To Hear Our Children Call Out, "Papa!"

“And you shall know that I am the Lord, when I open your graves, and bring you up from your graves, O my people. I will put my spirit within you, and you shall live, and I will place you on your own soil; then you shall know that I, the Lord, have spoken and will act, says the Lord.”
Ezekiel 37:13-14 NRSV
For several years now I have had the extreme pleasure of hearing it, of being the recipient of it, of savoring it, of cherishing it every time our granddaughter, Cailin, said it: “Papa!” With that one simple word, she extends her arms up towards me with the clear and expectant desire that I should pick her up and kiss her, twirling her around in such a way that the world stops spinning around us. Ah, the wonders of being a grandfather!
But, yesterday, something new happened. Our youngest granddaughter, Ava, did the same thing she had observed her older sister doing. She held up her arms to me and said, “Papa!” With a whoop of delight I scooped her into my arms and twirled her around till she giggled and I nearly dizzily fell (Children are soooo much better at the spinning than adults!). Ava made my day in the same way the rising sun warms the Springtime earth, just by toddling towards me, arms held open wide and voice finding joy and expectancy in saying, “Papa!”
Then I wondered, ‘Can it be any less exciting for God than it is for me?’ Every time a child holds their arms up to God, every time a child trusts their happiness and welfare to God, every time a child looks into God’s face and without doubt or hesitation says, “Papa”, can God be any less full of happiness? Can God be any less full of laughter?
There are so many ways that we live each day exempting God from our journey: Prayers without meaning; Choices without prayer; ‘I can do it’ attitudes; Belligerent, foot-stomping tantrums of self-certainty; Lack of hospitality for the stranger right next to us; Trust in tradition over seeking the movement of the Spirit; Religious fervor without regard to the actual need of faith; and the list goes on and on. Yet, God remains faith-full, standing at the threshold of our heart’s home, listening closely for that moment when, out of the blue, we turn to God, hold up our arms and say, “Papa!”
For moments such as this, the grave is opened. For moments such as this, the dry bones come together. For moments such as this, hope overcomes despair. For moments such as this, the Spirit comes into our lives and nothing remains the same. In God’s grace and love, we are given a home not built with human hands and the land yields a bounty of joy inconceivable in human imagination.
“ . . . then you shall know that I, the Lord, have spoken and will act, says the Lord,” are more than just words at the end of a prophetic text. They are the embodiment of life breathed, promises fulfilled, and decisive action taken on our behalf, all that we might know the wonder of God . . . twirling us around in the midst of the stars with Child-like giggling filling the heavens.
“Papa” is the apocalyptic pronouncement of God’s people coming home for the very first time all over again – and the Spirit’s affirmation that there is Good News to share in every age. Thanks be to God for a granddaughter’s innocent glee!
Your servant in Christ,
Pastor Don

Memorial Day

The first thing I noticed driving into my hometown yesterday were the flags. On every power pole, on every block, at about a forty-five degree angle beginning at about six feet off the ground, was stationed 'The Stars and Stripes' or, more appropriately stated, an American Flag. Approximately three feet by four feet in size, the flags along the mile of Main Street which is Marissa, Illinois, were an impressive reminder of the reason for the celebration, which was Memorial Day. Driving through town, hurrying to make it to the Memorial Day Service being held in the Marissa Cemetery at the Veteran's Memorial, all of the flags passing by my windows in rapid succession, first some on the left, then some on the right, got me to thinking about the lives, dreams, and visions they represented.

Are there enough American Flags flown in the United States of America on Memorial Day to signify every person who has died in defense of our country? Can there ever be enough? I was a History major in college, but never thought of it this way. If you began counting from the time the United States was being settled by the immigrants, not to mention the Native Americans whose lives were lost defending the land against the invasion and aggression of the immigrants, how many people's lives have been lost in defense of our country? Can we ever really know? How many lives are lost yearly in covert operations whose code names and assignments we can only imagine? And what of the lives lost in support of those who do battle, those whose places in the annals of history are in places like a coal mine in Marissa, a farm field in Darmstadt, or a factory in Belleville? Are there enough flags to go around?

Pulling into the cemetery, I quickly realize the service has begun early due to impending inclement weather, so I bring my car to a quiet stop not too far away, and walk up just in time to hear my father-in-law complete the Invocation. Following his prayer he introduced the keynote speaker, the Mayor of Marissa, Jerry Cross, who is an old friend of mine from my High School years. Jerry spoke on many of the 'traditional themes' of Memorial Day, but the one thing that most caught my attention was when he said, "I have never worn a uniform in defense of my country, but my son has served in the United States Marines." He then went on to detail how his appreciation of what is offered up for our liberties, what is suffered for our freedom, and what is endured for a lasting legacy of the pursuit of happiness, has greatly deepened because of what his son and his Marine comrades have taught him.

Hmmmmm. It is not the number of flags you fly, but that you fly the flag. It is not that every life is marked with a flag, but that every flag is marked with life.

As Jerry completed his comments and the Honor Guard fired their salute, the trumpet sounded 'Taps', allowing the notes to drift across the marble of the Veteran's Memorial then out and through the graves of the saints, the soldiers whose names are etched deeper in the hearts of those attending than any stone mason could etch into tombstones. Tears flowed without shame as my gratitude for deliverance by the hands of others could find no more fitting tribute for their sacrifice. Looking up from right in front of me with eyes also flowing with tears, our granddaughter, Mary Cailin, asked me for my handkerchief. A bit surprised, but not wanting her to feel awkward, I said to her, "It's all right, Cailin, Papa's crying, too. We have a lot for which to be thankful." To which she responded, "I remember."

I remember. Every flag is a beacon, every flag is a remembrance. Every flag is a person, every flag is a nation.

If our seven year old granddaughter is capable of such remembering, maybe there is hope for the rest of us. In counting the flags, in counting the cost, in counting the lives, remember the past and become part of the future. For in failing to remember we are condemned to the past, and in failing to become part of the future we give it over to others.

My deepest thanks to all the Veterans, living and dead, whose sacrifice allows such pondering and whose love of Nation inspires mine.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

On the occasion of our youngest son's 17th birthday

In all of God's creative imagination and wisdom, children must bring to God the wry-est of smiles. My mother repeatedly said to me, "I hope your children grow up to be just like you so that you will know what you have done to me!" and, as God would have it, mothers have a way of getting just what they want . . . . . . our children and grandchildren are all perfect, each in their own way, just as is their father. (I am mentally pausing here to let the laughter subside of those who really know me.)

Today is the 17th birthday of our youngest gift of God's perfection among us, Ched, and I cannot let the day pass without saying what is on my heart to him:

My dearest Ched,

I remember the day in May, in South Bend, Indiana, when you were born. We should have known immediately what an interesting journey we were in for with you when, after cutting the umbilical cord, the nurse took you to a scale to weigh you and found you to weigh only about four pounds. The nurse knew the scale was wrong and took you to another scale to weigh you and found you to be healthy and robust at over seven pounds . . . . and you have been living by a different set of scales ever since.

Some people measure life by awards on the wall and, though surely you have already amassed a number of them, you have never been one of those who use such a measuring stick. You have always measured life by the wide diversity of friends around you, the pleasure of listening to music you really like, offering a helpful hand as needed, the pursuit of knowledge which interests you, and the accumulation of wisdom which makes you a better person in the world. Don't ever stop measuring life in such wonderful ways!

Some people believe that being the youngest in the family means that you must have had to grow up in the shadow of those who are before you. Unfortunately, people stuck in such beliefs reflect more of their own challenges than a understanding of who you are. They have never met you. You have never been one to dwell in the shadows of your brothers, you have been (and are) far too busy in the sunshine of God's Light in your life to worry about the shadows others cast. You are as intrigued by the light of the sun as you are curious about the twinkle of the stars. Your life is an undimmed expression of faith, joy and hope, all wrapped up in the tenderness of one who exercises great expectations of what God has yet to reveal in you and through you. You are your own unique light of God in our world and I simply love watching what you are doing to dispel the darkness of the present age.

Some people say that being the youngest of three boys, all who have gone through the same school system, means that you are always having to strive to be better than your brothers were in school. It brings tears to my eyes as I think on how all three of you boys have been your own person throughout your educational and extra-curricular years. As your older brothers before you, you have cut a wide swath in the educational arena, taking the hardest courses, challenging the toughest teachers, and earning the highest grades possible, not because someone else set the standard for you, but because you set high standards for yourself. Equally, on both the field of play and on the stage of group activities, you have earned the respect of advisor and teammate alike in your tenacious capacity to work hard, not only for the sake of personal growth, but for the sake of whole. You do not find it necessary to diminish others in your striving to shine, for you understand the brightness the whole of humanity might offer if everyone works together - and I am humbled by your gracious nature.

Some people say that, at 17, you have a whole lot to learn and little of substance to offer. I say that, at 17, yes, you do have a whole lot to learn, but you, my son, have a substantial wealth of maturity, faith and wisdom to offer all of the 'some peoples' in the world. You have spent 17 years in the fishbowl of a pastor's home, the parsonage or manse as some would call it, and have had to deal with more people with issues of domestic violence, death notifications, hospital emergency calls, marriage crises, non-payment of rent, need for medicine, transients, complaints about the pastor, concerns about the church, and older adults just needing someone to talk to, than anyone would ever, could ever, believe . . . . and always you have treated the ones in need with respect, love and care. Your simple acts of hospitality to the stranger have never made you better than them, but have always made you companions with them in the twistedness of life's journey and, believe me, most folk would rather have a trustworthy caring companion on the journey than all of the well-meaning substantive advice in the world.

I am so proud of you - and of who you are becoming. None of us are the finished product of what God intends in us, but you, at 17, are well on the way. Just as no race in the track meet will ever completely define you, neither will any one event or day contain all that you will become in God. What matters is how you run the race, the tenacity with which you persevere, your capacity to be a gentleman on the track as well as off, your faith in the God who is with you in every step, and your attention to those with whom you share the challenges before you.

We are blessed that you are our son, just as we are blessed with your older brothers. God has made each of you in that most peculiar and particular way which identifies you as one of God's own: Your eyes reflect God's love. On this day I am grateful for all of the basketball games, the soccer games, the track meets, the golf games, the days in the pool, the hours of talking, the projects worked on together, and the times our family has shared laughter and challenge. But, most of all, I am simply, tearfully, joyful that I am blessed, that we are blessed, to call you 'son', for like the Son before you whose actions led His Father to announce from heaven, "With you I am well pleased!" so, too, you are rising from the birthwaters to do what you are gifted to do in God's creation and that is most pleasing to me.

I love you, Ched. Happy 17th birthday!

Dad