O Come Let Us Assemble

I think it’s very healthy to spend time alone.You need to know how to be alone and not defined by another person. Olivia Wilde

We don’t get a lot of snow in Western Washington in the lower elevations along the Puget Sound. When we do, it generally falls in January and February. However, a few weeks ago there were snow flurries here where I live, and heavier snow storms were wreaking havoc up in the mountain passes. While I don’t usually worry about shoveling snow by hand, last year I found the snow wetter and heavier than normal. It was what is often referred to as “widow-maker snow,” and I am at an age where that certainly feels a lot more prophetic than poetic.

Consequently, I drove around to our local hardware and big box stores and discovered, much to my dismay, that others had been quicker on the draw and scarfed up all the decently priced snow blowers that had been in stock. That meant I had to order mine online and have it delivered, which is what I did.

I knew it would have to be assembled, but I never worry about things like that. I’m not exactly a mechanical genius, but I do know how to read instructions and watch educational videos. I know the difference between a sledge hammer and a screw driver (one drives screws in a LOT faster), so I never approach the assemblage of goodies with fear or trepidation. 

I do, however, approach such tasks with caution, for it seems I have a smattering of dyslexia when it comes to reading diagrams. I simply cannot convert a two dimensional drawing into a three dimensional activity. I also have a knack for always (and I do mean “always”) putting things together backwards or reversed if that option is possible. The snow blower was no exception. I attached the handles quickly. What could be simpler than four bolts and their corresponding knobs?

Silly question! The middle handle has a “guide” for a rod which, as I discovered, I’d placed wrong-side-down. OK, it was a quick fix, but still a typical mistake. Then I attached the top handle, only to learn I’d missed a step, and then after correcting that error, discerned that I had installed that handle upside down and backwards, too. Uff da!

Oh well. I took things in stride. I know my skills and proclivities, and so things like this simply don’t cause me any grief. On the contrary, they cause me to chuckle. It isn’t an “I don’t care,” kind of laugh. I do care. But I don’t take myself so seriously that I can’t enjoy the challenge of overcoming my own shortcomings and completing a task for which I may not be well suited. 

I like the pride that accompanies an accomplishment (not to be confused with the pride of one’s ego), and the victory is even sweeter when I know I am having the last laugh over illustrators and translators whose sole goals are seemingly to thwart people like me with pictures and instructions that often make no sense! As young Kevin MacCallister says, “Take that, you filthy animals!”

There will likely be a lot of assembling taking place over the next few weeks as folks find themselves opening packages marked “Some Assembly Required.” Don’t sweat it. Slow and steady wins the race. It is, in some ways, a metaphor of the season, isn’t it?

Jesus came into the world with some assembly required. Joseph and Mary had to plan and assemble a trip to Bethlehem. Angels assembled over the hills, singing their carols to shepherds who then had to relocate, assembling around a manger. Magi bearing gifts (none of which required assembling, we should note) traveled across moors and mountains “following yonder star,” assembled in Jerusalem, then in Bethlehem, then skedaddled before Herod could have them or the Holy Family disassembled!

No matter what your holiday gatherings look like this year, know that life comes with some assembly required. It did for Jesus; it does for us. May God bless you whenever, wherever, and with whomever you assemble here in these, our most blessed valleys. Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, and (soon) Happy New Year!

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

Oh, Go Ahead; Let Your Light Shine!

Gratitude can transform common days into thanksgivings, turn routine jobs into joys, and change ordinary opportunities into blessings. William Arthur Ward

The lights are up. We had a couple of nice days following Thanksgiving, and while I wasn’t in the mood to decorate for Christmas, the weather around here does not wait for moods. I looked at the weather app on my phone and saw a line of unpleasant weather lined up for the next week and a half (and if I don’t like putting up decorations in good weather, I assure you that I absolutely abhor doing so when the weather turns “frightful”), so I gathered up our flock of outdoor delights, untangled them, and hung them where I’ve always hung them. I’m nothing if not unoriginal.

Anyway, the lights are up. It’s not a tough job, to be honest. I have lighting nets that go over the barberry bushes that line our front yard and driveway, and the Japanese maple that anchors the entrance to our drive. The wreath was carefully hung over the garage, with swags of lighted garland stretched out like angel’s wings. It’s not much, but it’s what we can plug into the outlet without blowing circuits or requiring the local power company to fire up their nuclear plants.

The lights are up. Or at least they were (to my satisfaction) when my life partner stepped out to inspect the fruits of my labor. “The nets are upside down,” she said. 

I explained that the space between the barberry bushes is such that the cords that connect one net to another forced me to stretch them across like power lines between poles. The problem, she pointed out, is that each cord comes with an ugly sun-bright yellow caution tag. “If you hang the nets with the cord at the bottom, it will look less ugly,” she explained.

My Viking blood began to boil, but fortunately it was too cold outside to mumble anything other than, “Yes, I see what you mean” through my frozen lips. So I took the extra three minutes it required to flip the nets onto their proverbial heads (or, in this case, feet), and I am happy to report that everything does, indeed, look better.

The lights are up. There is a cranky side to my soul that objects to the hoopla and folderol surrounding the Christmas season. As a stickler for tradition, I note for the record here that what society calls the “Christmas Season” is (in my own Episcopal Church tradition) the season of Advent, but it would be easier to stop the moon or tides from rising than to convince the world around us that this time of year is about anything other than Santa, reindeer, elves, and ghosts of seasons past. So be it.

There is a cranky side to my soul, indeed, but if I ignore it, it goes back to sleep pretty quickly. Like an old watchdog, it hears a strange noise, takes a moment to sound an alarm, and as soon as the owner of the house looks out the window, the hound lays its head back in its furry paws, returning to dreams of chasing rabbits or squirrels, knowing there is nothing more to do until the Master calls.

The month of December is short, cold, dark, and miserable enough that I don’t need to add the weight of my own grumblings to the load others are under. The lights are up. They are an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace. As cold and as dark as things may seem outwardly, there is a warmth and a light burning inwardly.

While Jesus does urge us to pray in secret and not wear our religion on our sleeves, in other places he encourages us to “let your light shine so that others may see the good you do, putting your spotlight on God in heaven” (Matthew 5:16, my paraphrase).

So the lights are up. They’re hung right-side up and (true story), the weather app has changed all the terrible, horrible, rainy-wet, no-good days that had been predicted to sunny days here in this, our valley. It’s a miracle and the lights are up. Amen!

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

Would You Rather be Thor, or Happy?

In order that people may be happy in their work, these three things are needed: They must be fit for it. They must not do too much of it. And they must have a sense of success in it. John Ruskin, Philosopher

My first visit to Montana took place sometime in the 1960s. I was a young teen and our family made the trip from Seattle up to someplace near Whitefish to visit with friends. We had a delightful time wandering through the woods and go-carting around their property. 

The weather was hot and dusty, so we washed down a lot of that dust with cold, refreshing lemonade (and totally ignored the grime with which our bodies had become caked). We knew we’d get a bath or shower sometime down the road, but that wasn’t anything for teenage boys and/or girls to worry over whilst out and about on vacation.

When night fell, we kids decided to sleep outside under the Big Sky. We had no desire to spend those delightful hours of darkness indoors listening to the adults yammer on and on about things that certainly don’t interest teens.

We explored the stars, finding and identifying the Big Dipper, Orion’s belt, the North Star, and other astronomical phenomena. I’m sure we saw a few shooting stars, too, before the forces of gravity and fatigue pulled our eyelids into the closed and locked condition more commonly known as sleep. I do recall seeing some lightning off in the distance, over the mountains. Michael, leader of we night-time porch-tenders, told us it was heat lightning, so we gave it no further thought.

At least we gave it no further notice until the stars disappeared, having been (apparently) replaced by storm clouds. We were awakened by a symphonic explosion of thunder and lightning direct from Thor himself, and a downpour against which Noah’s little adventure surely paled in comparison! In the nano-second or two it took us to jump up (still cocooned in our sleeping bags) and scramble into the house (if hopping madly in the aforementioned sleep-sacks counts as “scrambling”), we were so drenched the Loch Ness Monster would have seemed as dry as a Gila Monster in comparison!

Memories.

As we approach the holiday season, it occurs to me that we adults tend to focus on everything we need to “do.” There are gifts to purchase and/or ship; there are meals to plan and buy for. Our helpful news media remind us how much more these things will “cost” compared to a year, decade, or century ago. Mental health advocates will provide us with checklists of things to do or avoid to keep the holidays as stress free as possible (as if having one more checklist to go over will reduce that stress). And, of course, there is all the travel that needs doing, and all the complications the travel industry, staffing, and weather will impose upon those who really want to get from point A to B, and back again in a timely manner.

It’s funny, and I’d never really thought of it this way before, but as kids, we had “staff” to take care of all those details. They were our parents and guardians. Maybe we were relegated to the back seats of the car, but so is the President. So is the Pope! Our parents managed our calendars, our meals, our transportation, packing, etc. We simply got to enjoy the ride. And our jobs, when you got right down to it, was to keep busy and stay out of trouble. Our parents patched our wounds, kissed our boo-boos, and always sent us back out to chase butterflies, get dirty, and keep on keeping on.

I think the key to a happier holiday season is to simply take a step back and accept what it is we’re “fit for,” not do too much of it, and have a sense of accomplishment when it’s done. Forget trying to have (or make) a “perfect” holiday season. “Perfect is the enemy of good” (so be good for goodness sake). 

Let God be God. Do what you can, don’t do too much, and appreciate what you’ve done here in this, our valley. Do that, and you’ll not become a Thor loser, even if it storms on your holiday.

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

Don’t Let the Jingle Jangle Your Nerves

Silence is the element in which great things fashion themselves together. Thomas Carlyle

OK, the Great Pumpkin is behind us, turkeys are flying from the grocer’s freezers, and the number of Black Friday events has multiplied to a point that seems, well, pointless. The other day we recovered the hour we had lost last Spring (as if time has ever stopped, backed up, or sprung forward). The sun has pulled a blanket of clouds over its face (having gone South for the winter along with the migratory birds), and peeks out from beneath the covers every now and then just to see if we’re still here.

We humans don’t take the hint, of course. Where nature tells us it is time to settle down, rest, and recuperate from the frenetic pace we set in Spring, Summer, and Autumn, we don’t. Like a child hyped up on too much sugar and candy, many yell back at Mother Nature, “You’re not the boss of me!” and set about to make as big a mess and as much noise as they want to.

Yes, I know everyone complains about Christmas displays up and running before the Back to School specials at the end of summer. I know we complain about the confluence of various holidays between Labor Day and New Year. We complain, but what can we actually do about any of it? 

Nothing – and that’s OK. 

We can complain about it, if we wish. We can move someplace where such matters don’t exist (like Guam, Wake Island, or Mars), if we wish. We can let it bother us, if we wish. We can bury our heads in the sand and ignore the chaos, if we wish. 

Or we can put on our big girl or big boy pants and accept that we live in a weird world, and just because chaos is for sale, we don’t need to buy it; just because chaos is visible, we don’t need to stare at it; just because chaos is bursting out all around us, there is no attending shock-wave with which we need to actually deal.

I will confess that I hum or whistle holiday music year-round. I do it spontaneously when the mood strikes. I do it quietly and to myself. It may not always be the “right time of year” in which to do it, but so what? If it brings me joy, it brings me joy. Shall I let some fuddy-duddy bring me down with a sneer or scowl? Heck no! On the contrary, that would be more likely to increase the mirth of my soul (I never said I was a nice person).

No, I really try not to let the wackiness of the world we live in get me down. I have enough of those periods without any outside help. What I do find helpful is noting what my environment is doing to me and asking what I need to do (if anything) in response – for my own health and peace of mind. 

If hype, noise, and chaos is causing my blood pressure to rise and my nerves to fray, I seek out a quiet place at home, or car, or the sanctuary of my church. Churches are marvelously quiet places between Sundays. It’s too bad so many of them need to be locked up for security or protection from thieves and vandals. But they can be wonderful places to go when one needs relief from the assaults of a jingly, jangly world. We can also set up small sacred spaces in our homes if church space isn’t available.

As for the season of Happy Hallo-Thanks-mas, it is what it is. It is only a bother if I decide I need to do something about it. Fortunately, I don’t. Controlling the world is above my pay-grade (and a task for which I am marvelously unsuited). 

No, my job isn’t so much to change the world, but to ask God to change me and pray that the end result of that undertaking may make the world a better place in the process. Until then, I’ll just make space for the sound of silence here in this, our valley.

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

When the Rubber Hits the Road

A man has made at least a start on discovering the meaning of human life when he plants shade trees under which he knows full well he will never sit. D. Elton Trueblood

The other day I was headed home from my weekly book study group. The streets were damp from a light drizzle that had recently fallen. I was driving uphill, so as I rounded a corner I added a smidge more gas with the accelerator and felt the tires spin. 

When I got home I walked around the truck and gave the tires a close inspection. They still had plenty of tread on them; I have really stopped doing much driving, what with retirement and the pandemic-induced home-body I’ve become. The problem wasn’t the quality or depth of the tread, so I had to delve deeper into the mystery of the spinning rubber.

Ah; rubber! I put my tactile sensors to work and, lo, there it was! The tires may not have had much wear, but they were getting a bit long in the tooth, so to speak. I felt around and discerned they had lost their elasticity. They’d become like old pencils whose erasers only smudge the marks one is trying to clean up or, worse yet, tear the paper when one rubs too hard.

The tread is willing, I mused, but the grip is weak.

With winter making its approach, I decided to run down to the local tire center and get some replacements. They cost more than I’d wanted to spend, of course, but the peace of mind that comes with a fraction more traction is priceless. 

The lobby was fairly still and subdued. A television was tuned to a sports channel. The volume was low, but the voices of the on-air opinionists would puncture the quiet every now and then as if screaming opinions would make them sound more believable. Fortunately, God blessed me with a capacity to tune out the pontification of pundits – it’s my superpower.

I scrolled through my phone to pass away the time as the waiting room had no magazines with which to thumb through. It may seem more sanitary that way, but I think customer sanity is being overlooked. Nevertheless, as I scrolled, a gentleman ambled up to where I was sitting and began to make small-talk.

For those who don’t know me, I confess I’ve never been good at small talk. Once I get past the current weather conditions, my quiver of conversational arrows is empty. I think social anxiety sends any freshly oxygenated blood straight from my head to my toes so that the relative vacuum that normally exists between my ears becomes super-charged, causing eyes, ears, and lips to close, and my soul to spin away into the remaining Twilight Zone of my existence.

Against that impulse for survival, however, I found myself looking into the gentleman’s eyes (for he was wearing a mask). It wasn’t chit-chat he was after. 

I closed the news app I’d been perusing and slipped my phone into my pocket. We continued to exchange a few pleasantries, and then the conversation went deeper. The details are unimportant, but I learned the gentleman lives alone. His wife is in memory care and he is approaching ninety. He wasn’t being gabby, it turns out; he was just thankful that his leaky tire had gotten him out of his empty house. He was hungry for company.

“Company.” The root of the word is “pan,” bread. In a world where pundits scream at one another, where politicians lie about one another, where people bury their noses in their phones and flip one another off on the road, my friend just hungered to make a connection that didn’t involve radio waves or electronic wizardry. 

As he got ready to leave (once the nail had been removed from his tire and patched “good as new”) we wished each other well. He had air in his tires and a spring in his step.

The problem with our world is that we spend too much time spinning our wheels.  My truck needed new tires; I needed a new attitude! A better attitude could help us get to where we’re going (and give us better traction, to boot) whenever the rubber hits the road here in this, our valley.

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

 

The Lady in the Ivy

 

Fears are educated into us, and can, if we wish, be educated out. Karl A. Menninger 

I was doing some yard work a couple of days ago and came across what, at first, appeared to be a crime scene. While I normally write in prose, I found the event inspired the flow of some poetic juices. Don’t worry; Emily Dickenson, Robert Frost, Carl Sandburg, Amanda Gorman need not fear my joining their august ranks anytime soon. I do hope you’ll enjoy it, though.

O lady in the ivy, 

Just who the heck are you? 

I found you as I trimmed the vines

Your visage shocked me, true.

I had no plans to find a thing

Beyond the tangled vines

So when I came across your face

I gained deep worry lines.

At first I thought I’d found a skull

You had a bony hue 

I pulled away more leaves of green

So I’d see more of you.

The paleness of the skull I viewed –

My eyes did pierce the screen –

Of foliage that once hid your face,

‘twas mostly still unseen.

I wondered ‘bout the grizzly end

That’d put you in my care

That I should find you in my yard

Beneath that ivy lair.

The spiders scurried to and fro,

I made my way to you,

My sheers drew closer to your scalp

O’er which the ivy grew.

With tenderness I pulled the vines

Which o’er your face had grown

I hoped that I would do no harm

To you who lay alone.

I said a prayer, so quick, so fast,

Your welfare my concern

That I could free your cold remains

And who you were, discern.

I plucked away the vines and twigs,

Your face came fully clear,

I fin’ly knew what I had found,

I found your smile so dear.

Once unearthed, you were in my grasp,

A treasure I had found;

You weren’t a skull at all, my dear

Discovered ‘neath that mound.

The woman ‘neath the canopy

Of ivy, leaves, and vines, 

Was nothing but a statue’s face,

Erasing worry lines.

I brought her out from her drear tomb,

Exposed her to the sun,

And told her now she’s free at last

The ivy battle: Done!

While Halloween is a few weeks off, I hope this puts you in the mood. This was a “fun find” and sent me in a direction I don’t normally go. It was a good reminder that things aren’t always what they seem; it is good to continue digging past our fears and accepting the answers we discover in the process here in this, our valley.

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

Valley of the Shadow

NOTE: Every now and then during the month of October, I will be posting a very brief short story with a Halloween or Horror theme. If that’s not your cup of tea, please feel free to move along. 

Sergei was a man who feared no man. Neither did he fear wind, storm, or things that go bump in the night. He did not fear to walk through the valley of the shadow of death, either, for he knew he was the meanest SOB in that valley. So it came as something of a surprise when a lonely little lamb ambled up to him one day to bid him good morning.

Sergei was not accustomed to any person offering him greetings, let alone a fuzzy little lamb, so he stopped in his tracks, stared straight into the face of the wooly critter before him and asked, “What the heck do YOU want?” His response was more of a sneer than a question, but the lamb took no notice of that and answered, “Nothing more than to offer you a good day, my brother.”

Sergei was an only child. He had no brothers or sisters, cousins, or kin of any sort, so he prepared to bite off the head of the wee one who dared speak to him as he made his way through the dark valley upon which he was stomping. Before he took his first bite, though, the lamb spoke one more time, with timorous voice, “If you would let me pass, dear sir, I will grant you one wish, after which you may do with me what you will.”

“I wish you would fill my tummy with your delicious self,” howled Sergei with delight. “I have outsmarted you, you scrawny white Brillo pad!”

“As you wish,” replied the lamb, upon which time she blinked three times and -- poof -- transported herself immediately into Sergei’s belly, whereupon she began to feast on him from the inside out!

It appears the lamb had pulled the wool over Sergei’s eyes! Bwah ha ha!!!