I’m thankful. Our world is a delightful place. The people around us are strange and quirky, to be sure, but so am I. When we accept people for who they are, we can be at peace. Even if they are restless, irritable, and discontented, that’s their problem. The fact is Pain is inevitable, but misery is optional.

We can change, and change is an ANT-idote to misery in this, our valley.