Soaring in the Valley

Behold the birds of the air; they do not sow, reap, or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? – Jesus

I was driving over the Norris Hill with a friend and looking high above the hill we saw a flock of large, white birds flying around quite aimlessly. Manny gazed at them for a moment and said, “There’s a flock of pelicans up there.” He paused and added, “… they just seem to love to fly, don’t they?”

I peered up at the aerialists and had to agree. They were not flying south for the winter or north for the summer; they didn’t appear to be looking for the river or lake, nor did they seem to be on the hunt for food. They were in a formation of sorts. That is, they were flying loosely together in one direction and then another, but their turns were slow and lazy, and not quite in sync with one another if one was expecting the military precision of the Blue Angels, but certainly their aerial choreography had a sweet rhythm to it.

As we climbed the hill heading home toward Ennis I could see they were enjoying the thermal drafts carrying them up; when they got as high as they felt appropriate they turned and began their slow spiral back to a lower altitude and then, once again, they would find a draft to carry them high aloft for another ride into the wild blue yonder.

Looking back on that trip, I couldn’t help but recall Jesus’ remark about birds. They do not plant, nor do they reap, nor do they store up in barns or fruit cellars, and yet God takes care of them just fine.

That doesn’t mean birds don’t have to work for their supper, of course. Pelicans have to go fishing, robins have to go worming, and hummingbirds seek nectar. All creatures, including sloths and nematodes have to take care of themselves for the sake of survival. The point is they don’t seem to fret over it.

Out on my deck I have a Valley Girl tomato plant I bought at the Farmer’s Market in town one recent Saturday. She had some nice flowers in June and today has three tomatoes. I was disappointed in the numbers as I was hoping for more. I wondered if I should have gotten several plants; maybe she craves company. She has a wonderful home and, when I caught a deer trying to make a meal of her I chased it off the deck and blocked the stairway. I have become quite maternal over my baby (and her babies).

I keep an eye on her soil and see to it she has the water she needs; I protect her from predators and the wind; I chat with her each day to see how she is doing. I have also gone online to research tomato basics to ensure I am meeting her needs.

Growing up I was taught to remove suckers from tomato plants but learned it is better to leave them alone. They do not steal nutrients but will produce fruit of their own – I did not know that!

So, if I – the poster child for Brown-Thumb-Gardeners – can figure how to take care of a silly little tomato plant, how much more is God – the Author-and-Giver-of-Life – able to take care of the silly little creatures we are?

Like the birds, we each need to do our part to make sure there is food on the table and a roof over our heads. I believe God created us to be creative and productive; I also know that not all “fear and anxiety” is created equal – some of us suffer from mental health disorders of which fear and anxiety is a part.

Jesus was not addressing mental illness, but the sin of avarice – greed – which steals our joy because we fear losing what we have and believe we need to have even more in order to “be” happy.

To we avaricious types (and that afflicts most of us, I suspect) Jesus says, “Look at the Pelicans. With their wings they rise on thermals and return safely to the earth. They let go, and they let God.”

I want to fill my wings with God in this, our valley.

Bullets in the Valley

The kingdom suffers violence, and the violent take it by force. Jesus

For the past few weeks I have been in beautiful downtown Salt Lake City for our church’s national convention. We meet every three years to see where we are, look to where we’re headed, and discerning what we need to do to get there.

I have been impressed with a number of things about both the convention, which was being held at the Salt Palace Convention Center, and the city. Our motel was only four blocks from the Palace, but the blocks here are humungous. Apparently they are each an acre as the city founders wanted everyone to have space for a garden.

The streets are also very wide as the city planners, led by Brigham Young, did not want drivers to be tempted to curse while turning or maneuvering their horse drawn wagons. The best part of all this was that I really got to put my new fitness trainer to work counting steps and stairs as I chose to walk rather than availing myself of the shuttle. There were a few days in which that seemed less than wise as temperatures hit triple digits, but I survived and felt pretty good in the process.

One of the non-convention events I participated in was a march against gun-violence. There were about 1,500 to 2,000 people gathered for the march; we were led by the bishop of Utah, Scott Hayashi (who was nearly killed as a young man when he was shot by a robber while working the counter at a convenience store), and marched from the Salt Palace to Pioneer Park and back.

The point of the march was not to promote the end of gun ownership, but to encourage folks to seek solutions to the epidemic of gun violence. Simple laws requiring universal back-ground checks, cooling-off periods, gun registrations, and the like have been shown to be effective in reducing gun-violence in states that enact those laws. They don’t eliminate gun violence, but they do reduce the number of deaths and injuries.

If all life matters, and I believe it does, then doesn’t it make sense to work together to address the problems directly and find solutions?

I have never been shot, but I have been shot at. I stood on the fire escape of an old flea-bag motel in Spokane – I was a cop back then – and watched the muzzle blast of a handgun fired through the window while the bullet went whizzing past me. The gunman was a fellow with mental health problems; he then turned the gun on himself, ending the standoff.

Winston Churchill once confessed that there is nothing as exhilarating as being shot at and missed, and I agree.

Another time I stepped into the back yard of a home where a counselor was asking for help with a troubled client. As I passed through a low opening in the hedge surrounding the yard, I found myself standing twenty feet from a young man holding a 30-30 lever action rifle. If he had wanted to, he could easily have taken me out. Instead, he chose to end his own life right then and there (and I am still haunted by the memories of that most tragic event).

No one believes laws will prevent firearms from getting into the hands of criminals, but criminals aren’t the only people using guns in acts of violence. Of the 30,000 gun-related deaths each year, about a third are homicides, while two thirds are suicides (with a smattering of accidents and unintentional fatalities recorded each year). That coincided with my experience.

I know that gun ownership does save lives occasionally. I saw a report just the other day of a former CNN reporter and her husband being robbed at gun-point in their motel room. The couple were armed, a gun-fight broke out in which the robber was killed. The husband suffered a gun-shot wound in the melee, but he (and his wife) survived.

Jesus recognized the human propensity to solve problems with violence and power. Human history shows us just how ineffective that route can be to bringing about peace.

If life matters, and I think it does, perhaps it is time to turn down the rhetoric and lower our voices, and to start talking with one another here in this, God’s Valley. There has simply GOT to be another way.

Chirps in the Valley

Keep, O Lord, your household the Church in your steadfast faith and love … Book of Common Prayer

I woke up this morning just before dawn; I was awakened by the cheerful chirping of a local bird. Not being an ornithologist, I don’t know what it was, but it was making me an ornery-thologist. I really wasn’t in a mood to open my peepers at four o’clock in the a.m.

Why on earth would a bird be singing at that hour of the morning? Is she singing praises to Brother Sun for his rising, and Sister Moon for her bedding down? Is she screaming at the chicks to get a move on (to catch the proverbial worm), or warning the aforementioned worms to head for shelter? Or is it simply a matter of instinct and tradition – chirping away at the break of day because that’s what all her feathery ancestors have done from time immemorial?

The reasons probably don’t matter. What’s interesting, though, is that I heard the bird at all. I have discovered that my hearing is no longer all it was cracked up to be (good egg that I am), and was never all that good to begin with. I depend on people speaking to me clearly, with good enunciation, pronunciation, pace and volume.

For those who’ve grown up in the Valley Girl era, enunciation has become a lost art (and I’m not just being a cranky old coot when I say that). People slur their words, drop syllables and consonants, and end sentences on an uptalk, so statements often sound like questions. They also tend to over-use the word “like” so that everything, like, becomes metaphorical if taken, like, literally.

I complain, but it isn’t because of the dialect. I think dialects are cool. The issue for me isn’t what they say or how they say it, but rather that I have trouble understanding what is being said. The problem is mine; the frustration is mine; the lack of skillful hearing is mine; the presbyotic ears are mine (and yes, presbyotic is a word – it means old ears, referring to the decline of hearing that occurs with advancing age).

The solution, of course, would be to run into the local hearing center, have my ears tested, and perhaps being fitted for hearing aids. To do that, however, would require several things. First would be a desire to hear something. Those “somethings” might include things like my spouse or the television. Well believe me; they’ve both got lots of unused volume left, so I am not sure that’s an issue.

Second would be a decision to spend money fixing my problem when it would be so much easier if the mumbling world would only learn to SPEAK UP!

I mean, if our computers and typewriters have Caps-Locks, why can’t we just ask people to use their vocal Caps-Locks when talking to one another? Oh sure, it might sound like we’re all mad and it could lead to disagreements and fights, but isn’t that better than being bored by a case of the incomprehensibles?

Maybe I should just admit I am getting older, but I’m not sure I am ready to take the leap into hearing aids, even if they might help me to hear and understand the world around me better – just as eyeglasses keep me from walking into poles, driving into tourists (I would never think of running over most of the locals), or mistaking inanimate object for people a la Mr. Magoo.

I will confess that not everything I fail to hear is caused by a hearing loss; sometimes it is caused by hearing too much. I occasionally suffer from an auditory overload. When I am writing, for instance, I need quiet. I cannot write with music playing or the television on in the background. I know there are folks who are the complete opposite – who need the background noise if they are going to concentrate, but I am not one of them.

For me, Silence truly IS golden; I treasure it with all my heart; a Miranda warning’s unnecessary, for I’ve turned silence into an art!

As long as the chirps of the birds continue to wake me up at the crack of the dawn, I think I’ve still got time to be cheap in this, our presbyotic valley. 

Parking in the Valley

I don’t much like God when he gets under a roof. John Wayne

My wife and I were driving into Bozeman the other day to take care of some errands. I needed to stop at a shop downtown and was fretting over whether or not there would be parking close by. I don’t know why that would worry me so; I’ve lived in and around towns like Seattle, Detroit, and San Francisco and, believe me, parking anywhere in Bozeman is a snap.

Never-the-less, I fret over such simple matters for little or no reason. It isn’t rational; it’s just the way I am wired.

So it was very much to my delight and surprise that God answered my unasked prayer and provided a parking spot right in front of the business into which I was going to pop. I swung my little beater into the spacious slot – didn’t even have to do any parallel parking maneuvers – and was quite pleased with myself and with God (who had anticipated my need and desire with exquisite timing and precision).

As I was straightening the car out, however, my better half pointed out a car on the street had her backup lights on and, apparently, had intended to back into the spot I had just filled.

Without thinking (well, that’s not true; I did go through about a nanosecond of contemplation) I put on my signal and began to vacate the parking space.

At that exact moment I saw the car door fly open like the escape hatch to an F-1 fighter. The driver’s eyes were aflame and riveted on me like a mongoose on a cobra. We locked peepers long enough for the smooth second hand action of a Swiss watch to move half a hair’s breadth, at which point she looked down and saw something for which she was completely unprepared.

I swept my right hand in a grand arc, inviting her to take the space I was in the process of vacating. You see, I don’t steal spaces. It wasn’t a matter of first-come-first-serve, or you-snooze-you-lose; I had simply focused on grabbing a spot and when I realized I had unintentionally outmaneuvered a competitor, I chose the more gallant, noble course and let her have it (only noting later she was ready to let ME have it – and I don’t mean the space).

As she parked her car, I crossed the road (about fifty more feet in all) and grabbed a spot that was nearly as close and no less convenient in the larger scheme of things. Furthermore, it meant I could add some steps to my day, inching closer to my “ten thousand steps per day” goal. So it turned out to be a win-win for everyone.

I’m not sure why people get upset about things like parking places. I find it better, overall, to yield to the needs of others (real or imagined) and less so to the gratification of my own ego or desires.

It is nice to park close when one is in a hurry, I admit, but the difference between one spot and another is generally pretty miniscule.

As I thought about the incident, it occurred to me that I was being judged, not by my intentions, but by my actions. And isn’t that always the way? No one cares what a person’s intentions are; what matters is what we do. If we make a mistake, do we own it and apologize for it, or do we make excuses?

I would like to think my intentions are always pretty good, but I know my actions are sometimes less so. That can come from fatigue, inattention, or just plain stupidity.

Rather than compound the problem by denying one has done something wrong, it seems better to own up to it and make whatever amends are possible. In this case, it meant recognizing I had taken someone’s parking space, vacating it as quickly and as safely as possible, and signaling my apology as gracefully as I could.

I don’t know what she thought about it – if anything at all. I just know that as I crossed the street she and her friends went about their business without so much as a wave or a by-your-leave, and that’s OK.

The smallest kindness can work wonders in this, God’s valley, even if no one notices.

Stepping Lively in the Valley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hooked in the Valley

Be yourself; everyone else is already taken – Oscar Wilde

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bats O'er the Valley

Talk will not boil rice – Chinese Proverb

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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