The Ferry God-Child

Laughter is the closest distance between two people. Victor Borge

I boarded the Washington State Ferry “Yakima” the other day, making my way home from Lopez Island – one of the San Juan Islands lying in Puget Sound. I had been on the island providing worship services for Grace Church and was now preparing for the forty minute cruise from the island to the terminal in Anacortes (where I’d left my truck).

I grabbed one of the seats located on the passenger deck. Although the boat has been in service quite a few years, it has been well-maintained. The seats are well-worn, but comfortable and clean. Unlike airline seats (which are about as spacious as the small end of a baseball bat), these seats can accommodate someone of significant girth (if needed).

I found a comfortable position in which to relax as the crew made preparations to get underway, and noted a toddler (probably about 15-18 months old) rumbling up the deck with one of those gaits that ranges somewhere between a walk and a trot to keep from falling. She had the biggest smile on her face as she trundled up the aisle toward the exit leading out to the forward observation deck. Her dad was in close pursuit, requiring only about a step or two to keep up with every dozen or so of hers.

She came screeching to a halt about four feet in front of me as if noticing for the first time she was in a public space and not alone. She looked up and noticed I was simultaneously looking at her and, seeing her wonderful smile, I couldn’t help but smile back like the silly doofus I can often be when I’m around kids. She saw me beaming and her whole body exploded into joy as she absorbed being the center of the universe (if only then and there for that precise moment), and then, filled once again with the life-force of the cosmos, she returned to her sallying forth.

Smiles are contagious, and laughter is purely magical. There is nothing more delightful to my ears than the sound of raucous laughing in a room. I will confess that I also interpret pun-induced groans as laughter in disguise. I don’t know why I like word-play, but I do. It is addictive, but as far as I know there is no Punsters Anonymous twelve-step group for people like me, so until I find or found one, the world will just have to deal with whatever PUNishment I inflict upon it. You have been warned!

I suppose the reason I enjoy smiles and laughter is not only for the energy humor gives me, but for the energy it can impart to those around us. That little girl on the ferry did nothing but smile, but I found it therapeutic. That’s important when the days are short on daylight and the weather is gray and nippy.

I don’t know why people tend to become so serious as we age. Maybe we don’t. Maybe it just looks and feels like we do. On that same ferry, I don’t remember seeing others smile as freely or as broadly as that little girl – except her dad. He stayed right with her as she circled the boat a half dozen times during the crossing. She was filled to the brim with boundless energy, and her father just stayed with her, opening doors as a proper valet should, and seeing to her every need (which was little more than the need to keep moving and smiling at everyone she met).

After about forty minutes, the MV “Yakima” slipped into port. Drivers and their passengers returned to their vehicles; we walk-ons stayed on the passenger deck to make our way back to land via the catwalks that switched back and forth from the upper level of the boat to the ground below.

Like the others, I grabbed my belongings and made my way into the darkness. A soft rain was falling as I trundled off to find my truck in one of the farther corners of the parking lot. I suppose the air was chilly, but I didn’t really notice as the smile of a young child continued to warm my soul and light my path.

I suppose that’s as it should be everywhere, and especially here in this, our valley.

Songs of Joy

The Lord has done great things for us, and we are glad indeed … Those who sowed with tears will reap with songs of joy. Psalm 126

My wife and I went out to dinner the other night with some friends. They’d come up to visit from Texas, and as we enjoyed our time together, a few tables away was a young child who was absolutely unhappy with her situation. She was just an infant, so she wasn’t behaving in a bratty or spoiled manner. She was just plain unhappy, and she let the world know about it.

One of the things I love about children is their unfiltered and unfettered capacity to be honest in their expression of pain or joy. It can certainly be disconcerting for their parents when it happens in a restaurant, and I suspect there were patrons closer to “the action” who were disturbed by the incessant yowling that was drowning out the overhead music or the sounds of Thursday Night Football being telecast nearby.

Such is life, and I like it, because it is real. It is such a complete contrast with the saccharine story-lines of so many Christmas specials and Christmas movies. I’m nowhere near as cynical as Jean Shepherd in his holiday classic, A Christmas Story, but I am a realist. The days are short and cold; there are precious few signs of Peace on Earth and Goodwill towards All to be found on the news.

Our visitors received word while with us that one of their church stalwarts down in Texas passed away in the night – having taken a recent turn for the worst in her battle with cancer. Holiday cheer is deflated daily with news of violence at home and abroad. The stock market is careening wildly, blown (as always) by the high pressure winds of Greed trying to hold at bay the low troughs of Fear.

Admittedly, the holiday displays of lights and yard decoration in our neck of the woods seem much more prolific than last year. In fact, I saw my first set of Christmas lights burning brightly on a home near us … the week before Halloween!

It causes me to wonder if the outward appearance of Christmas cheer is genuine, or if it isn’t folks near and far whistling their way through the graveyard – putting on a brave face as their innards jiggle Santa-like in the manner of a bowl-full of jelly. There are people, of course, who absolutely delight in the holidays. The lights and tinsel put them in a festive spirit; images of the Holy Child cavorting with reindeer, snowmen, elves, camels, kings, and Dickensian Carolers. What’s not to love?

For myself, I fall somewhere between the extremes. I separate the world’s manifestation and understanding of the season from the Church’s experience and expression of the holiday. In the tradition to which I belong, this is the season of Advent. It’s a season of waiting, patiently preparing heart, mind, and body to receive the One who comes in grace. When Christmas comes, it isn’t as a jolly old elf distributing goodies from his bounty (or charcoal, as the case may be), but a tiny child – who comes empty and totally dependent on the grace of others to survive.

“… no crying he makes”? What a pile of reindeer foo-foo! God did not send a baby mannequin, but a real honest-to-goodness infant who cried when hungry, dirty, or wet, jumped when startled by loud noises, who bled when cut, who needed the warm embrace of mother and father when cold. It is this very real human being I have come to love, embrace, hold fast, and share.

I do my civic duty, of course. I’ve hung my lights. Barb and I put up our tree the other day (earlier than usual) in order to snap some holiday photos with our friends. We will make the rounds to oo, ah, and critique neighborhood decorations. I’ve been humming (for weeks) seasonal favorites (both religious and secular) as I’ve trundled through the shops or driven down the road.

But now there’s more: when I hear an infant scream, I can smile – not because I’m some malicious sadist, but because “the one who sows with tears will (come to) reap with songs of joy.” I think that’s what we’re aiming for in this, our holiday valley.

Winter Grasses

O God, you are my God: eagerly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you, my flesh faints for you, as in a barren and dry land where there is no water. Psalm 63

I have had the pleasure of being retired a little over a year now. The adjustment to a life of leisure hasn’t been too bad, although I have found the “leisure” part of the equation somewhat more elusive than finding the end of Pi. There seems to be no end to the number of little things life requires of its organisms

That’s as it should be. We each have a purpose, even if mine seems to be to provide carbon dioxide for the grass outside so I have something to mow for three out of the four seasons. I don’t mind. In fact, I rather enjoy following my self-propelled grass muncher as it wanders to and fro looking to swing its blades of glory against the forest of local fescue (and dandelions) residing ‘round the house.

Fortunately, we have entered the season of winter, and the lawn seems to have gone dormant, storing up its energy for a springtime assault on my sinuses. That, too, is as it should be, for if it wasn’t for my sneezing, I doubt I would get the exercise I need to huff and puff my way around the house between meals and snacks.

Speaking of which, while the sod has gone to sleep, this sod-buster has had to shake off his slumbering ways and prepare to take a couple of services while our minister is off on a spot of vacation.

I had thought that by not preaching regularly my mind would be gathering up fresh ideas and thoughts and illustrations the way squirrels find and store up their own nuggets of nutrition day-by-day, but sadly, that hasn’t happened. It’s either that or someone has broken into that cranial storehouse of wisdom and insights God (or Darwin) stuck between my ears and made off with all those treasures!

The truth is, I suspect, that the old adage “Use it or lose it,” is valid.

Back in the day when I was preparing sermons to deliver on a weekly basis, I know my eyes and ears were alert to looking and listening for things that would connect our faith with life.

I remember one day driving around Ennis Lake and finding a woman pushing her bicycle along the road. I stopped and asked if I could help, thinking she might have a flat tire. I was wearing my clergy shirt and collar and driving my pickup, so hoped she wouldn’t be alarmed. She told me she was fine, so I drove off. I would love to say I offered to help out of the goodness of my heart (and surely, some of that was there), but I also knew the gospel lesson coming up that Sunday addressed the story of the Good Samaritan, and I was NOT going to be the priest “who passed by on the other side” of the person in distress.

Things like that happened all the time when I was preaching regularly, but now that I’m not, I find my eyes have clouded over a bit. I simply am not making the connections I once did. It’s not for lack of activities, but for lack of paying attention to the world around me.

It’s like with friends you haven’t seen in years. You would assume you’d have tons to talk about making up for lost time, but actually, you end up having less to say, because the connections aren’t there. Each has gone their own way, points of contact and commonality have separated, and so you don’t know where (or how) to start. And so you share some inane pleasantries, and then you move on.

There aren’t that many of us who preach, but we do connect. With the holidays drawing near, it seems maybe now is as good a time as any to begin strengthening the connections we have. I would hate to be standing over the punchbowl at some gathering and have little more to talk about than news, sports, weather, or the state of my grass.

Which reminds me: dandelions make a wonderful Christmas gift. Not only can you not kill them, they help clear your sinuses each spring in this, our valley.

Advent 1 – Land of Shadows and Light

Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light …

I haven’t been to the Mall in quite a while. I haven’t been to the one in Burlington, or the one in Bellingham, or the one in Everett. I’m not against going to the mall. I just haven’t bothered turning in to shop, walk, or rub elbows with anyone.

I’ve been to other stores, of course, and there’s no doubt the Christmas season is in full swing – and has been since before Halloween.

There’s a word for this: INSANE. The world is absolutely crazy.

I’m reminded of the scene in HOME ALONE where the young boy is accidentally left behind as his family flies off to Paris. He discovers he is alone in the house and goes berserk doing everything he knows he’s not supposed to. He watches movies he’s not supposed to; eats loads of junk food; jumps on the bed, ransacks his older brother’s room, runs through the house screaming at the top of his lungs.

In short, He’s being an 8-year old set free, and while the carnage of freedom lasts for a little while, he makes a shift from recklessness to responsibility - from making a mess to taking care of his “world.” He buys groceries, does laundry, decorates the house for the holiday, and defends it from the forces of darkness outside (the WET BANDITS).

Advent is our refuge from an insane world. Some of us may have come in looking for Christmas decorations, Christmas trees, poinsettias, Nativity sets and all that, but the closest thing we have to the seasonal foo-foo (that’s the liturgical term for all that stuff) is our Advent wreath over here.

On the First Sunday of Advent, we light a single candle. We pray God to give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, but one little light doesn’t really seem up to the task, does it. And how about that phrase: “Works of darkness”? That seems a little melodramatic, doesn’t it?

I used to love that phrase in the Prayer of Humble Access we use to pray: “we are most heartily sorry for these our misdoings. The remembrance of them is grievous unto us; the burden intolerable …”

I don’t know. I’m not sure I ever felt the things I did were intolerable. At least not to me. But maybe to God.

Have you ever thought of God sitting there on the throne, looking down and saying, “Folks, I’m down to my last nerve, and you’re standing on it!” (Crash, thunder, BOOM)?

But God’s desire is not our death, not our destruction, but our restoration – our restoration to health and salvation.

Did you know that SANITY and SANITATION share the same root? It’s the Latin word for health and wholeness. To be insane is to be unhealthy in mind; to be unsanitary is to be unhealthy in body. When people were sick with lingering illnesses, they went off to Sanitariums – places where they could be restored to health.

The Church is a spiritual sanitarium. It’s a house of healing.

I love the Church and the Church Seasons because they remind us that we are human. There is a mixture of light and dark we can’t get away from. It’s like walking through the forest. The sun shines through, and the forest floor is dappled with the interplay of shade and sunlight. The sunshine and the shadows are both there. Like driving down the freeway, you sometimes get that strobe-light effect, and your eyes are going STOP THAT!

As Christians, we KNOW insanity resides here. We know what it’s like to smile on the outside and act like everything is OK, while on the inside little Kevin McCallister’s on the loose wreaking havoc. But we also know we have a God who not only CAN restore us to sanity, but who will.

We light a single candle, and it may not look like much (at first) but it is a start. It’s the first step in casting away the works of darkness.

To confess there is darkness residing here in this space (heart) and here (mind) and here (gut) is the first step. To invite God to come in and do her work (restoring those spaces) is the armor of light we put on. It isn’t our strength that gets the job done, but hers. That’s the GRACE part of the equation. God restores us.

When people complain about the insanity of Christmas, I get to share good news with them: You know, that’s one of the things I love about our church: it’s an oasis of peace and serenity at a time I need that most.

One final thought: in Home Alone, Kevin does all he can to protect his home. He calls for help, and he knows help should be on the the way. He runs away from danger, though a neighbor's house, and as he comes upstairs, the bad guys catch him. They hang him on a hook and tell him everything they're going to do to him when BANG! Another neighbor hits the two bad guys, lifts Kevin off the hook, and carries him to safety.

That is the Gospel in a nutshell. God rescues us, gets us off the hook, and carries us to safety. Like Kevin, we do what we can, and we cry out for help, and God does the rest. We cast off the works of darkness, and God clothes us with the armor of light. Happy Advent! :-)

A Boxing Match

“If you love a flower, don’t pick it up. Because if you pick it up it dies and it ceases to be what you love. So if you love a flower, let it be. Love is not about possession. Love is about appreciation.” Source unknown

I grabbed a box of cereal for breakfast this morning and was amazed at just how strong and robust I had become. I thought it might have been caused by my daily vitamin pills finally beginning to kick in. Having been taking them for at least five years, I thought, “It’s about time!”

But as I took a gander more closely at the carton, I realized I hadn’t suddenly developed the strength of an onscreen superhero, but the box itself no longer contained the volume of cold cereal it had in the past. The manufacturers had kept the box the same height and width I had been accustomed to buying, but it was no longer as thick. Front to back was only about two thirds of what it had previously been.

I hate “tricks” like that. Instead of raising the price of the product to reflect more accurately the cost of producing it, they kept the price the same and simply reduced the volume the shopper was buying. I hate that, and should have been more alert to their nefarious schemes.

As a creature of habit, I will continue to buy what I like. As a creature of habit, I will pay whatever it takes to put what I like on the table. But it does irritate me to know I eat smaller portions (by choice) and yet need to restock the shelves more often because of this sleight of eye perpetrated by the world purveyors of the finest grains, sugars, and fillers!

It reminds me of the days before I bought my coffee by whole bean. I would buy my ground coffee in three pound cans. But then the mountain grown happy pills were put into slightly smaller cans with about twenty percent less coffee with a note plastered across the label: “New and Improved grinding process! The same great taste using less coffee!”

No it didn’t. I still had to use the same number of scoops to make my coffee. Why not just put an ounce of coffee in a tea bag and instruct people to pop it into a pot of hot water? It’ll surely color the water, but we all know it won’t taste like coffee. If I can see through the beverage, it isn’t coffee by any definition that would stand up in court!

No, somehow we have gotten away from being an honest people in this country. We struggle to be honest. It used to be that a person’s word meant something (although I suspect that was more Hollywood-Western dreaming than reality), but at least if one was caught in a lie, one would admit it or have some semblance of shame, but not anymore.

Anyone who watched any television over the past few months can affirm the number of outright lies that were perpetrated on the voting public. It got to a point I just couldn’t watch a program with sound during the commercials. What a crock of hooey.

Fortunately the elections are over, so the 2020 commercials won’t start up for another couple of months, so we can hopefully get back to enjoying sports and entertainment without the taint of politics. For that, I’ll tune into the news when my stomach is up to it.

Meanwhile, the Good Book admonishes us to be honest with one another. Good Manners suggests the same thing. It isn’t just telling the truth that’s important; it is a reflection of who we are. When we lie to one another, it becomes easier to begin lying to oneself, and with that we become lost; not in a going to perdition sort of way, but in terms of knowing who were are, where we are, and (most importantly) Who’s we are. Every lie is a little death.

It’s possible the world’s producers of the world’s food supply are afraid we’ll stop buying their groceries if they’re too honest. I understand fear. But really? I’m going to stop eating because the cost of fertilizer has gone up? That leaves a bad taste in my mouth, and in this, our valley. Harrumph!

Wandering and Wondering

Make your mistakes, take your chances, look silly, but keep on going. Don’t freeze up. Thomas Wolfe, You Can’t Go Home Again

Three of us stood there in a church parking lot, puzzling over a question of what to do. One had found a driver’s license of someone we didn’t know, but whose home address appeared to be just a matter of being five or six blocks away. Perhaps it had been dropped while the owner was out for a walk. Perhaps it had been tossed from a stolen wallet. Whatever the case, it was up to the three of us – three wise men (or at least the wisest men in the parking lot at the time, for we were alone) – to decide what to do.

The first to speak up said, “Verily, we should drop the license into a mail box that some letter carrier might deliver it upon his or her appointed rounds!”

We pondered the idea for a moment, but worried that such a small thing as a driver’s license might easily be lost in the vast expanse of the average drop box.

Another suggested driving it down to the police station so that someone from the local constabulary might deliver it or contact the owner to come down and get it. But no one was heading in that direction, and it seemed to us it would be very inconvenient for the licensee to have to go shagging after it (if the PD should deign to notify him).

So we studied the license carefully and confirmed that the owner only lived a few blocks away, and it would be quickest just to go deliver it directly to him. The only problem was that the street we were on did not go through to the address we needed to find. The three of us scratched our collective heads as we discussed the various routes we might take to find the man’s house, but every option seemed to be blocked by woods, cliffs, or dead-ends.

Two of the gentlemen standing there in the parking lot have lived in town for most of the past sixty years, so I deferred to them for their knowledge of the geography, but when they couldn’t figure exactly how to get to where they wanted to go, I finally suggested we just look it up. I pulled out my cellphone, put the address into the map app and, voila! I had the route with an estimated arrival time of two minutes. Ironic, as we’d been discussing it for about five!

This reminds me of the old joke of why the ancient Israelites wandered in the wilderness for forty years – because Moses was too stubborn to stop and ask for directions!

So anyway, one of my compatriots knew immediately where the address was and offered to take it over, so that was that.

It is amazing how good it feels to do something nice. It makes me wonder why anyone would ever want to do something bad, naughty, or destructive. While I may not always BE nice, I find it just feels so good I can’t imagine why anyone would want to spend any time in that other space – that negative, dirty, rotten, scoundrel zone.

I suppose that’s one reason I have made being part of a community of faith a central part of my own identity.

I look back on the three old coots trying to figure out how to solve the mystery of the lost-license-now-found, and when we were done, laughing about how simple deciding what to do had been. We hadn’t gotten all caught up in trying to top one another, or angling for rewards, or anything like that.

We had simply talked, putting our thoughts out on the breeze for everyone to hear and consider, played in the metaphorical mud-hole for a few minutes until the eyes became clearer, and then ultimately did that which was most neighborly.

Maybe if people spent more time talking with one another face to face rather than device to device, we’d find more solutions to more of the world’s problems. Seeing a smile light up a face in person has no parallel in the world of gizmos and gadgets, although it is sure nice having an app tell me where to go and how to get there here in this, our valley.

Does Happiness Happen by Happenstance?

The very first condition of lasting happiness is that a life should be full of purpose, aiming at something outside self. Hugh Black

I came home from church the other day and was quite happy. The music was glorious; the message in the sermon was thought-provoking and timely; the fellowship was delightful; the air was brisk, clean, and fresh; the day was sunny. All was right with the world.

Then I pulled into the driveway and noticed something under the tongue of our travel trailer that seemed out of place, so I parked the car and went to check it out. Sitting under the trailer were a couple of cables, plastic lids, and a nylon strap that appeared to have been cut with a knife. I tilted my head for a moment, deep in thought, as I began to puzzle out for myself the meaning of what I was seeing. And then it hit me: someone had stolen the batteries off of the trailer!

Amazingly, I did not blow a gasket. Oh sure, I spent a moment or two thinking about how I might set up a force field around the RV that would vaporize any miscreant who might dare to come within ten feet of our precious little tenement on wheels, but that idea dissipated quickly as the wisdom of my years came rushing to the fore, reminding me that I would most likely be the one vaporized (as I doubt I’d remember to turn off the zapper if I needed to get something out of the trailer at any given moment).

So I muscled my way past my disappointment with humanity in general (and our local thieves in particular) and cleaned up the debris, phoned in a police report to the local constabulary, and began to research places to buy replacement batteries. I also spent some time in prayer and meditation (which I find soothing and comforting) and pondered the possibility (however remote) that the thief was a homeless soul in need of the power my batteries would provide, or an addict in need of some quick cash for a quick fix. While I don’t endorse theft for either of those situations, I find them forgivable.

I’ve learned, you see, that one of the keys to happiness is creating the capacity to forgive.

One of the petitions we offer up in our daily prayers in the faith tradition many of us practice is a request for God to “forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.” For many, “vengeance is sweet,” but I find it gives me indigestion.

Our faith tradition has also taught us that “’Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord.” I can’t help but wonder if I don’t feel like an irritating pebble in God’s shoe when I try to stand in them, so I really do try to let God be God, stay out of her shoes, and just settle for being me as best I can. That seems to work out best for the both of us.

So I made some calls, shared my tale of woe on social media (because there’s no use being miserable alone), and found replacement batteries at a local shop that only cost me about a quarter of what I thought it would; so that was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow (caused by the sunlight refracting off my tears, of course).

I bought the batteries, kept them safely in the garage, and wondered how I would secure them in such a way as to avoid them being stolen again. I went down to the local hardware store, explained my situation, and – voila – the clerk and I found a sensible and affordable solution: adjustable cable locks that allow me to cinch down the cable over the batteries in their boxes. The cables are strong, resistant even to bolt cutters, and easy to install.

I have since also taken the precaution of moving the trailer up off the street (which I never cared for as a place to park it anyway) and into a space alongside our driveway, so it is about as secure as it can be.

That’s all we can do, and that should be enough in which to secure life, liberty, and happy trails in this, our valley.

Cable locks now secure the battery boxes