Pennies From Heaven

When (self-examination, meditation, and prayer) are logically related and interwoven, the result is an unshakable foundation for life. The “Twelve and Twelve”

The other day I was merrily waltzing along the walks of downtown Ennis when I espied a shiny object on the ground. As is my custom, I bent down to get a better look, discerned it was a penny, and picked it up.

I have been told there are people who will not stoop so low as to pick up such a small sum of change, but I am not one of them. I believe pennies are more valuable than we realize. For one thing, without them, life in America would make no cents!

For another – and this is very personal and could be TMI for a family publication – but one of my earliest memories is that of being a toddler – probably two or three years of age – and finding a penny on the floor at home.

How do I remember such a small incident as that? Well, as poor as my memory often is, I recall finding the coin, picking it up with my chubby little mitts, and then gnawing on it as kids often do.

When my mother noticed how unusually quiet life was around the house, she came to investigate and noticed I was obviously enjoying chewing on something she hadn’t given me, but before she could pry open my yap, I swallowed that little Lincoln headed morsel.

I figure it must have been quite valuable, for over the next few days mother checked to see if I had processed the coin. In hindsight (you can take that any way you wish), I suspect she was concerned that it might have gotten lodged somewhere in my plumbing, so it was probably my health she was concerned about more than the coin.

To my knowledge it never passed, which may explain why later in life I chose to become a copper, but that’s another story.

Taking in money at such an early age, it is no wonder that I eventually became an ATM. I had school-aged children and hardly a day went by where they didn’t have to make a withdrawal for lunch, field trips, fund-raisers, and the like.

While I may have groused, whined, and complained, I really didn’t mind. It was always a pleasure to see them smile and hear what sounded like heart-felt thanks as they ran screaming and cheering their way out the door to catch the school-bus with their neighborhood pals.

Getting back to my tale, the point is, I cannot pass up a coin that’s lying about without picking it up. It isn’t that it will really do me much good (beyond the exertion required to bend down and rise again – a metaphor for resurrection if there ever was one), but I just can’t leave it lay, lie, or stay there.

A coin in the gutter has no value. A coin in a fountain brings luck and love – we all know that – but a bit of copper or silver lying underfoot is useless.

That’s why I can’t leave them in the street or on the sidewalk. I don’t pick them up in order to keep them, but to return them to circulation – to allow them to fulfill their destiny.

If that is true of coins, how much more so is it true of one another? There are some people you talk to and they make your feel like a million bucks. They pick you up. There are others who make you feel like the stuff my mother sifted through to find that lost treasure so long ago. I don’t know that I am often successful, but I know I would rather be the first type.

With my kids, I never felt like they took advantage; they only asked for what they needed. If I had a complaint, I thought they sometimes asked too little of me (but I kept that concern to myself); when I was able to, I would try to give them extra, “just in case,” and if they didn’t need the extra, I’d let them keep it, “just because.”

We’re all pennies from heaven – coins of the realm. We are tokens of God’s love; God picks us up, cleans us off, and sends us out with joy to fulfill our destinies in this, our valley.

Miss Adventures

Better to do one thing supremely well than many badly. Anonymous

I stepped over to the trash can in the kitchen and dropped a cupcake paper into it. To my amazement, it missed the opening and fell to the floor, where I had to pick it up and try, more successfully, to toss it into the bin. Two-time’s the charm, I noted.

A bit later I tossed a used tissue into the trash and, like its paper cousin, it went straight to the floor, rather than into the receptacle. Once again I found myself trundling off into the kitchen to retrieve the wayward wad of detritus, putting it more directly into its intended repository.

Being of scientific bent – or at least having bent over a number of times I’d have preferred not to – I proceeded to contemplate the reasons for my kitchen trash can to repel everything I was tossing its way.

The fact is I have an infuriating habit of routinely missing targets. Even when I stand directly over the dust bin to drop something in, it goes astray. A tiny piece of it will stick to my thumb or finger and as soon as I let go – bombs away – it veers off target and hits the floor.

My aim is so bad I am truly amazed I have never been nominated for “Miss” America. When it comes to missing, I am not only a professional, but in a class all my own.

Speaking of class, when I was in school, it was not unusual to miss a class every now and then. And when I attended class, it wasn’t unusual for me to miss the point of my being there. These days it would be called hyperactive attention deficit disorder, but in my day it was called Not Paying Attention. Fortunately, I was never sent to the principal’s office; I was too principled for that.

Actually, that’s not quite true. I did get called to the principal’s office once. A neighborhood busy-body had gone to the school to report I had been throwing rocks at a house. Her claim (and this is true) was completely false!

I should probably explain.

The day before this most unpleasant (and unfounded) inquisition, my brother and I and our good friend Mark had been killing time a few blocks from home, engaged in a conversation, the substance of which eludes me now.

As we chatted, we picked up grains of sands (and I am not exaggerating – nothing larger than a bb gun BB) and were mindlessly tossing them against a rockery beside which we were standing and talking.

As we yakked, this woman came screeching to a halt in her Cadillac, jumped out like an Imperial Storm Trooper, and screamed, “What are you hooligans doing?”

Well, both Mark and my brother took off running in different directions (doing a three minute mile, I might add), leaving me to stand there alone with Darth Vader’s older sister.

I told her we weren’t doing anything, but when she saw my companions doing an imitation of the Pamplona Bull Run, she presumed the worst, and so she asked my name, what school I went to, and insisted we were throwing rocks at the house on the other side of the wall (a claim I most vehemently denied. Besides, if I had been, I would have missed anyway. So: No Harm, No Foul – Right?).

She told me she was a good friend of my principal, and assured me I hadn’t heard the last of this incident, which was true.

The next day I was called into the principal’s office, and there she sat in the corner, smirking like the proverbial cat with bird in maw. In a matter of seconds, I explained what my brother, friend, and I had been doing (using small words so Miss Nosey would understand), protested my innocence clearly and unequivocally, and after about ten seconds of deliberations, was allowed to return to class completely vindicated of any and all wrong-doing.

I had told the truth, and being innocent, I couldn’t miss being acquitted. I learned that from watching Perry Mason – a show our family would never miss.

Momma always said, “When you tell the truth, you don’t have to have a good memory.” That is “can’t miss” advice in this, our valley.

Shoe Falls in the Valley

It is a spiritual axiom that every time we are disturbed, no matter what the cause, there is something wrong with us – The “Twelve and Twelve” (p. 90)

Autumn is the season when pests begin migrating into places they just do not belong. Not all pests were created equal, of course. I am still allowed to frequent homes, medical centers, businesses, and the like without too many complaints. But still, there are other vermin that can be quite annoying, and it affects my psyche more than I would like to admit.

The other day I was on a hospital visit and a young lady jumped up from her chair while we conversed. I gave her one of my inquisitive looks – the one with head cocked, one eyebrow raised, and complete, total, and utter confusion written upon my face. She said, “There’s a spider.”

I looked and, sure enough, there was one of those little brown critters hiding in the shadow where the wall and floor meet. Remarkably, I kept my poise, for I have found little alarms a patient more than a priest who goes running from a room screaming like a little girl (meaning no offense to little girls, by the way).

This was quite ironic as I had awakened just hours earlier from a nightmare in which there were spiders crawling all over me (and the more I brushed them off, the more they multiplied in horrendous fashion). I wondered: Was this a coincidence or a prophecy?

To play it safe, I asked the young lass if she planned on doing something about the spider. I wasn’t being timorous or coy, by the way. I am simply a non-chauvinist and wanted to give her first dibs tackling this unwanted visitor (I’m referring to the spider).

She returned a look that can only be described as one-degree short of calling for a SWAT team (or Seal Team Six, if they were available), so I offered to take care of the problem and asked her for a paper towel.

She handed me a massive fistful of paper, from which I deduced she also retains a plethora of banana clips and ammo for her Uzi. I thanked her for her generosity and assured her that one towel would be sufficient to handle the arachnoid menace.

Having developed most of my hunting skills from regularly reading Art Kehler’s Hollow Top Smoke Signals, I slowly and stealthily moved my companion’s chair out of the way. I wanted nothing to slow me down once I launched my arach-attack. It’s a good thing I did, too, for no sooner had I begun to approach that little brown beastie, she discerned my intentions and made a run for it. Suddenly, it was Speedy Gonzales vs. Elmer Fudd!

Not to be outpaced, outwitted, or outmaneuvered by this dreadful denizen of the dark, this fleet-footed skittering skedaddler, I instantaneously intuited where she was heading (to avoid death by alliteration, I presume), and dispatched her to the Great Flytrap in the Sky (with a mighty smoosh), where she has no doubt sprouted wings and is now scaring the perdition out of unsuspecting angels.

The question that most naturally comes to mind is why such a little thing as a spider would scare those of us who are so much bigger.

I consider myself  quite the man’s man; I don’t even bother carrying bear spray with me in the woods – for one thing, I make it a point to stay out of the wilderness, but when I DO go hiking, I make sure I have someone with me I can outrun. That’s why they say there is safety in numbers, don’t you know.

But little things like spiders are simply and irrationally scary. I remember getting dressed one morning as a child and having this big gorilla-sized tarantula (or a near relative) climb out of my shoe as I prepared to put it on. I must have lost ten pounds right then and there! Of course, I annihilated the eight-legger with the aforementioned shoe.

Over time, I have learned to overcome some of those things that used to bug me badly. Facing one’s fears and overcoming them helps build the confidence we need to adapt to our ever-changing environment.

I’ve learned to walk softly in this, our valley (but I still carry a big shoe, just in case).

Creating a Person

I normally don't publish my sermons as they tend to be notes from which I speak (and often deviate, as I speak to several different congregations each week), but was asked if I would provide my sermon notes for October 4 (Proper 22). The matter before us was Jesus' answer to the Pharisees regarding marriage and divorce. I didn't say all I could have on the subject, but shared the following insights I have gleaned over the past 30 years of preaching. Interestingly, since diocesan convention normally falls on this weekend, my notes indicated I had never before actually preached on this subject! So this was new for me. I hope you find it useful.

In 1974, I became a police officer in Spokane, WA. My degree from WSU was in Police Science & Administration. Spokane was a relatively small department – about 100 officers +/-. It was like a large extended family.

Near the end of my first year, I was ready to buy a house. I didn’t want to live in an apartment. I hadn’t really saved much money for a down payment, but Lt. McGooghan was buying a larger home for his growing family – something more in keeping with his lieutenant’s salary – so I bought his house. We made a little side deal where he gave me a receipt for a down payment I didn’t have, allowing the bank loan to go through, and I paid it off over the course of the next few months. He didn’t do it because he was rich; I had SPs on my collars, and that made me family, and that’s what families do. Message: You Belong! Writ large.

Contrast: In my early days on the department I became friends with another officer – Sergeant Lou Moss. He worked out of the Young People’s Bureau, dealing with juvenile offenders, truants, run-aways – anything involving children. Over time I discovered he was an Episcopalian, but he hadn’t been to church since the late 50s. I asked him why and he said he and his wife got a divorce in 1958, and the priest there made it clear he was no longer able to receive communion. He could come to worship, but he could no longer participate in the table fellowship.

I told him times had changed and that I knew he’d be welcomed at our little church out in the Spokane Valley but, “No, that’s OK.” He hadn’t lost his faith in God, but for him, the church had taken a leaf out of the table, squeezed the ends together and said, “We no longer have a place for you.”

Message: You Don't Belong! Writ large.

The GOOD NEWS for us is that the church has changed over the past 50 years or so, but for those of us who came from broken families or who have experienced the heartache of divorce, the Gospel lesson this morning must be really hard to hear.

Jesus’ words seem unusually harsh and cruel. The temptation will be to say they came out of a different era in a different time and are no longer relevant, but I’d like to suggest that what he has to say is very relevant, very timely, and very important for us to hear.

11)      It is true that our cultures are different, so we need to recognize that. Divorce in America is VERY different from divorce in 1^st century Israel. Women and children were property, in Jesus’ day; for a woman to divorce a man was inconceivable. Property cannot disown its owner, but an owner can disown his property. There were no divorce courts; there was no such thing as alimony or child support. A man would simply hand his wife a note saying, “Get out!” and that was that. A divorced woman had limited options: Move back with family, become a beggar, a slave, or a prostitute.

      Jesus said, “That’s got to stop. Women aren’t property; women aren’t chattel; they are people; they are your equals; Treat them like it, for heaven’s sake!” He points to Genesis and reminds us that God created us – all of us: male and female, Jew and Greek, Slave and Free – in God’s image (mashing what Jesus said here with what Paul says in Galatians). That’s why we, in our Church’s teaching, promise to “respect the dignity of every person.” Jesus isn’t talking about divorce, but personhood – and is challenging all the things we do that are hurtful to one another.

22)      That brings me to the second point. Jesus tells us the issue has nothing to do with marriage or divorce, but the human heart. “The problem,” he says, “is your hardness of heart.” Is it possible Jesus is looking back on his own family history? Joseph was a “righteous man” – a Tzadik. He’s a man who knows the LAW (Torah). Mary’s pregnant. Options: Rock, Scissors, Paper. Angel: Don’t be afraid to take her under your wing! He can do the right thing, or he can do the RIGHT thing.

3) Now, here, today, God looks at us. All have sinned and come short of the glory of God. All of us have heart problems. Maybe too small (Grinch) or blocked arteries, causing pain & shortness of breath. God can kill us all, OR … Jesus took up some children, held them in his arms, and … He blessed them. 

Our options: We can take up arms (with one another) or we can take one another up IN arms. Jesus calls for the Tzadik in each of us, and THAT’s the Jesus way to be in the family way. Let us Pray (BCP 101)

Loose Moose

Worldly worry always seeks to lead a human being into the small-minded unrest of comparisons, away from the lofty calmness of simple thoughts. Soren Kierkegaard

My wife and I were out for a walk the other day and had just about returned home when a passing motorist warned us to be careful as there was a mother moose and her calf just a few doors up the street. Being the nature lover that I am, and knowing there is nothing more dangerous than a wild animal protecting her off-spring, I decided immediately to go check it out.

We figuratively flew into the house (as I would never “literally” run), where I grabbed my camera so I could digitally chronicle our latest adventure. Yes, the Call of the Wild beckons, and woe betide the one who misfortunately deigns to get in the way!

We hopped into our car (more like a tin box on roller skates than armored personnel carrier, but (alas) it is what it is). I was confidant it would give us time to vamoose if things got ugly (and, yes, moose ARE fairly ugly, to be sure). I was also pretty sure the momma moose would have to stop laughing before she could give chase for the sake of her darling little baby, so there WAS that.

It seemed awfully silly to drive a hundred feet or so from our house to where the moose were purported to be cavorting (yet, it really was the wise thing to do), and lo and behold: there they were! The good news is that both creatures were relaxing well off the road, so danger was pretty minimal.

My camera has a decent telephoto lens, so I was able to snap a few shots that, for an action junkie like me, were pretty snooze-inducing. Still, there is no thrill like seeing a moose up close and personal.

It was ironic as we’d gone out on what I had intended to be a “photo safari” a day or so earlier, always on the hunt for breath-taking scenery and creatures of the wild, but had been pretty much skunked on both counts. Much to our disappointment, there just wasn’t anything “out there” to be captured on film or memory card.

Instead, it turned out we had to come home to capture the excitement of real life critters that amuse, (a-moose?), and amaze.

I shouldn’t have been so surprised, of course. We have it on good authority by no less a figure than Dorothy that “there is no place like home.” She said it, I believe it, and so that settles it! Unfortunately, there were no lions, tigers, or bears (oh my), but there was the moose, and that, as they say, was that.

Life is funny that way; it seems we humans go looking for fun and exhilaration – searching high and low, hither, thither, and yon – while the greatest delights are so often to be found right here where we dwell.

When all the excitement was over and world order restored, I found myself looking back on all we had seen and done and discerned that there was one thing that had been left undone – one thing left untended in all the hub-bub and unbridled haste with which we had scrambled to “get our shot” – the kindness of a stranger – a neighbor – who had bothered to stop and warn us of danger lying unseen around a corner.

I am sure she does not think of herself as an angel of mercy or a messenger sent by God, yet she demonstrated that very characteristic by which the people of God are often measured: thoughtfulness and compassion. She did not drive past, she slowed and stopped; she didn’t stop, pull out her cell-phone, and prepare to capture the potential carnage for the evening news, she warned us of the dangers.

I am sure we thanked her for the alert, but in our haste I am just as sure my thoughts were more about getting my camera than a heart-felt appreciation that we have such a good neighbor (and live in a community filled with such good neighbors).

I don’t know who our benefactor is or was, but I do want her to know that I appreciate what she did. The Lord smiles upon her in this, our valley – of that I’m very sure!

Stepping High in the Valley

Oh, that I had the wings of a dove! I would fly away and be at rest – Psalm 55

The other day I was walking back to the church from the Post Office in Virginia City when I caught my toe on a bit of planking. I am normally pretty careful when walking on uneven surfaces, but somehow the beautiful weather had distracted me and soon I found myself pirouetting along the board-walk, making every effort not to become “one with the wood.”

I am glad to report that I survived the incident. In fact, not only did I remain upright, but I found myself laughing hysterically the rest of the way back to the church. I don’t know if anyone saw me (or heard me) – and if they had, they may well have looked to see if Cirque de Solei was in town – but no, I looked the Grim Creeper in the face, and I lived to tell about it, and if that wasn’t worth a hoot and a holler, I don’t know what is.

I think it is important to be able to laugh at oneself. I am not the most graceful biped around, as it is, so I have learned not to take myself too seriously.

One day I was serving communion and found the going slower and tougher. Wondering why I was struggling so hard to deliver the sacrament to the faithful, I looked down and discovered my cincture (the rope clergy wear around their robes) had come loose; it was wrapped around my knees and ankles.

Now, if that didn’t beat all! I simply shook my legs a bit and let the rope fall to the ground, stepped out, and continued to serve communion sans girdle: Problem solved!

I like to think of myself as a problem solver. Among my favorite movie lines is the one in Apollo 13 where Gene Kranz (played by actor Ed Harris) barks out: “Let’s work the problem, folks!” There’s no use panicking, it seems, until it is time to panic. Until then: stay calm, identify the problem, and then apply the solutions as they’re identified.

Not every solution is a good solution, of course. I am reminded of NASA’s (allegedly) spending millions to develop a pen that would work in zero gravity. Meanwhile, the Russians found pencils worked just fine. Uff da!

Sometimes my explorations get the better of me. The other day I bought a new computer to replace my old laptop (which was getting a bit dodgy). I got it home and, without going into too many details, managed to kill it – turning it into a $400 paper weight. I tried everything I knew from my twenty plus years of working on computers to bring it back to life, but all to no avail. I could hear Death chuckling quietly off in a corner of the living room.

I finally decided to swallow my pride and called Tech Support. The dude on the other end asked me to unplug the laptop, wait a moment, and then plug it back in.

Through all my years of working and playing with electrical devices, the first thing one is ALWAYS supposed to do is unplug the item, wait a moment, plug it back in, and see what it does. A laptop has a battery, so it never even occurred to me to unplug it, but … that’s all it took to restore the computer to life and full functionality. Uff da (again)!

It would have been very foolish to have not reached out for help (and goodness knows I can be the fool at times), and in the end, it was very much worth it. The solution was easy, but only in hindsight did it become obvious.

That’s just the way life is. I may not be all that graceful on my feet, but I do want to learn how to be filled with grace in my life and relationships.

I have learned that when I get tripped up, I can blame the hazard, I can blame my clumsiness, or I can remember to pay attention. As someone once said, we often fix blame, but it is better to fix the problem – so I choose to fix problems; that makes my walk much smoother in this, our valley (while Death whimpers alone in a corner). 

Away From the Valley

Your throne, O God, endures forever. Psalm 45

Barb and I are finally home from our summer vacation. We’d gone over to the Seattle area to visit our kids and family, see the sights, and enjoy a little R&R from the daily grind of living in paradise.

Despite the fires in the state of Washington, our trip west hadn’t been too bad. The air was a bit hazy, but the fires hadn’t reached their peak yet. The weather was typically hot as we began our excursion in the heady dog days of summer. We spent the first night in Wenatchee, taking a break from the drive and wanting to enjoy the glorious trip through Stevens Pass during the cooler, prettier hours of morning.

It was late afternoon when we found a motel in which to spend the night, but the room wasn’t ready. The desk clerk suggested we could go get a bite to eat and come back, if we were hungry. Since being hungry is my normal state of being (the chief means of determining at any time whether or not I am alive and/or awake) we decided we could do that. The hotelier suggested a couple of options a “block or two away”, so we decided to hoof it (and give my fitness tracker something to count).

Well, I hate to complain or suggest the folks in Wenatchee have a wicked sense of humor or lack of understanding of what entails a block or two, but we walked for a while and never came close to the suggested eateries, whereupon we turned around, hiked back to the hotel, got into the car, and made the journey the old fashioned way (by horseless carriage). Did I mention we were near triple digits and Amazonian Rain Forest levels of humidity?

Well, we finally got our meal (which was served at a glacially slow pace), returned once again to the hotel where we secured our room, and melted into a puddle of goo that was eventually restored to human form the next morning around dawn. We ate the rubber-egg and smelly-foot sausage breakfast they had prepared for their guests, then checked out and hit the road. To borrow a line from my good friend Bill over in Virginia City, we decided the best view of Wenatchee is from the rear view mirror of the car.

Anyway, we continued our journey traveling across the Cascade Mountains through Stevens Pass, which is one of the prettiest drives one can imagine. Highway 2 is a cute little two-lane blacktop that winds though the forested hills along the Wenatchee River and passing though such quaint villages as Cashmere and Leavenworth on the up-drive, and then down the west side of the pass through Monroe and on into Everett.

One of the things that makes the route so delightful, beyond the sheer beauty and majesty of the Alpine-like peaks and valleys, is the fact that so few people travel the old highway. Most folks cross the state down along Interstate 90, and why not? It’s a lot faster, there are more lanes to choose from, and it is easier to get around all the big rigs and campers that clog the roads in summertime.

While speed is nice, and lord knows my foot gets heavier on the accelerator the closer I get to my destination, the plain fact of the matter is I enjoy the more leisurely pace of the old highways; I enjoy passing through the small towns and villages that dot the landscape, providing victuals for the weary traveler, places to gas up the car, and shops in which one can while away the time checking out locally grown or crafted goodies.

I like a road that actually requires a driver to actually “drive” – accelerating, decelerating, and steering around bends, curves, and blind spots; watching for wildlife and hikers alike; climbing up into the bright sunlight on the hills, and down into the valleys with their dark shadows. Now THAT is driving!

At the end of the highway, of course, was our destination. Our trip didn’t end there, naturally; it had really only just begun. And that is a parable of life, isn’t it? We are always on a journey, and even when we arrive, there is still more that lies before us, and that’s when the fun really begins in this, our valley – and beyond.