When Worlds Collide

 

"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye" Antoine de Saint-Exupery

I went into the bank a few years back to make a deposit and, as sometimes happens, an overly-friendly clerk invited me to her desk, saying, “Come over here; I can help you with that.” 

She was all smiles and full of good cheer, for which I was mostly not in the mood. I had a lot on my plate for the day and not a lot of time and I knew full well my deposit was not the focus of her agenda. Her goal was to help me discover all the ways I could save money, grow rich, and improve my lot in life by rearranging what can only laughingly be called my “portfolio” at the bank. 

Although her efforts cost me about five minutes more than what I would normally have spent, our time together was tolerable, and concluding our business I was able to return to my errands. 

Life is like that, though. We have our plans, the world has theirs; sometimes they run in parallel, and at other times they collide. Life happens; you tangle up and you tango on; right? 

The first Christmas was not much different. 

Mary and Joseph were most unremarkable – a typical Jewish couple. They lived in a small back-water town called Nazareth where nothing special was ever said to have happened. 

They were engaged to be married, but had not yet tied the knot. Joseph was a handyman; not much of a prize, really, but a decent enough sort of fellow. Mary’s folks were happy with the financial arrangement they had reached for giving her hand in marriage, so all was well. But then … scandal! 

Mary got pregnant. She was sent away to visit her relatives, to “help” Elizabeth – her kinswoman – who was also pregnant. She was sent away, but not soon enough. The people of Nazareth delighted in sharing local news and gossip, and news of Mary’s condition would give them things to talk about for decades yet to come – a very merry Christmas gift, indeed. 

I am sure that life, as Mary and Joseph received it from God, was very different from what they had dreamed or conceived of for themselves, but they trusted God was at work in all things and through all things, and so they accepted life on life’s terms. 

I don’t know if they felt they could actually say “No” to God, but they did choose to say “Yes” anyway, and consented to be the people God asked them to be: mother, father, nurturer, and protector. 

As I have gotten older, Christmas has lost some of its sense of magic and wonder. Life rolls merrily along. Business needs tending; things need to be done, but I don’t do them as quickly or as efficiently as I once did. I still whistle while I work, but not as often, and not as brightly as I did in the days of yore, but that’s OK. 

God did not create us to be quick and efficient workers, but to be visible and tangible signs of God’s presence in the world. There is nothing magical about reaching out to those in need, but there is something godly in it. There is nothing dramatically wondrous about spending time with those who are hurt or lonely, but there is something godly in it. 

Christmas, you see, is not a day, a season, or a feeling; it is the surprising presence of God in our midst. 

All the trappings of Christmas – the lights, the tinsel, the presents, the carols, the garland, the trees – they aren’t trappings; they’re traps. They divert our eyes and attention from all God calls us to be and to do: to be God-bearers, like Mary and Joseph – carrying God along on life’s journey. 

So, keep your eyes open to the works of God in the world all around you. God seeks a place to call home, a place within which to lay down his gifts of love, peace, true joy, and happiness. May God find in you a faithful “yes” in this, our valley. Keep whistling and have a Merry Christmas!

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available exclusively through Amazon in Print and e-book)

HOLIDAY LIGHTS

 

Mercy and truth have met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other (Psalm 85)

I woke up this morning realizing I haven’t heard something which, by now, I would normally have heard continuously for at least a month. I haven’t heard any Christmas music!

In quarantine for the pandemic, and for the safety, security, and health of my family, neighbors, and loved ones, I haven’t gone to the stores to do any shopping (beyond groceries). The local mall closed down last summer, so there is no holiday “hot spot” for getting into the feeding frenzy that passes for the Christmas season (which is actually Advent, but let’s not quibble here).

I record all the shows I want to watch on television at night, which means (don’t tell advertisers this, but …) it means I zap through the commercial breaks, so I haven’t heard any holiday music there either. It has made for a very pleasant season, to be honest. I love it, for I don’t care for most of that saccharine schmaltz that passes for “holiday” music. That means when we get to the genuine twelve days of Christmas (December 24 - January 6) we will actually be hearing the seasonal hymns for pretty much the first time this year!

That doesn’t mean all has been silent, quiet, dull, or boring, of course. But there have been changes. I have reached the age where I no longer want to climb ladders to string lights across the roofline. No one would ever confuse me with Clark Griswold (of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation fame), but I have usually made every effort to provide some holiday lighting on our block. This year, though, I decided against going high, and went low, instead. I put lights along the bushes, a lighted wreath above the garage, and our little, modest, pre-lit fake tree in the living room window, and called it a day (or a season).

I even followed instructions. One of my pet peeves about stringing lights along the roofline is the work involved (there are no easy hanging solutions in the world of light-put-uppery). Another is the fact that one string will always go out mid-season. There is no way to fix a string, and there is never a replacement string the same length. Every string is precut, sold, and guaranteed not to stretch the distance needed, or shine with the same luminosity as its neighboring strings.

My bush-net lights warn against attaching more than three nets together, so that’s what I did. I bought proper extension cords, powered all the light sets in their assigned groups of three, and all is well. When the sun goes down, the lights come on and, voila; Christmas cheer!

I have no doubt all the light sets I have bought over the years have similarly warned against connecting too many strings together, but following directions has never been my strong-suit. I am at the age now, however, where I actually take time to read the instructions, not so much because I like to read instructions, but because it gives me something to read between books.

No, it is a strange season we find ourselves traipsing through, but if we keep on walking, odds are we’ll make it out the other side just fine. Thinking about the silence has gotten me to thinking about pulling out some of those old holiday CDs and putting them on. I admit I don’t do streaming music or satellite music, or even radio music. I’m sort of fussy. I know what I like, which is why I have those CDs, and I know how I like to play them. I’d prefer playing vinyl records, but alas my player no longer works.

I’m not really an old stick-in-the-mud, but I am set in my ways with some things, and music is just one of those things. It is in the silence I can hear the Spirit; it is in the quiet I can find peace. It is in righteousness I can find mercy; and it is in mercy I can find the breath of God blowing ever so sweetly here in this, our valley.

GIVING THANKS

 

When it was getting late, the disciples came to Jesus and said, “This is a desert place, and it is getting late; dismiss the people …” (Mark 6)

I am not a thankful person in the ordinary course of life. I do not stroll through the wilderness like Snow White, singing to the bunnies and butterflies. I do not make like Sister Maria, romping over the mountains and hills while belting out tunes in the Sound of Music.

No, I mostly schlump my way through life doing the things that need to be done. I don’t think about them, and I certainly don’t sing about them, either. I’ve never headed out to handle a task whistling, “Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work I go …” If I am inspired to sing or whistle, it is more likely to be the menacingly martial music of the soldiers marching around the witch’s castle in the Wizard of Oz.

However, be that as it may, I also know the importance of being thankful. It is the fuel that powers the engine of joy.

I may play the curmudgeon or grump, but I’m not really either of those things. Neither am I Happy the Dwarf or Sleepy, the somnambulant little person. No, I’m just an ordinary duffer taking life one day at a time, coasting more than is probably good for me. Coasting has its place, but it’s probably not the best way to make a positive impact on the world in which we live. Meteors coasting through space crash into the planet all the time. Ask the dinosaurs what they think about coasting, eh?

No, coasting has its place, but I have found it much better for health of body and soul to keep on moving, and to do so with positive energy. That positive energy comes from an attitude of gratitude. Some may think that thankfulness needs to spring up spontaneously, the way it does when one finds a $5 bill lying on the ground when out for a walk. That isn’t thanksgiving, though, as much as it is serendipity – that happy feeling one gets when something delightful happens.

Now, one can certainly cultivate a garden of gratitude if one is in the habit of planting seeds of delight in the world they inhabit. A woman walked past me the other day at the store, recognized me from church (which has been a virtual experience these past seven months or so) and said, “Hey, I’m so happy to see you! You can’t tell (with my mask), but I’m smiling!”

I smiled (through my mask as well) and said, “I see your smile; It’s in your eyes. You couldn’t hide it if you tried!”

My heart leapt for joy. One can curse the mask for the inconvenience it may cause (less inconvenient than a respirator, but that’s just my opinion), or one may find delight in seeing (and recognizing) a neighbor. Either response is there for the taking. I know which one the curmudgeon in me wants to grab a-hold of, but I’ve found that choosing joy is so much more pleasant for me and for those around me.

It seems so easy, and yet it also seems hard. Why is it when I know gratitude makes me feel good, and irritation makes me feel like heck I should find myself reaching for the rusty ring of perdition? Who knows? Maybe it’s because I am Swedish; maybe it’s because I am human. Either way, I have a choice, and over the years, I’ve learned to reach for the golden ring of thanksgiving (over the lousy loopy of p**py).

Naturally, each of us will need to decide how we will approach the holidays during the pandemic. Some will choose to darn the torpedoes and move full speed ahead. Others will choose to isolate and pray (with some bitterness) that next year will be better and brighter. Still others will decide to be thankful they’ve made it this far, and rejoice.

Happiness, it turns out, is in our hands. I’ll continue to mask up and smile. I’ll continue to wash my hands often (and well). I’ll continue to keep my distance and isolate, for love of God and country. And I’ll do it all in thanksgiving for all of you here in this, our valley.

The End of War

 “Day is done, gone the sun …” Rukard Hurd

“Why do the nations rage?” asks the psalmist. “Why not?” answers this writer. 

“Why do the people plot in vain?” continues the psalmist (Psalm 2). Because that’s what people do.

To ask why people, parties, and nations do what they do is like asking water why it flows downhill, or the wind why it blows. It is the nature of water to seek and find the low spot. It is in the nature of wind to be restless.

We rage because we are under the illusion that we have power. It is an illusion, and so we rage against the night. We rage against the storm. We rage against injustice, or the threat of injustice, or the fear that something unjust may occur. Our rage is not in vain. Even if it does not seem to accomplish anything, we get it out of our system so that it will not consume us with our anger, fears, frustrations, or the many (or few) slights we suffer.

We rage because it is in our nature to rage. We don’t like what is, so we face our options. We can work to change what we do not like, or we can complain. One involves thought and labor; the other requires little more than a waggable tongue. Like water, most of us follow the path of least resistance, so we wag our tongues. We imagine (vainly) that our complaints carry the same weight as action. They don’t, so we add more complaints to the pile, assuming that the more detritus we pile on, the weightier our argument will seem.

We rage because we are blowhards. Raised voices always sound more commanding and authoritative to nervous nellies willing to listen to them. 

“‘My ways are not your ways,’ says the Lord. ‘For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts.’” (Isaiah 55)

What does God expect of us? What does God expect of godly people?

“You shall go out with joy. You shall be led forth with peace. The mountains and hills will break forth into song, and the trees shall break forth into applause.”

We rage because it is in our nature to rage, but that is not our only alternative. We can recognize injustice or inequality, and instead of denying it, we can accept it for what it is, and ask, “How may I help make this right? How may I help fix it? How may I help repair the breach? How may you and I work together so that everyone has what they need, and no one is ever shut up or thrown into outer darkness?”

We rage because we know no better. We have been trained to rage, to fight, to bully. Cain clobbered Abel because he was jealous of his brother. He hated his brother. Notice, though, that God did not clobber Cain. God placed a seal of protection – salvation – upon him, warning the world to leave him be. God has placed a seal upon each of us, as well. It’s not enough to simply leave one another alone, although if that’s the best one can manage, then go for it.

Jesus reminds us in the Gospel that we are called to a higher place. We are called to love God thoroughly, and to manifest that love in how we approach one another. We are not enemies; we are neighbors. Our sacrifices do not cancel or vitiate the sacrifices others have made. God values and honors every sacrifice made with as pure a heart as we have to offer.

We celebrate Veterans Day this week, honoring those who serve (and have served) in the armed forces. The men and women of the armed forces staff fence-lines so that we may sleep in peace, safety, and security. When called to fight, they are unequalled, but their true strength is found in their dedication to peace.

When you get right down to it, they don’t rage. They serve. They serve with honor and distinction. They provide us a good and godly example of how to live peaceably. While tempted to rage (because that is my nature), I shall strive to emulate their good example in my life, and here in this, our valley, and pray you’ll join me.

Day is done / gone the sun / from the lake / from the hill / from the sky / all is well / safely rest / God is nigh. (Taps, words by R. Hurd)

A Political Wish List

 

I Believe

We put too much stock (and power) into the hands of the President (no matter who he or she is). While an Administration may have “Policy,” the fact is that laws are passed by legislature. Congress passed tons of legislation last/current term, and yet the Senate (under McConnell) failed to bring forward hardly any for discussion or debate. That is lawlessness, pure and simple. That is one man obstructing the work of the Peoples’ House.

We need to eliminate gerrymandered districts. The people should choose their representatives and not the other way around. 

The Senate must be required to bring legislation from the House to the Floor to be voted up, down, or remanded for more work.

The Administration must be required to follow all laws (Hatch Act, NSA, etc.) and respond to all subpoenas. A new law clarifying what we understand (High Crimes and Misdemeanors) to be, and the President clearly held accountable for his/her actions in office.

Congress needs to pass a law that specifies that every President MAY be indicted while in office for any act that would be a felony if any other citizen were to engage in that same conduct.

God Bless America. God Bless our President-elect.

The Grim Creeper Came a’calling

 I looked, and there before me was a pale horse … Revelation 6:8

Former Speaker of the House, Tip O’Neill, is reputed to have said, “All politics is local.” I would modify that slightly and report that all pandemics are local, too.

I recently contracted the Covid-19 virus (despite taking the usual and customary precautions). Working with the local health department, we did all contract tracing, testing, and sharing of information with everyone and anyone with whom I’d been in contact and kept the disease confined to a very small bubble, for which I am thankful.

In a shift from my usual banter here in this space, I’m going to share a bit about my experience with the disease and note that these are the thoughts and reflections of a layman; nothing read here should be considered medically or scientifically authoritative.

I (unknowingly) contracted the disease in early October, but was symptom free for at least a week. Being symptom free, I became a potential spreader, but living in a self-imposed quarantine (except for immediate family), the danger was limited to those few people with whom I’d been in contact – my pod.

The early symptoms were typical of the flu: coughing, headache, low-grade fever, body-ache. I took over-the-counter meds for the fever and cough and took advantage of the drive-through testing center the health department has been running for months. The next day I received a call from Isabel confirming my worst fear. Indeed, I was Covid-19 positive, and so I provided her with the contact information she would need to begin the contract tracing.

I was placed in isolation (stay at home, no trips or walks past the mailbox, stay away from people, etc.). I learned the difference between isolation and quarantine (which I had always thought of as being synonymous). Isolation was my staying away to protect others; quarantine is a separation intended to protect the self. I had been in quarantine to protect myself and family for lo these past eight months. Now I was ordered into isolation to keep from spreading the disease any further.

My symptoms, while unpleasant, were not as severe as I had feared they would be. I never got to a point where I needed hospitalization. While we hear a lot about the mortality rate (about 2.4% – which is about ten times the mortality rate of the common flu), the vast majority of people do recover, and that’s good to know. It doesn’t lessen the seriousness of the pandemic, but it does keep it in perspective. I find (for myself) that not knowing is always worse than knowing, no matter what the topic. Although I’d been reading about and hearing about Covid-19 since January (with a constant focus on its deadliness, which it IS) I found myself constantly worrying about whether or not I’d contracted it every time my allergies kicked up.

Well, now I can report with some confidence that the illness is every bit as bad as reported. It is like the flu, but worse. It is like the common cold, but much worse. It has all the symptoms of those more common strains, but on steroids. And it lasts longer. While the main issues were short-lived, the coughing has persisted. Breathing with Covid-19 is like taking a deep breath outside when it is 20 below zero. The lungs feel very raw. When I speak, I am barely into the third word of a sentence when the urge to cough rises and throws me into lung-spasms. This, I’m told by Isabel, should go away in a few weeks. I hope so.

The other matter that hit me when I was almost a week into isolation was the sudden loss of my senses of smell and taste! I’d heard that happened to others, but didn’t realize it seems to be an almost universal side-effect of the virus. Now, my cooking skills are such that it could be a blessing in disguise, but to lose my ability to enjoy my morning cup of coffee – now THAT was a bridge too far!

But, at the risk of one more cliche, it is what it is. I had let my guard down for one moment in the past eight months and caught that which I had assiduously striven to avoid. It happens. I was fortunate. I got side-swiped with a relatively mild case. Despite having a “clean” bill of health now, I will continue to practice safer and better social distancing. Partly for myself, of course, but more for the sake of those I love in this, our valley.

I Can See Clearly Now, the Fog is Gone

 

“Kind words do not cost much, yet they accomplish much.” Blaise Pascal 

I’ve been living in Fog City this past week. No, the town hasn’t changed its name, but we have hit the foggy season, so each morning I arise, look out the kitchen window, and find visibility is often down to less than a hundred feet. 

I love the fog. It is so thick and mysterious. Distant foghorns sound as ships creep and crawl past one another upon Puget Sound or the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Despite the wonderful technological marvels of radar and sonar, they make their way ever so slowly lest tides and currents steer them unwittingly onto the rocky shores or across dangerous reefs. If the waters are too crowded or too perilous, the ships come to a halt, drop anchor, and wait until it is safe to venture forth again. 

This “Year of the Pandemic” seems to have put us all into a bit of a fog-bank, hasn’t it? It has for me, anyway. I find I am more lethargic, less energetic, perhaps even less daring than I would normally be (not that I was ever in danger of being mistaken for Errol Flynn, Harrison Ford, or Hugh Jackman). I haven’t exactly dropped anchor, but I’ve slowed down. I know slow and steady wins the race, but at the pace I’ve set for myself now, I suspect when I get to the finish line the human race will have evolved into something completely different: Homo-Covidians (or something).

That’s OK, though, because we’re not really in a race. There are no winners and losers. There are just opportunities to become gentlers and kinders. Can you imagine what the world might look like if we were to let our better angels be in charge?

The challenge, of course, is with the worser angels who like to take advantage of the better angels. Like the speed demon who weaves in and out of traffic because those driving safely and legally are “in the way” and he (or she) is late, owns the road, or whatever. I am reminded of the fellow who put a nice piece of furniture out on the sidewalk with a “FREE” sign taped to it. No one wanted it, so he put a “$75” sign on it and it was immediately stolen that night. No one wants “free” when they can steal something of value, right?

So we know there is tension in the world. Our good hearts want to be kind, do good, live humbly and gently, but we’re surrounded by bad dudes and dudettes. Or so we think. In fact, we’re not really surrounded by a ton of bad people; there are simply enough bad people around to keep us on our toes (and local locksmiths in business).

I don’t want to live in fear. I don’t want fear to rule my life or shape the decisions I make. I want to be as authentically who I am as I’m able. And so, while idiots may make waves, I’ll continue to putter across the seven seas unperturbed. When thieves break in and steal, I’ll simply learn to live more simply! When bullies strike me on the cheek, I’ll probably just hit back (for I may be a Christian, but I’m not perfect – just forgiven). But who knows, I might be given grace enough to turn the other cheek (for I also believe in miracles).

The point is that a day will come when the Son (or Sun) of righteousness will appear and burn away the fog. When that happens, we’ll be able to see more clearly, and we won’t need to be about the business of blowing our own horns. And that, come to think about it, would be a welcome change for us as we hit the home stretch of this election cycle, too, wouldn’t it?

Until then, I’ll just continue to make my way through the murky soup of life here in this, our foggy valley. Until next time: be kind, wear masks, wash up, and smile.

WHO THE BLAZES IS JESUS?

 

Christmas is Coming. This would make a wonderful Christmas gift for your loved ones. Church-types would enjoy it, but so would folks who would like to see a more human side of Jesus. A delightful new take on an old story. Available on Amazon as an e-book, or print.

https://www.amazon.com/WHO-BLAZES-JESUS-Vulgar-World/dp/B08BW41Q4D/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=keith+axberg&qid=1601564902&sr=8-1

Running for Treasure

 “O God, you declare your almighty power chiefly in showing mercy and pity: Grant us the fullness of your grace, that we, running to obtain your promises, may become partakers of your heavenly treasure …” Book of Common Prayer

I am told running is good for people. I see folks jog past my house every day and, to be completely honest, most look like they’re in misery. Frankly, I know I would be. My body has never produced a run-induced endorphin scientists or lab techs could ever hope to detect!

I don’t like to run. Not now, anyway, but neither did I enjoy it as a child or teen. If I needed to go somewhere, I went by bicycle. Wheels were where it was at. Running? Heck no (with one exception I will now confess for probably the first time ever, so gird your loins and prepare yourself for the shock of a lifetime):

As a young lad, it did not matter where I was or what I was doing; there was one thing that would get my legs to churching as if the hounds of perdition were hot on my heels – the sound of the ice cream truck coming up the street. I would hear it a block or two away and I would immediately drop everything, scramble at something nearing light speed for home and/or the living room and I’d scream at the top o’ my lungs (even if Mom was standing inches away): “The Ice Cream Truck’s a-comin’ – can I have a dime???!!!???”

Now, money was tight in our home and there was a lot we went without; there was a lot we couldn’t afford, but somehow Mom seemed able to plumb the depths of her purse and find a dime or two for ice cream. Not always, but often enough to encourage me to run for a few seconds most days of the summer. Occasionally she would only have one coin, in which case we got one of those ice creams or popsicles with two sticks so my brother and I could share.

I hated running, but oh was the reward worth the effort on those hot, dry summer days.

That’s the image that comes to mind with the Collect (a short community prayer) excerpted above. “Grant us the fullness of your grace, that we, RUNNING to obtain your promises may become partakers of your heavenly treasures …” 

That’s another childhood word that leaps to mind. Treasure! Who doesn’t yearn to win the lottery. I never play the lottery, but I still dream of winning it (silly me). I’d never go deep sea diving looking for gold doubloons around Caribbean shipwrecks, either, but boy would I love to walk along a Gulf-coast beach after a hurricane and accidentally stub my toe on an ancient wooden box tangled in seaweed and wrapped with a black flag emblazoned with Long John Silver’s skull and cross-bones! Treasure! Aargh, matie!!!

I love prayers that take me back to my childhood and child-like sense of wonder. Sometimes I think I have gotten all old and crusty and just a bit crotchety. I’ll admit I was all of that this week. I had an attitude that really stunk, but I just couldn’t hang on to the ol’ stinkin’ thinkin’ when thoughts of running for ice cream and treasure took me over the threshold and into God’s presence. My spirit rejoiced; my heart freshened up; and I got off my derriere long enough to realize God has made me a “partaker.” 

A group of Pharisees asked Jesus one time by what authority he said and did the things he said and did. The poor dolts didn’t realize that Jesus was playing ice cream music in his life and ministry while they were listening for dirges to go along with their theological pickles and conundrums. They’d forgotten what it was to have mums, with dimes hidden deep in the inner recesses of their purses – treasures waiting to be found. Chained to millstones, they’d forgotten the joy of running free and screaming for undeserved, unmerited treasures! Such was their loss.

Life is a popsicle with many sticks. We each get a part. That’s why we are part-takers, and for that, I am ever thankful here in this, our Valley. Thanks be to God. Amen. 

Arachnid Wars and Kitchen Webinars

 “Christ claims us for the great task of building humanity. We will not know what it means to be human until we are one.” Timothy Radcliffe 

I was watching a spider outside my kitchen widow the other day. Fall is often referred to as the Season of the Spider, and with good reason. As the sun shines throughout the day, I see their silken strands spread from one side of the yard to another. They’re hanging from trees, bushes, weeds, and even from thin air (it seems). 

When I come in from doing yard work, I sometimes resemble Indiana Jones coming in from some great adventure, all covered with webs, dirt, dust, and Lord only knows what else. I went out the front door the other day, which is quite unusual, as my preferred means of ingress and egress is through the garage. In any case, I whipped through the front door to go get the mail and heard the tell-tale sound of ripping webs as the door opened. As deaf as I am getting to be in my dotage, the sound could only mean one thing. I had entered the Kingdom of the Spiders, and my life was now hanging precariously by a thread and subject to the beneficence of the Arachnoid Royal!

Fortunately, he/she/it was in a good mood. I presume they had just finished munching on a cow or some other hapless critter who had gotten all tangled up in their web of intrigue. So I tossed aside those sticky-strands-threatening-entrapment with windmilling arms that, surprisingly, did not get me airborn, despite the number of RPMs I was generating.

My rule of thumb when dealing with wildlife of any sort is that if it is in the house, it is subject to my disciplinary measures, which include removing gently (when possible), or smashing smartly when kindness doesn’t work. I’m really quite binary that way. Life outdoors, though, is a different matter, and I really do try to respect their space. However, I’ll admit that doorways and pathways are off-limits to anything with more than two legs, so I took the broom to the porch and entryway and removed (with some sadness, I’ll admit) the engineering marvel that had been placed there so carefully by the eight-legged MacGuyver who’d claimed my ‘hood as his or her own.

Anyway, getting back to the spider with which I’d started this missive, I was amazed by the size and extensiveness of the kitchen window spider’s abode. Her lines stretched from the eaves of the house to the ground, and spread out about five or six feet in a half dozen directions. I often wonder how spiders construct their homes. I always see the webs after they’re finished, but never during construction. Do they drop down from a high spot and then push off from the wall, swinging from a strand, and doing a Tarzan yell? I don’t see how else they could accomplish the feat (or feet).

Anyway, this kitchen spider seemed to be quite at peace until unneighborly birds began flitting around looking for tender morsels to consume. Something alerted my friend to their presence, for after just a minute or so she crabwalked off the center of her web and found a nice little hiding spot beneath a nearby leaf, and hasn’t moved from there since.

Spiders tend to be solitary creatures, and being a solitary dude myself, I can appreciate their desire for dark corners and safe places. During this Covid situation, I’ve become even more hunkered down than usual and am beginning to wonder if I won’t engage in spinning webs myself. Radcliffe (in the quote above) suggests that one of Jesus’ goals is and was for us to be about the business, not of building webs for entrapment, but for connecting with one another, building up one another, supporting one another during times of trial and tribulation and, ultimately, creating the oneness God intended for the human race from the beginning.

That’s how I prefer to approach life, to be honest. I don’t want to hide – not even from enemies real or imagined. I want to connect, build, unite, and be a source of joy and strength here in this, our valley. If I am to be a web-slinger, that’s the kind I yearn to be!

All Creatures Great and Small

 

“… no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.” Albert Camus

This has been a month for nature’s wilderness creatures to come visiting. A few weeks ago I mentioned birds flocking to bird-baths; the other day a deer and her fawn strolled past the house with nary a care in the world; last Sunday I found a couple of raccoons wrestling around out in the backyard “big as life.”

Now, none of these incidents would be all that unusual for folks in Madison County. I recall a moose waltzing up to the house to graze on a bit of spruce out front while its calf nibbled on other trees out back. Wild life always amazes me; I never tire of seeing creatures that “belong out in the wilderness” wandering about town. 

Here, though, wildlife tends to be fairly scarce. I live in the middle of a small city. Oh sure, Mount Baker and the North Cascades aren’t that far away; there are undeveloped parcels and some wetlands within a stone’s throw of the house. But still, I find it all rather thrilling and hope to heaven I never lose that sense of wonderment when animals come a’calling.

No matter how many generations separate me from Adam and Eve, I still feel a special kindred with nature – with all creatures great and small. I suppose I could do without the viruses that afflict us (especially this nasty Covid-19 variety that’s got us all flummoxed), but even they have their place. As my Dad said, “If everyone was healthy all the time, they’d complain about losing all their sick-leave when they retired!”

I must admit I don’t think about nature all that much, so when I do see something out of the ordinary, like raccoons wrestling out back, I sit up and take notice. If I’ve got my thinking cap on (boy, that’s a term I don’t think I’ve heard or used in decades), I’ll run, grab my camera, and try to snap a few pictures before they disappear. Most critters have a knack for vanishing when I run for my Instamatic (which is actually a phone and not a camera, or vice versa), so I was pleasantly surprised when the ‘coons stuck around.

I don’t know why I wanted to take their pictures. I suppose that if I had gone out and asked them to stand still they would have made tracks for the fence, hole, or some other point of egress. But they continued playing while I stayed in the house, and I snapped a couple photos to post online and a minute or two of video for posterity. Their antics brightened up an otherwise dull day.

I know there’s a lot that goes on when I’m not watching. Thinking about those few creatures I have seen over the past few weeks suggests there are many more out there fending for themselves – and mostly without much help or attention from me. I’ve avoided putting out bird feed or other food, mostly because our area is so rich with nutritional resources that such efforts would be counter-productive. Birds and animals need to learn to make their way in life and, judging from their girths, I think they’ve been amply successful.

As I meditate on all these little things, I am reminded that while we humans tend to think nature belongs “out there” somewhere, and our turf is defined by silly lines we draw on paper (keeping surveyors and tax-collectors in business), the world really knows no bounds. Deer and squirrels and skunks go where they want to; spiders build their webs to catch prey, and viruses hitch rides upon drops of vapor to make their way person to person like in the days of old time long distance calling. 

Why we humans think we’re masters of anything is beyond me. Sometime in the next few years – or a decade or two – I’ll be feeding the worms, and that’s OK, for in the words of that old rascal, Job, “I know my redeemer lives.” 

I expect He’ll look out his window one day, see me wrestling with my siblings, and yell to Jesus to go grab his camera. That’s a picture of heaven here in this, our valley.

Birds of a Feather Splash Together

The discipline of Christian life is mostly about learning to be still and listen. Timothy Radcliffe (Take the Plunge)

I glanced outside this morning and found quite a variety of birds splashing around in the birdbath we’ve got in the backyard. I’ve been filling it (and one out front) quite diligently all through the spring and summer, but this is the first time this year I’ve actually found it being used. I presume that perhaps fear of contracting Avian Flu has kept my feathered friends from gathering. I note, also, that this summer seems to have been cooler and wetter than usual.

In summers past, birds and squirrels always seemed to enjoy frolicking in the little concrete ponds we’ve got around the house. They’re generally pretty safe, and on those odd occasions a neighborhood cat sneaks into the yard, they’re up high enough (and out in the open) so they really needn’t worry about a sneak attack from the fuzzy felines that roam the green-scapes around here.

The only time the fonts are an issue is when some of the crows decide they want to enjoy a sip of the wet stuff. I don’t want to fat-shame the pudgy darlings, but a couple times they’ve toppled the bowls off the columns as they’ve set their plump rumps too close to the edge too carelessly.

Be that as it may be, I enjoy watching birds splashing around. I am fascinated by the sparkling water drops flying to and fro every bit as much as if they were being shaken off a dog coming in out of the lake. It is amazing how much water those dainty creatures can displace with their feathers. 

Picture Note: It was interesting (to me) that a variety of birds

could enjoy the bath without fighting or arguing.

Photo credit: Keith Axberg (2020)

If and when the bowl gets toppled, I simply go on out and set it back up and fill it again. It’s not that heavy, and I think word gets around about what the crows have done, so once they’ve toppled the font, they stay away for a while. I think the robins, swallows, and starlings make fun of them, to be honest, and I’m sure I’ve heard a humming bird or two go from humming to hee hawing on occasion. 

That can’t sit well with the Corvus Corax crew. They are surprisingly sensitive creatures, you know, and embarrass easily. They’re also quite smart. They warn each other when a car is coming, but sadly are often hit by pickups because they can’t say, “truck,” instead of “caw.” So when the other birds make fun of them they simply move on (as they have no caws to stick around).

People should be like that. People should be able to pick up and move on when things in life bug them or hurt them. Believe it or not, there are people on social media who have different views than me, and as we find the sites increasingly bombarded by political nastiness, I find I can either stick around and fight fire with fire (or toss water on the firebrands who burn me up), or I can simply scroll quickly past those I suspect to be less than correct. I choose the latter course.

I’ve only unfriended one person, and that was due to their attacking friends of mine. After repeated requests for them to be kind (and their refusal to do so), I unfriended and blocked them. I hated doing it because I honestly value hearing different perspectives. But I won’t abide nastiness (even among those with whom I am otherwise in agreement). So I have chosen to scroll past (quickly) so as to avoid them soiling the water in which I am cooling my feathers.

Timothy Radcliffe suggests we take time to be still and listen, and I think that’s a sentiment worth embracing. The problem with social media is that what was once intended to bring us closer together has become a megaphone from which we humans spew forth the ugliness of what’s on our minds and in our hearts.

Saint Paul tells us if it doesn’t build us up, or help build up the community, we would be wise to toss it overboard. If a wide variety of birds  can share the birdbath without squabbling in my neighborhood, maybe we can learn to share the blessings of our lives here in this, our valley, too.

Cleanliness Can Be Cat o’tonic

Let your continual mercy, O Lord, cleanse and defend your church … Book of Common Prayer (Proper 13)

I had the wonderful opportunity to take care of our daughter’s cat while she and her family were away on vacation last week. Sophie (the cat) is about twelve years old and very well behaved. At her age, she has slowed down a bit. I suspect her sleep-time runs about twenty to twenty-two hours a day. I remember when she was younger and never slept more than eighteen hours a day.

Be that as it may, I found myself amazed at just how much dust and loose fur filled the house with her presence. She was a walking, living, breathing debris field, and there was really no staying ahead of her mess-wise. She tracked cat litter throughout the house after doing her business; she left evidence of her wanderings atop the stove and kitchen island, window sills, and every other horizontal surface.

I got to wondering if God doesn’t have that same issue with us. We often think of God as living “up there” in heaven, even though Jesus made it very clear that we live in heaven right here on earth. It isn’t that there isn’t also that heavenly abode upstairs, but it is dangerous for us to ignore this earth, our island home, as being outside of God’s own presence or influence. The earth is not a disposable diaper in which we do our business and, when finished, see it taken off and thrown away by the Great Diaper Changer in the Sky.

The creation story reminds us we live in a garden. We are called to take care of it, and to take care of one another. 

I should note that our daughter didn’t “dump” the cat on us, either. She asked if I would take care of Sophie. I know their cat is precious to them, and rather than run over to their house to feed and water the cat (which was their request), I offered to house the cat here so she wouldn’t feel neglected or abandoned. 

Despite my allergies to cat dander and the consequent stuffy nose, tight chest, and other unpleasant discomforts, I considered those temporary travails as piffle when compared to the delights of providing hearth and home to a feline companion for such a comparatively short period of time.

The collect (prayer) quoted atop this column acknowledges the truth that someone always needs to watch over us and to clean up after us. Sophie  is an indoor cat, which is good; I didn’t want to risk losing it or having her run away or bring home fleas, ticks, or get run over by the neighborhood cars and trucks. But it also meant there was the added responsibility of entertaining her royal highness and meeting her various needs (which actually weren’t many).

God does that for us, too. Just as I cleaned the cat box daily and saw to it there was fresh food (as needed) and fresh water throughout the day (even adding ice cubes so the water would be fresh and cool, and not old and stale), so God provides for us and “continually” rewards us with God’s own good favor. 

Although there is much I can (and do) grump and grouse about, the fact is that life is and has been pretty good for me. Still, my attitude often stinks, and for that reason I really identify with the prayer, asking not just for a spot of God’s mercy, but for that “continual mercy” to wash over me like a cat o’ract, because the fact is, I am continually making little messes that, over time, will become big messes, and I don’t see them as easily in their development as God does with his untrammeled vision and overflowing wisdom.

A friend reminded me that cats don’t have owners; they have staff. I worry I sometimes treat God more like staff than as the true lover and companion God considers me to be. That would be cat o’strophic, wouldn’t it? I hope I’m not so cat o’tonic I can’t change; that would be cat o’clysmic!

God, help us become what you’ve always called us to be here in this, your valley. Amen.

We Must Take Stock in Our Socks

Perfection is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. Anne Lamotte

I removed my socks last night, and just before I pulled them off I couldn’t help but notice I had a sizeable hole worn into the sock where the ball of my feet sits, or stands, or whatever it is the balls of one’s feet do when they are enveloped by a stocking.

Normally I would not have noticed such a thing, but darned if it wasn’t the fourth day in a row I had discovered holes worn into the day’s socks. As I sat down to type this I looked at the bottom of my shoeless feet (for I seldom wear shoes or slippers in the house) and I’ll be gob smacked into next week if another one of my footies doesn’t have a hole in it too!

Good heavens. I knew I was “called” to be holy – but to be actually “found” holey as well?

I suppose since I opened the package of stockings from which these came all at once, it makes sense that they would all wear out at about the same time as well. Fortunately, being a soul who knows the frailties of a sole, I have another package of footwear sitting in my dresser drawer. I can only pray that moths and other sock-eating vermin haven’t discovered these fresh goods yet.

It seems life is full of streaks. Back when we had sports (pre-Covid), people would note a player was on a hot streak or a cold streak, depending on his or her success while at bat or shooting baskets. I’d never considered myself much of a streaker, but apparently I have now joined that illustrious band of streaking athletes. I place myself in that category simply because I wear athletic socks, or I wear nothing at all – (on my feet, that is).

Nothing lasts forever, of course. Streaks end; socks get holes; shirt cuffs become frayed; buttons pop off; zippers even lose their little zippities. I lost a zip pull on one of my favorite coats a while back. I loved that coat and had worn it for several decades. It was still in pretty good shape and kept me warm and dry, so I replaced the pull with an extra-large paper clip. After a while, I had to admit it was a functional (though inelegant) solution, but the time had come to buy a new winter coat.

I’ve never been much of a clothes horse. I don’t mind wearing things until they’re past the “worn out” stage of life. I have no eye for fashion. I bought my first leisure suit a year after the civilized world decided leisure suits were ugly and stupid; I simply didn’t know any better. I think it was reruns of The Brady Bunch that inspired that particular choice at the time.

I suspect that could be one reason Jesus suggested we take our cue from the lilies of the field. “They neither sow nor reap, yet even Solomon in all his glory didn’t look nearly as sharp …” 

I wonder what it is about the human psyche that moves us to acquire so much stuff in life, or pursue the latest and greatest gadgets and gizmos. Perhaps Augustine, that wonderfully flawed saint from Hippo (North Arica – yes, that great theologian was an African) had it right when he said, “You have made us for yourself (O Lord), and the heart is restless until it finds its rest in You.”

Maybe we are little more than earth-socks. We’re worn, dingy, and have got holes that need darning. The itch that won’t go away is probably little more than God’s toes poking through those holes and waiting for us to stop long enough so God can stitch us up with love. It’s threads of love that knit us together (according to Colossians 2).

It’s both touching and ironic to think: God does not desire any of us to be damned, but works to darn us here in this life. One could even say, God is Knit-pickie and undy-feeted. 

One “could” say that, but I wouldn’t (at least not while wearing a leisure suit). Let’s just toe the line and love everyone alike here in this, our valley.

Masked Perfection

Perfection is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. Anne Lamotte 

Oh what fresh perdition are we in for today? 

I don’t know about you, but I am a bit tired of always being a bit tired. People are starting to talk about quarantine fatigue, and I understand the sentiment. I haven’t eaten a meal in or from a restaurant since at least March (and it could be February – I never thought to keep track). I go grocery shopping weekly and occasionally to the hardware store for some essential fix-it doo-dad. But beyond that (and my near-daily walks), I just haven’t gotten out of the house. 

I discovered some time ago that my view of the outside world during these days of the pandemic has been fairly well limited to what I can see from my front and back windows, and from what I’m exposed to on the television. I don’t really care for what I’m served from the telly, so I minimize my consumption in that regard. It’s not that I want to be ignorant, but I find it all so repetitious, and if the only thing one is exposed to is trash, well then it makes sense that it could be the source of that garbage feeling I’ve been getting. So I watch enough to confirm the world is still turning (as is my stomach) and then let it go for the sake of my peace of mind and sanity. 

Although life today is a bit of a mixed bag (or a bag of haggis, at any rate) there are things that help break us out of our stupor. Or at least I’ve got some things that keep me on my toes and remind me not to take life too seriously. 

We began a bathroom remodel at the first of the year and had the old tub and surround replaced with a beautiful walk-in shower and a shower pan that, remarkably, grips better when wet than when dry. I don’t know how they do that, but I love a grippy floor. I hate windmilling my way around a room or down a ramp, especially as the warranty on that thing laughingly called my body has been expired for quite a few decades. So to step into a shower and feel more secure than when wearing spike-shoes on ice is a wonderful feeling. 

When the surround was done, we purchased everything we needed to finish the bathroom remodel and it was delivered the day the state shut down for the current pandemic, so the garage looks like one of those long-forgotten and abandoned warehouses you see posted on those websites that major in minor weirdness. 

I tend to be pretty patient, so have quietly awaited the re-opening of the state. It has finally happened, so I have been able to round up contractors to drop by to give me estimates for finishing the bathroom (as the original team is no longer available). The struggle, though, has been remembering to unlearn all the things that come so automatically to us in a civilized society. 

As people trundle up the driveway, my first instinct is to open the door and do a “hail thee fellow well met,” but instead the new code of the west is to don our masks, stand six feet apart, and quick-draw a hand-waving finger-wiggle. The visitor makes every effort not to touch anything in the house as he takes measurements, listens to the muffled wishes of the homeowner, and asks questions through the hygienic face covering his wife has made him. 

We did (and do) the best we can under the circumstances. After a while, I suspect many of the things we find awkward today will become second nature. Just as hand-shaking originally signaled the lack of a claymore sword hidden up one’s sleeve, so the donning of a mask will come to represent one’s desire for the “other’s” good health. 

Some future generation watching television reruns may find themselves asking why the lone stranger took to wearing his mask up around his eyes, and when they do, I expect we’ll all have a big laugh in this, our valley. Until then, keep your distance, wash your hands, and keep your mouth and nose under wraps. We at the Madisonian want y’all healthy for Christmas, folks! 

Lamenting is an Act of Worship

(B)eware of looking for goals: look for a way of life. Hunter S. Thompson

I had a lot of plans for retirement, not the least of which was to travel and explore the back-roads of America. This was the year. This was the summer. This was the time.

My plans were purely selfish, of course. They would benefit no-one but me (and the travel industry). There is and was no higher purpose to be served traveling the highways and byways of our great land except, perhaps, the pursuit of happiness. But it is hard to pursue happiness in the midst of a pandemic. It is hard to find peace in a time of civil unrest – during a time when evidence of grievous injustice has been placed so clearly before us that one cannot easily “re-hide what has been un-hid.” [sic] 

My desire to hit the road for some personal (and “well-deserved”) R&R has been derailed for now, but that’s OK. I am safe. How many people world-wide can make that claim? I have food a’plenty in my fridge, freezer, and cupboards. How many families around the globe can say that? I have all the fresh water I could ever want within a half dozen steps of my couch while my waste is flushed away and treated ever-so-efficiently. How many billions covet what I and we have?

However, I find the constant drone of everything wrong with the world around me drains my soul and every fiber of my being. 

Covid-19 is tenacious and awaiting to grab us like some famous bath-salts and take us away!

People who have been oppressed and who have not been truly heard over the past dozen decades are crying out for justice – just like the Children of Israel did those many centuries ago when they were slaves in Egypt – praying and lamenting, “When, O Lord, will you deliver us from this evil?”

The people elected to serve us have been as self-serving as any generation and seem incapable of even “thinking” of the public good (let alone acting on it).

The “News” is mislabeled. There is nothing new under the sun. The Preacher told us that nearly three thousand years ago in the Book of Ecclesiastes. “All is vanity,” he wailed, cried, and lamented, and I suppose the story could have ended there.

It could have, but it didn’t.

While the preacher was weeping into his hanky, a prophet stood up and bellowed: Let justice pour down like a monsoon; let righteousness (good and holy deeds) stream forth like a mighty river! (Amos). 

He understood what we all understand: Each of us hungers for righteousness, justice, equality, and equity. We know wrong when we see it, whether it is laid on the back of others, or ourselves. We see it and, like the prophet, there comes a time we can do nothing else but stand up and cry out: NO MORE!

A man was asked one day what those who follow him must do, and I suspect he recalled the sage advice of his mother. It is the wisdom we have all received at the knees of those who love us – no matter where we grew up, no matter where we came from – and what she told her children he passed along to his friends: Do unto others as you would have it done unto you (Matthew 7).

The Golden Rule. It is known across the globe. No matter your religion or culture, we know: Do unto others …

When I was baptized, I promised to “respect the dignity of every person.” I did that as a cop. I did that as a priest. I do that as a human being. One does not need to belong to any religious group to recognize and respect the dignity of a fellow human being. The best people I have ever known (including cops) have been those who treated everyone (cops, victims, ne'er-do-wells alike) with respect.

The fact is, we are all capable of showing respect for one another, showing kindness to one another, and doing unto others what we would want to be done unto us. That, ultimately, is good news for all of us here – even as we may pray and lament – in this, our valley.

WHO THE BLAZES IS JESUS?

Good News for a Vulgar World.

I have just published my first book on Amazon. It was easier than I thought it would be, and yet more difficult in that while I could review it in process, I couldn't review it completely to discern whether or not it was imported from my files the way I had intended.

The footnotes were converted to end-notes, which was fine, but I neglected to see how the chapters were set up. 

If you're interested in reviewing or purchasing the book (under $4, + tax where applicable), you may find it at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08BSWZW5K/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=keith+axberg&qid=1593033262&sr=8-1

I hope to hear comments. Peace!

Double Vision

There are no short cuts to any place worth going. [sic] Beverly Sills

I am not a birder. I like birds. I love birds. I enjoy watching birds flying overhead or stalking the land for a fat and tasty (but ever-elusive) earthworm. But I find them frustrating, because I enjoy photography. One way to combine those two passions is to get out, find birds doing interesting things, and photographing them in the process, but birds seldom cooperate. Hence, I am no birder (but am occasionally a bird-brain).

I have an old pair of binoculars I use for watching birds here and there, but they are woefully inadequate. They have decent magnification (10x) and the optical quality is fair to middling, but once the object of my study is out beyond fifty feet or so, there’s not much to see or identify, so I decided to purchase a new set of binoculars for bird-watching.

Our county continues to be locked-down –  the sporting goods stores and shops are still closed – so I wasn’t able to shop around the way I normally would for a specialty item like binoculars or spotting scopes. Consequently, I went online and did some research and found a pair of binoculars that looked fantastic and which included mounting hardware for putting it on a base for truly rock-solid viewing. The price seemed reasonable and shipping was free, so I ordered the binoculars and a matching tripod.

Well, they arrived the other day and I must admit the purchase far surpassed my expectations. The magnification is double the old set (20x) and the optical clarity is superb. The only downside to the equipment, however, is that they are also far larger than what I had anticipated. They practically dwarf the Hubble telescope! No wonder a tripod was a recommended option.

With a little further reading, I hadn’t really ordered a pair of binoculars for bird-watching, but for astronomy. While the specs and dimensions were available online, I hadn’t really thought much about them. They looked “normal” in the picture. If the display had included a person for scale, I would have seen their relative size (and probably continued doing more research). 

As it is, I can’t even pull focus on anything less than sixty feet away. However, I looked out the front window and did manage to spot a robin wrestling with a wriggling, white, nutritious grub – in the next county over from us!

Since I also enjoy astronomy, I will probably hang onto these binoculars, even though they aren’t quite what I had intended. They will allow me to explore the world around us when we travel, and I have a device that allows me to attach my cell phone to the eyepiece and capture faraway vistas in ways I couldn’t before.

I think that’s sort of what the philosopher who said, “make lemonade from life’s lemons” means. One must be adaptable, and while I don’t have money to spend frivolously, I know how to make do and make use of what I have in hand, so where there’s no harm, there’s no foul.

When life doesn’t give me what I want, I find that I am often the source of that revolting development. I could blame others for misleading advertising, but the information I needed was there. I just didn’t pay adequate attention. The fault is mine, not theirs, and so the cost of the mistake is mine to bear, not theirs to carry. I know the company has a very liberal return policy, and I know they would not argue over a return of something that isn’t what I expected, but why should they?

I am actually satisfied with my purchase. It meets a need for which I hadn’t anticipated using it. It may well function better than I had thought possible when I go looking for eagles at work and play, for it has been my experience that raptors really don’t like people watching them, and I’ve never been able to get close enough to watch or to take decent wildlife photographs.

I will also be able to explore the heavens, seeking out new life and new civilizations, and boldly going where I’ve never gone before – only at warp 20. I’ll be more than doubling my vision here in this, our valley.

Chess Lessons in Life

Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can. Arthur Ashe

I have been teaching my grandson how to play Chess. He’s eleven years old and sharp as the proverbial tack. We sat down, set up the board, and identified the various pieces and the rules of the game. I told him that I wasn’t playing to win, but was going to play well enough to help him learn how the pieces move and some things to watch for.

Chess is a fun game. We played. I let him take backsies whenever he blundered into something catastrophic, and with each succeeding game he has gotten better, smarter, and has become more strategic in his choices. He still hasn’t won, as of this writing, but his play has improved enough that I approach each game more carefully so that now I AM playing to win.

One of the things I don’t like about playing games is that they tend to bring out a killer instinct in me. I want to play for fun, but when danger lurks, the adrenaline squirts into my veins, my heart races, my face flushes, and suddenly I go into kill-mode. It is instinctive. I have virtually no control over it. I don’t just want to win; I want to annihilate my opponent.

That’s an attitude I don’t like, and a reason I tend to decline invitations to play cards or board games. I don’t worry about losing. Far from it, I couldn’t care less. But I am a horrible winner. It inflates my ego far beyond all reason. Why should a man near seventy gloat in victory over his eleven year old grandson?

It’s unseemly; that’s what it is.

I also know that it is important to pass along life-lessons to the latest generation, so as we play, we talk. Developing strategies in chess helps us develop strategies in living. The next move is important, but so is looking a few more moves “down” the board. Sacrificing a pawn to gain a Rook teaches the value of making a sacrifice for the benefit of gaining something better. Overcoming the loss of a Queen with the better coordination of Knights and Bishops helps us learn to make do with what we have, which is better than moaning over what we don’t have.

We don’t always get backsies and do-overs in life, but sometimes we do. I think it is important to learn about grace, for too many of us have been squeezed dry by judgment and a lack of charity.

A young lad was chastised by his parents for being so miserly in his weekly gifts to his church’s Sunday school offering. They knew he had a very generous weekly allowance from which to give. What they didn’t know was that he was saving up much of his allowance to buy a coat for a classmate who didn’t have a decent winter-coat to wear. They didn’t know his plan because they didn’t ask. They judged him in ignorance. After the heated exchange (for that’s what it had been) and discovering his (previously hidden) generous heart, they took him to the store, chipped in to help buy the coat, and bought several others for the school’s coat and gloves program.

Getting back to Chess: at the end of each game, I always extend my hand to compliment my adversary for a game well-played. Win or lose, good sportsmanship is important.

I don’t just tell him he played a good game. I identify the moves he made that gave me pause or forced me to change what I was doing. I focus on the things done right and ignore the things done wrong. 

I think we often spend too much time rehashing what we or others have done wrong, whether at home, work, or the world of politics. I tend to improve when I am told what I’ve done well. A pat on the back is nice, but I really appreciate it when someone identifies what, specifically, I have done that was meaningful, right, well, or good.

I don’t believe life is a game wherein God moves us all about the board. In ignorance, we strive to avoid checkmate, only to discover in the end that God’s only desire is to BE our Check-Mate in this, our valley.

The Good Earth

Is the reward for good [anything] but good? Surat ar-Rahman, Verse 60

I went to the store this week and gassed up the truck. Neither took much. Our home is pretty well stocked (without doing any hoarding, thank you very much) and with the continuing Stay At Home orders in our community, I just haven’t gone anywhere or done anything.

If I go places, it is on foot and just around the neighborhood. While the early stages of our current crisis felt a bit like Solitary Confinement on a global scale, against which I kicked and bucked like a delirious demon-bull at the rodeo (more like a tired old geezer being told it is time for his Geritol, truth be told), I must admit that the slower pace has begun to feel as warm and comfortable as those old leather dress shoes that have finally softened and conformed to fit your feet just right.

There is something about perambulating at a natural pace that feels good. The backyard has come alive with the flowering azaleas, blue bells, forget-me-nots, and hyacinths. The daffodils and tulips are done for the season (they really don’t last long at all), but the roses are budding and will soon be drawing humming birds and honey bees to their life-giving sweets.

I have mentioned in the past that the land and I are not great friends. I prefer concrete and steel. You don’t need to mow cement; weeds don’t grow on steel. I never have to clean my shoes after walking on asphalt, but when I come in from working in the yard, I track in all sorts of yard debris – dead grass, dirt, slug slime – and then I have to clean up after myself so that the labor never ends. Woe is me!

However, since I don’t have the luxury of hopping into the truck and running hither, thither, and yon like the proverbial chicken sans skull, I do have the time to step outside and walk amongst the various plants like a new-born Adam. They have become my children and I find myself wondering: Who the heck are you? What’s your name?

A friend dropped by last summer and we showed her our yard, and she was delighted by the wonderful variety of flowers and bushes. She would oo and ah, and she identified each and every one by its “proper” Greek or Latin designation. “Oh, what a beautiful Azalea Rhododendron Ericaceae,” or “Hyacinthoides Campanula Rotundifolia!”

I confess I didn’t pay much attention. I find it easier to simply recall them as Azaleas or Blue Bells or Forget Me Nots (on those rare occasions I recall anything at all). Some people have a gift for gardening and are adept at attending to proper details – like how much sun or shade a plant needs, or how often to water, or how much water to apply (and at what time of day). Sadly, I am not one of them. But now that I have time, perhaps I can begin to at least learn some of the names of these, my children, eh?

Or maybe I should go about my “Adam” business and name these flowers and bushes myself. I mean, why should I have to suffer the slings and arrows of scientists who see the world through their little microscopes and give these living organisms names that come from dead languages?

What’s wrong with naming my children Red Bush By the Birch Tree, Bee Collector Watch-it, Blue Bells Out Front, or Is That a Weed or a Plant?

There is no small satisfaction that comes with identifying our outdoor sentinels in a manner that is every bit as orderly and meaningful as that done by scientists in their lairs. The names may not have the panache of scientific nomenclature, but what does one expect from a Viriditas Bipedal Vulgaris (common two-legged weed)?

If there is anything good to come from this pandemic we’re all struggling with, it may just be our reconnecting with the universe (and the One) who binds us all together.

There is joy in becoming more familiar with the world in which we live. Familiar – family-like – reminds us that we’re all related. Perhaps I shall name the “Forget Me Not” Blessing, for we don’t ever want to forget our blessings here in this, our valley.

How Shall I Repay?

How shall I repay the Lord for all the good things he has done for me? I shall lift up the cup of salvation … Psalm 116

When our children were young, we would say the grace I learned when I was a child: God is great; God is good; let us thank him for our food. We taught our children to say it properly, but inside my head I always wanted food to rhyme with good. Linguists tell us the words did so in the past, but our pronunciation of the word “good” has moved on.

Life is like that, I suppose. It moves on. A woman I know once remarked, “There are pillars and there are caterpillars. Pillars hold things up, but caterpillars move on and become butterflies!” While few people will admit they like change, the fact is most of us want change of one sort or another. It’s just that we prefer to have a say in what that change will look or feel like, or how much discomfort or pain we’ll have to endure to obtain what we’re after.

As the psalmist implies in the psalm, God is good. I suppose that’s why God does good things for us. I know God is good and delights in doing good. I’d like to think I’m the same way (having been made in the image of God), and yet counting my blessings often makes me feel more guilty than blessed.

It’s like when someone pays you a compliment, I never know what to do with it. I blush. I stutter and stammer. I insist it was nothing, or the product was mediocre at best. And then I think my modesty isn’t genuine, because inside I’m also pleased as punch, and that just makes me feel even guiltier than when I started the cycle of pleasure and guilt.

I think my relationship with God is like that sometimes. I am sure God is pleased whenever I do something nice, right, good, or loving. I am sure God looks at the honorable things we say and do and puffs out his godly chest and calls the angels of heaven together into some heavenly huddle and says, “Attsa my boy, down there!” or “Attsa my girl doing that!”

I am sure that’s what’s going on in God’s head and heart, and yet for some reason I can’t fathom, I can’t shake the fact that I still think of God and me in some sort of transactional relationship. Maybe it is because so much of the language we use has a monetary tone to it.

God paid for my sins. That implies I owe God. God redeems us. Oh, so now I am a coupon to be turned in for something better, newer, shinier?  Jesus saves. So I am a coin tossed into the darkness of a piggy bank. Wait … God can’t have a piggy bank; it wouldn’t be kosher!

Those are things my head tells me, and the psalmist seems to know it instinctively, too, for he asks quite clearly, “How shall I repay the Lord?”

He answers, “I shall lift up the cup of salvation!”

Have you ever hoisted a glass or cup and offered “Cheers!” to a person or group? What does it mean? It means “I only want the best for you, in abundant appreciation for who you are and, more importantly, what you mean to me.”

This is the blessing we offer to our children when they are baptized or married: “You are a child of God, a great gift from God, and I shall never forget that as long as we are alive!”

“You are a child of God, most loved and beloved. I do not abandon you when you cleave unto another – when I “give” you away; I embrace the one you embrace and treasure you all the more!”

Life and love don’t always work out that way or that well, but that’s our goal; that’s our target; that’s our hope and desire, and I believe that is God’s hope and desire for us as well, for the psalmist adds one more thing: “Precious in the sight of the Lord are those God loves.” Meaning?

We see caterpillars in the mirror; God sees butterflies. So spread your wings (but keep your CV-19 distance) here in this, God’s precious valley.

Good Lord, You've Delivered Us!

I will give thanks to you, for you answered me; you have become my salvation. Psalm 118

When asked what I was giving up for Lent, I would often joke I’d thought about giving up church for Lent. And then this year happened, and a nasty bit of nature made us give up everything, including church, not just for Lent, but perhaps for life. Oi vei!

We are often told we don’t appreciate what we have until we don’t have it anymore. My father-in-law, who served in the Army Air Corps during World War Two told of sharing coffee with some of the locals in Sicily when the island had been liberated, and the locals just wept. They had been without such a simple pleasure for so long – between the Liberation and the Coffee, they felt salvation had come to them at long last.

I am not a patient person, by and large. I would like to think I am, of course, but I am not. I want things done and I want them done quickly. As I write this, I have been home-bound for the most part for over a month, and it appears that may continue into the foreseeable future. It may seem a long time, and in some ways it is. But the Second World War lasted about six years and resulted in millions of deaths. This isn’t a contest, but we should realize that even a year of inconvenience pales in comparison to years of war-time deprivations and depredations.

The fact is that cures and vaccines may well take months, if not years, to develop and improve. One cannot speed up science, even in times of crisis. Many of us will recover through the miracle of our infection-fighting immune systems. Many of us might even avoid illness by taking social distancing seriously. The time will come when we will be able to avoid this particular illness entirely the way we avoid mumps, rubella,  or the measles via inoculations developed by scientists working away feverishly in labs.

I know that the next few Sundays will come and go and that for most of us, it will take place away from our congregations – for health and safety. Our love for God and neighbor forbids us from blindly ignoring common sense, and while worshiping together is our heart’s desire, Easter will just have to wait until next year – a sports metaphor we can employ for the time being.

I say that because I know this storm, like all storms, will pass. Some pass quickly, while some pass slowly, but if we wait patiently, all storms eventually run out of rain.

In the meantime, what can we do?

Well, Easter represents new life. On Good Friday, Jesus “breathed his last.” On Easter Sunday his breath was restored by God, and on that evening we’re told that Jesus breathed on his disciples, telling them to receive new life themselves, and share it in a spirit of love and forgiveness.

I suppose we could all sit around waiting for this virus to pass. We could put this time to work doing projects around the house we hadn’t gotten to over the past few decades (for I am a procrastinator par excellence). We can binge watch our favorite shows and dry up like old bananas left out on the counter one day too long. Or …

… we can call friends and family to see how they’re doing. We may not be able to visit them in person, but we can let them know they’re actually in our thoughts and prayers (which is a step beyond just mouthing those words as some tend to do).

We can touch base with those who may not be able to get out as readily and easily as us, and deliver needed supplies to them. We can keep proper spacing in the stores, and do so with smiles and other courtesies. We can endeavor to share good and joyful tidings on social media and spend less energy stirring up hornets’ nests.

Most of all, we can strive to find Christ in the lives of those around us, and strive to hear what God has to say to us through the saints we are sure to meet along the way. I think that’s how God delivers many of us here in this, our valley.