Stepping Lively in the Valley

Grace means there is nothing we can do to make God love us more … (or) to make God love us less. Philip Yancey

I had the pleasure of taking in a clergy conference near Prescott, Arizona recently. During the course of the conference I learned that people are encouraged to maintain physical fitness for their health and well-being. That sure made sense until they suggested that a fitness regimen might include such things as walking or doing things.

It was even suggested that a person ought to strive to get in 10,000 steps each day and, to indicate how serious they were that we should do so, the conference leaders even gave us each a small pedometer to wear on our belts. Well, I can certainly belt out a tune, but was highly offended that they would try to make us walk more by giving us such a tawdry bribe as that.

I assured them that I am as fit as a fiddle, although I wouldn’t want to play any fiddle that was built like me – and I certainly don’t want anyone pulling my strings. It’s bad enough when they push my buttons.

Anyway, I have tried wearing the pedometer with me wherever I go and have discovered that it is extremely limited; it seems not to be aware of how much work I do at my desk.

I may not be active in the academic sense of the word, but certainly I get quite a bit of exercise. I jump to conclusions; I punch out sermons; I take a Leap of Faith getting up each morning; I run my mouth every day of the week and twice on Sundays. All that has GOT to count for something, doesn’t it?

But my poor pedometer just doesn’t understand my kind of activity. It is very imperfect that way. In fact, I sometimes have to shake it just so I can read the display – and need I tell you there is a bit of exercise involved in just sucking in my six pack abs so I can see that tiny little device down there on my belt. What’s THAT all about? Shouldn’t they have designed a larger pedometer just so the walker could look svelte in comparison? Where the heck was their Marketing Team when THAT design came down for review?

Well, the fact is that maybe I could stand to be a bit more active. While I do have abs of steel, the steel is more like the soup that sloshes around in the bowl at the smelter than the hardened variety one finds at the end of the line. Perhaps it is time to examine my physical regimen more carefully and begin adjusting my work-a-day habits so as to involve a bit more movement.

Why should I take better care of my body? Well, for one thing, it’s the only one I’ve got.

I’ve got plenty of clothes I can change into if I get wet or dirty, but I’ve only got this one carcass. It’s got to last until I’m done with it. So there is that.

For another thing, it’s a gift from God. How I treat it indicates to some degree just what I think of the giver, eh? If I toss a gift into a drawer and forget it, or never use it or wear it, that says something.

The best way to say “thank you” is to put the gift to work for its intended purpose. We don’t strut our stuff for the world to ogle at; stepping lively is simply a friendly wave to God above – a simple thanks to our God of love.

I think one’s spiritual life is like that, too.

To be spiritually fit requires spiritual exercises, such as getting up and going to church, breaking open the Bible (and reading it), praying, and finding things to do that promote the peace and well-being of the community.

It has nothing to do with being better than one another – morally superior or any of that guff. It has to do with recognizing we are spiritual beings as much as physical beings, and all things work together for those who love God, and who are called according to God’s purpose – and that purpose is grace, forgiveness, and walking peaceably with God and neighbor in this, our valley.

Hooked in the Valley

Be yourself; everyone else is already taken – Oscar Wilde

I went to visit a parishioner the other day. When I approached her house I was greeted by a swarm of flying critters. It turns out they were salmon flies (or a close relative), and the good news is they aren’t carnivorous – otherwise I would have been a goner in a matter of seconds.

I have no idea what they were doing around her house. She doesn’t live all that close to the river and her house isn’t blue, so it didn’t make sense for the creatures to be swarming her home the way they did. I was surprised the fish didn’t leave the stream to go chasing after those protein-rich wing-dings, but such is life.

I karate chopped my way through them and it turned out to be good exercise. Even though they aren’t a biting insect, they were quite pesky. When I was done with my visit I remembered I had left my truck windows down partially (as it was warm) and was afraid I would have to do battle with those rascally varmints while I was “on the fly”, but fortunately only one of the beasties had bothered to enter the truck, and she left when she saw me climb in. I suppose I wasn’t her type, although I did “shag flies” as a kid back in the day.

The flies helped explain the sudden influx of outdoor-types to our local eatery. I had gone in for our usual church-men’s breakfast at Yesterday’s Café and the place was packed. I had no idea who the strangers were, and upon reflection they certainly did look like folks who would delight in walking the length, breadth, and depths of the Madison  River in rubber waders in hopes of snagging some aquatic denizens of the finned variety.

Why anyone would choose to stand on a riverbank or in the river while being swarmed by bugs is beyond me. I confess I just don’t “get” angling. As a child, I enjoyed fishing Puget Sound with my brother. We were always catching something – rock cod, flounders, soles, dogfish, and the like – so we were never bored, but neither did we eat what we caught. The quality of marine life from the Sound wasn’t all that trustworthy, so we just tossed them back (and they no doubt thanked Poseidon for the grace extended “to” them – and for not having grace said “over” them).

I am reminded of Jesus once saying to some of his early disciples, “Follow me and I will make you fishers of men.” Of course, folks in his day didn’t use hooks, lines, reels, and casting rods; they used nets.

I’m sure Jesus wasn’t thinking of Catch and Cook (or even Catch and Release), but intended the metaphor to go deeper than that. Otherwise the world – like any trout worth its salt – would be wise to be cautious.

I’ve always been a bit skeptical about how people interpret that Fishers of Men imagery.

“You catch ‘em, God cleans ‘em” goes the old bumper sticker, but that doesn’t sound all that inviting, does it?

It’s as if what’s meant is that God intends to gut you and eat you, hmmm? I know it is a play on words (clean, as in wash up, versus clean as gutting and boning), and yet it makes it sound like we “believers” can’t believe God can stand the sight or smell of you until God’s had a chance to fix you up, and that hardly qualifies as “Good News” (i.e. Gospel).

Jesus said, “God loves you.” He didn’t add strings or fine print to the deal.

I think churches, like the kingdom of God, should be places where people can come to be fed – not to become the main course; where people can find joy and happiness – not be objects of judgment or ridicule; where people can live into their passions – not just fit into slots.

Maybe Jesus, who said, “This is my Body, eat; this is my Blood, drink,” was suggesting we should be flies – not hooks – drawing all people from out of the depths, providing safe haven for all who’re floundering, as well as food and drink for the nourishment soul and body.

The fish are hungry and God has given us wings; that’s how it should be in this, our valley.

Bats O'er the Valley

Talk will not boil rice – Chinese Proverb

Well, it finally happened. I had to take a business trip this past week and the only reasonable way to travel was by air. I am not overly fond of air travel. It’s not that I object to being scrutinized by the TSA. The men and women in blue at our regional airports appear to be well-trained professionals, quite courteous, efficient at processing all sorts and conditions of ticketed passengers and their full-bodied massages are NOT to be missed.

No, the problem with air travel is not the security, but the means by which it takes place. As we all know, airlines have made certain cutbacks to keep costs down. Passengers are granted access to seats just slightly wider than the small end of a baseball bat (and with about as much cushioning as a two-ply bathroom product might provide).

My trip to Arizona was uneventful. I was treated to a cup of coffee with about the amount of flavor as the third or fourth use of any one scoop of budget-grade coffee might be expected to provide in a twelve cup pot. If the cup had been glass instead of Styrofoam, I believe I would have been able to read the in-flight magazine through it.

I am sure Juan Valdez himself should have parked his donkey on the side of his coffee-growing mountain and addressed the flight attendant in a strongly worded infomercial about his handpicked products being so badly misused, but alas, he has apparently been grounded (an ironic end for a coffee farmer). Perhaps they discovered he was just a washed up old has-bean, which would explain why we haven’t seen him in any coffee commercials in ages. Or maybe he and Mrs. Olson eloped and ran away to Java. Who can know such things?

Outside of the coffee issue, though, the trip was pleasant. Sitting on my bat, I thought about baseball and wondered how my Mariners were doing. I shouldn't have bothered. The good news is they are only two games out of first place in their division. The bad news is that it appears they will be twenty games out by the end of August. Oi vei!

I was going to watch a movie on my tablet but the drone of the plane’s engines made that impossible. Even on full volume, I couldn't hear the dialogue or music. I am sure I would have liked the movie. It included some of my favorite actors and actresses and appeared to have some comedic moments, as well as spots of profound meaning and revelations of deeper truths. I didn't have access to closed captioning, so ended up putting my electronic device back into my carry-on bag.

I will also tell you I tried watching the film later at the airport, but the noise of people coming and going, and the constant reminders not to leave packages unattended or to not accept packages from complete strangers also impeded my movie watching pleasures. I may have to invest in those special noise-canceling headphones some day, but have no idea if they would work any better than what I was using.

So, the flight down was flavorless, noisy, and uneventful.

Such goes life. It has its ups and downs. No matter how poorly we may consider an experience, it helps us appreciate more what we have when that experience has ended. If it was good, we are left with happy memories; if it was hard, then we are relieved when it has ended.

I think that was some of what the apostle Paul meant when he said he really didn’t let things get him down. When in prison, he and his companions belted out their songs of faith; when flogged, beaten, stoned and left for dead, Paul was glad it was for sharing Good News, and not for some sordid crime (like murder).

While we like to think good things happen to good people and bad things to bad, the fact is there is often no correlation between the two. We simply keep our seat belts fastened, roll through the turbulence with our insipid beverages of choice, and rejoice when we land. I rejoice in its landing for that tells me I’m nearly home!

Anyway, I’m just glad to be off the small end of the bat in this, our valley.

Rabbits in the Valley

The essence of all growth is a willingness to change for the better and then an unremitting willingness to shoulder whatever responsibility this entails – Bill Wilson

Today I walked out to the truck parked by the church and startled a couple of rabbits. I would say it was a hare raising experience, but it is too early in the column to ear-i-tate you with such an awful pun, so I won’t.

But it did cause me to wonder whether those fur balls hopping around the vehicle were hares or rabbits. I always knew there was a difference between the two critters but must confess I wasn’t sure just what that difference might be. I grew up in the city and so such knowledge was never clearly imparted to us city dwellers. The only wild life we saw were the patrons we observed staggering out of the dozen or so bars and taverns lining 15^th Avenue between school and home – a route that ran about ten blocks.

So, being the curious sort of fellow I am (and there are many people who will affirm the curiousness that is me, or I, or whatever the pronoun is supposed to be), I ran back into the office and hopped on the computer and set about investigating those sorts of details that would help me identify what form of Lagomorphs I was dealing with.

I discovered the main differences between the two critters is that hares generally have longer hind legs, longer ears, change colors (white in winter, gray or brown in summer), live in above-ground nests, and eat leaves and twigs; while rabbits tend to me smaller, stay one color year-round, live in holes, have shorter hind legs and ears, and prefer a softer diet of grasses and vegetables (like carrots). Rabbits tend to be more social, and hares tend to remain wild, even in captivity.

So it turns out the buns I saw did indeed belong to a couple of bunny-rabbits, and while they had been startled by my sudden appearance, they never-the-less did not run far, and they sat in the shade of the truck while listening ever so politely to my best Doctor Dolittle impression (which is NOT to be missed if you are ever in need of a truly wince-inducing moment in your life).

I used to talk to crows too, by the way, but had to stop when parishioners began to say I was stark raven mad.

In any case, the point I am trying to make in the telling of this tale is that I like to learn. That would surprise a lot of people as I devoted much of my school life to avoiding doing just that, but I always was a late bloomer – although why anyone would ever say that is another mystery, for I have never worn bloomers, but I’ll leave that investigation for another time.

The thing is, I have come to realize I like to learn things I never knew before. All of a sudden my curiosity gene has sprouted, and I am willing and able to look things up.

I realize that there are times ignorance is bliss, but only a hare-brained idiot would want to stay that way. The challenge is in coming to realize that facts by themselves are just silly little things, but putting them into context can make them helpful little things.

Take the difference between hares and rabbits. How is knowing the difference helpful? Well, first of all, a rabbit stew is quite tasty, but no one wants to see a hare in their soup, right? So there is that.

Secondly, if you were driving a Volkswagen Rabbit, you would want to be real careful driving around hare-pin turns, right?

And imagine how smart you would sound at the coffee shop as you disclose that Bugs Bunny is actually a mash-up composite of hare and rabbit (long ears and leg = hare, but lives in hole and eats carrots = rabbit)! You’ll be known far and wide as the town’s Einstein, which would be quite a feat considering the competition, eh?

Curiosity is a gift of God and learning about different kinds of Lagomorphs was fun. What’s more, it does not take a great Lepus of faith to conclude we should care for all creatures great and small in this, our valley.

Easter in the Valley

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin … Matthew 6:28

Boy, Easter is almost upon us once again. A lady complained the other day that it seemed to come awfully early this year, but actually it is just about smack dab in the middle of where it belongs.

I did some research and it turns out that Easter is not scheduled by Hallmark, but rather by the moon and the sun. Easter is celebrated on the first Sunday following the first full moon following the spring equinox. Spring falls on or about March 22 each year, and this year the first full moon of spring takes place on Saturday, April 4 so, voila, Easter is the following day (Sunday, April 5)!

So Easter moves around, unlike Christmas, which is always December 25, or Thanksgiving, which is always the fourth Thursday in November (or the Fourth of July, which, interestingly, is celebrated annually on July 4).

Easter moves around, but it does feel early. Easter is a spring-time festival, and yet no matter how sunny it is, the weather is still pretty chilly (so why isn’t the main Easter dish chili instead of ham or lamb?).

I remember being outside for our annual family Easter photograph (as a child). It was a beautiful day in Seattle. The clouds had parted for a nanosecond and the sun was shining.

My brother and I were wearing suits, with starched white shirts and narrow black ties; our sisters had on flowery sun-dresses and bonnets; dad looked quite dapper in his green suit and a much more stylish wide tie (that only hung about half way down to his belt). We were not a very fashion-savvy family; we were much more at home in jeans with holes torn in the knees, short-sleeve checked shirts with pockets half-ripped-off, and wearing dress shoes with white socks, or tennis shoes with black dress socks. Our skills in fashion were a large reason I became a priest!

Mom however, was the fountain of elegance in our family. She always dressed sharp. She was a seamstress, making her own clothes. She also dabbled in millinery; she had one broad-brimmed hat she would fix up every Easter (for ladies were expected to have their heads covered in church back in those days). She would change the ribbons and decorations that would give those who noticed such things the impression that she had a new bonnet every year.

It seemed a silly tradition (both the “wearing a bonnet” and “making it look new”) and yet it was important to her. As she explained, “When we come into the House of God, we should dress in a manner that shows no less honor than if we were visiting the mayor or president.”

Getting back to my story, it was a beautiful day in Seattle, but it was still very chilly. I remember thinking, “It’s Easter! How can it be so cold?” Somehow I thought the day should dictate the kind of weather we’d have, but it didn’t. I thought it SHOULD be warm, but it wasn’t. Weather is an independent sort of thinker and, quite often, a sneaky sort of stinker!

It is what it is, and that’s what’s important. It turns out we can’t control the sun or the moon or the weather, but we can control how we respond.

I will admit that I still dress up for church – even when I’m not working. I still prefer to dress formally for worship. I have learned to wear dress socks with my dress shoes. I know that God is less concerned with the state of my clothes and more with the state of my heart, and yet I also think church is about God more than it is about my comfort – and if I look the part on Sunday, I may be more likely to act the part the rest of the week.

There are 168 hours between Sundays. For 167 hours, I can dress like the slob I am and pretty much go where I want and do what I please (within the limits of law, culture, and finances). But for the one hour I am called to stand, sit, and kneel before the King, I want to shine as best I can – a lily in God’s own Garden, and that warms my heart here in this, our valley.

Making It in the Valley

To stop going to church because it has hypocrites is like not going to the gym because of the out-of-shape people. Anonymous

Oh, what to fix for dinner.

One of the problems one faces when he or she gets to a certain age is running out of ideas for a meal, although running out of an appetite has never been an issue for me.

If our household is like your family in any way – first of all, you have my condolences – then you probably suffer from that basic array of meals that shows up time and again toward the end of the day. There’s the meat loaf and mashed taters, or the chicken and rice casserole, or the pork chops and onions with baked potatoes.

Our meals are pretty much variations on all that. Beef? Check. Chicken? Cluck. Pork? Oink. I will admit we don’t eat a lot of fish. If fish would learn to moo I could probably get in more of a “moo”d for it, but as it is I’ve just never developed much of an appreciation for the life aquatic – despite my Scandinavian heritage.

So, when it’s my turn to cook (yes, my better half and I take turns; she cooks six nights a week, and I get one. I try to save leftovers for my cook-night, but she sort of frowns on that. I think the words I hear through my bleeding ears are, “That’s not fair!” but I can’t be sure, for the audio distortion is pretty bad when the volume meter hits that point), I do what I can to break the routine; I go online and check out recipes for something unique.

There are two things I look for in a recipe: One: something that looks different but intriguing; two: something with ingredients available at our local market.

My personal preference is a meal that can be cooked in one dish as I have no skills at coordinating a feast involving more than one pot. I suppose that makes me a true chef, as the professionals tend to dole out their meals one item at a time. They call them “courses” but, of course I know that in reality they just can’t get their act together either, so the meal comes out in dribs and drabs and costs an arm and a leg as it takes all night (calling it “elegant dining”).

Invariably I’ll find a recipe I want to try but for which we have few ingredients at home. That’s alright with me as I like to put a meal together using fresh ingredients from our local grocer.

Doing meals that way puts me into a nostalgic frame of mind, for I remember that’s how my grandmother used to cook.

She didn't stock up for Armageddon, intending to subsist on canned goods for a decade in a fallout shelter. She would plan a meal (which always consisted of her using several pots and pans – she was a true wizard in the kitchen), then send us around the corner to Loomis’ store where we would hand Old Man Loomis the list, he would gather up what we needed, bag it, and put it on Grandma’s tab. Ah, those were the days.

So when I prepare a meal like that, I feel right at home. I, the hunter-gatherer, then get to work, feverishly chopping taters, onions, garlic, and such whatnots, tossing them into the slow cooker or baking dish – excited to see my partner’s face when I tell her what we’re having. Many times I find her speechless, for which reason maybe I should cook more, but that’s another tale to savor for another time.

Well, life is like that. Our days are often filled with routines that meet our needs for the most part. But every now and then, it’s nice to take a break from our habits and shake hands with a new experience.

Sometimes we worry that we won’t like the new experience – or that we’ll be criticized for it – but diversity keeps life interesting. To embrace the new is NOT to let go of the past, but to create a new past to be remembered fondly tomorrow.

Variety truly is the spice of life, and that’s what we’re having for dinner tonight in this, our valley (and I can’t wait to find out what it is).

Lost in the Valley

The human being is a flute which makes music when the breath of God blows through … Rumi

I am such a loser.

By that I don’t mean to imply that I have low self-esteem or anything like that. What I mean is that I am constantly misplacing things.

One year at Thanksgiving dinner, my grandmother’s home was all decked out with seasonal knick-knacks. I was probably about ten years old and had my eye on a little wax-turkey candle decoration and, being somewhat precocious (more accurately “avaricious”, but I was too young and innocent to know the difference) I asked my grandmother if I could have it.

“Well,” she said, “You’re just going to lose it, but OK, you can have it.”

Well, I took that as a personal challenge and so I took it home and put it on a shelf and never touched it. Every time she came to visit, I would drag her down to the basement to my room and show her I still had that turkey. Hah! Lose her turkey, indeed; double HAH!

Of course I have no idea where it is now. I guess she’s probably up in heaven chuckling over that.

Anyway, last Christmas my wife gave me a knife to replace one that had disappeared. It was a nice Swiss army knife with a number of blades and gizmos. I’d had it for years and then, sometime last fall, it went missing. I didn’t lose it, you understand. It went missing.

I knew exactly where I had last seen it, but it wasn’t there. I’ve checked everywhere for it and it is nowhere to be found. It is somewhere – of that I am sure, but today it is apparently caught in a crack of the time-space continuum that surrounds us on every side. No doubt it is being held hostage by all those single socks that have “gotten lost” since time immemorial.

Anyway, I digress. Barb knew my distress at having had my old knife run away from home, so she bought me a new knife for Christmas. It is nice and red, has the cute little cross emblem I love, and all the blades, gadgets, and gizmos the old knife had. It’s not exactly the same as the old knife – and it will never cut the emotional ties I had with my first multi-use pocket knife – but it is a worthy successor.

That’s why – horror of horrors – I was horrified to discover my new knife had gone missing barely a month “out of the box”! I looked everywhere for it and, like the first knife, it was nowhere to be found.

I knew at that moment I was a dead man walking. I have a sweet, loving, doting wife; that’s all true. But I kept hearing my grandmother’s voice echoing between my ears: “You’re just going to lose it …”

So I did what any sane man would do – not that I am sane, but I put myself in the shoes of a sane man and said, OK, that’ll work – I kept my mouth shut. I checked my clothes, the laundry, my offices, under the bed, under the couch where I sit (and between the cushions), and – nothing!

A week or two passed and there was a commercial on TV for a thing that fits between a car seat and center consul (to catch coins, cell phones, and valuables). A three watt bulb lit up over my head in a badly drawn cartoon bubble. I grabbed my flashlight (which has a few more candles of illuminating power) and checked the space in the car between the driver’s seat and center consul and VOILA! I found m’knife!

It turns out that it isn’t safe for me to carry a knife while wearing dress slacks. I know I will likely be cast out from Montana for wearing an article of clothing that was outlawed since forever; I’m pretty sure denim is the state cloth. Still, separation of church and state means I can wear my church pants, even if it also means separation of man and knife.

I think people are like pocket knives. We may get lost for a time, but God never stops looking for us; God smiles when we’re safely back in the palm of his hand. I find that comforting in this, our valley. I hope grandma does, too.