A Certified Pilot

Yesterday, driving up to the Cell Phone Lot of the East Terminal at St. Louis International to wait for a friend's arrival, my 'text notification' played (the ESPN theme) letting me know that someone wanted to get in touch with me. Being unusually cautious, I chose not to look at it until I was stopped in the lot . . . and I'm glad that I did.

The text was from our youngest, AFA Cadet 3rd Class Christian Wagner, 'Ched', who is currently on Spring break with his class of Instructor Pilot trainees in Willcox, Arizona, getting in extra flying time in an ideal sailplane setting. Ched's text read:

"I just passed my 'phase check"! Which means you are now talking to the newest certified pilot for the TG-10B sailplane. Now on to instruction!" (which means he is to the final stage of preparation for being an Instructor Pilot in the TG-10B)

While reading his text, two F-15's from the Missouri Air National Guard took off heading East out of Lambert International, rising up off the runway straight across from where I was sitting in my car, then powered quickly into the early afternoon skies leaving the ground shaking in their wake. I texted back to Ched my congratulations, then added, "As if on cue, as I read your text, two F-15's took off here . . . in salute to you, I'm sure." And if the F-15's weren't in salute to Ched, they should have been - at least from this father's vantage point! Ched is doing what I once dreamed of doing: flying. He is experiencing the exhilaration of soaring in the winds of God's Spirit and turning in the currents of God's dynamic creation.

'Proud' is not the appropriate word for what I am felt in that moment. It was something far more tender and powerful, even connected in the essence of awe and humility. As with his brother's before him, if it is even humanly possible, Ched's news made my heart swell with love and wonder. News of a child's accomplishments have a way of doing that to parents, don't they?! And, if so with us as earthly parents, how much more so for God?I'm trying to imagine God doing 'the happy dance' that I do to embarrass our kids when they bring me good news - and, somehow, it's just not happening. Yet, I know in my heart of hearts, God is no less over joyed, no less exuberant when told of things in our lives going well. When was the last time you celebrated a moment with God? When was the last time that God was the first one you wanted to tell when something special happened in your life?

Who knows what might thunder by when you do, but you will never know until you do. God is waiting to hear from you today.

A Messy Desk

My desk is a mess. I've tried cleaning it, but then find that I cannot locate the things I need when I want them. So, the piles multiply like rabbits and the papers spread out much as water runs downhill. I've heard it said that a messy desk is the sign of a busy person. I've also heard it said that a messy desk is the sign of a cluttered mind. I think I'll go with the former over the latter, after all, claiming to be busy opens the door for further accumulation. Right?! Claiming a cluttered mind seems a bit too personal . . . and far too accurate.

Maybe that's the reason Jesus didn't maintain an office: it would have been too much of a distraction. With having to constantly monitor the email requests for healings, the snail mail requests for motivational speaker appearances, the Facebook requests of folks wanting to 'friend' him . . . and the notices of those who are 'unfriending' him because of his controversial statements about the Temple and government, and not to mention tending to the telephone messages Mary Magdalene would have placed in his box from Concerned Citizens for a Renewed Israel and other assorted lobbyists who were demanding of his time and attentions, Jesus just would have never gotten anything else done! On the other hand, maybe having an office would have kept Jesus from being crucified . . . 'cause you can't get angry with or jealous over someone you never see! I guess we'll never know.

Maybe that's why my desk is such a mess: it's the cross I bear for Jesus. My desk is a mess so his never has to be . . . . yeah, that sounds good! I'll go with that. A messy desk is the sacrifice I make so that Jesus' hands are free to do the work he needs to do in our hurting world. A messy desk is my calling, my Via Dolorosa. The crowds may deride me, but I will keep moving forward in service to Jesus, regardless their animosity. The higher the piles, the closer the Kingdom. 'Father, forgive those whose desks are clean, for they know not what they do.'

Looking around this morning, Holy Week must be near. 'Not my will, Lord, but thine be done.' I'm going to grab a cup of coffee and do my best to do Your will, Lord. Grant me faith and strength waddle through the mess, while bearing up under the scrutiny of the Pilate's and Caiaphas' of the world who would judge my worth by the standards others would impose. 'A clean desk will not save you', is now my mantra. May I live it for You, Jesus, with all my heart, mind and soul!

Facebook or Not

Reading through this morning's Facebook posts, I got to wondering about what God thinks of our post-able priorities. Because you can take a picture of something with your cell phone and post it, should you? Because you can type some words about someone or something, should you? Because you are of one bent or another politically, economically, culturally, religiously or socially, and can post ad nauseum about it without fear of direct responsibility for your words or images, should you? I am wondering about our post-able priorities and admit I have no easy answers. I am, after all, a part of it.

How did Jesus deal with all the hype around him? The pro-Rome, anti-Israel sentiments? The 'new-cult' haters? The pro-tradition platform folk? The people who were always passing off opinion as fact? The folks who wanted healing without future encumbrances? The ones who knew well how to complain about the state of the world, but wouldn't constructively engage in being a part of the solution? The folks who complained about the politics of Rome while modeling similar behaviors around Jerusalem?

Would Jesus have answered positively to my Facebook request by pushing the FRIEND button or would he have rathered push the IGNORE button just so he wouldn't have to read my clever posts? It makes me wonder, especially since Jesus displayed such a propensity for personal conversations. Would Jesus even have spent any time on Facebook at all?

In a conversation this morning about Facebook and the incredible amount of time apparently being spent on it, a friend suggested to me that, "Facebook is what you make of it, communication tool or idol." Good words of wisdom.

I can't judge what others do or how they choose to express themselves or their opinions, I can only choose what path I will follow . . . which is essentially what Jesus did in his ministry. I only pray to be half as focused and faithful in living my Baptism as he was amidst all the people with whom he journeyed, Facebook or not.

Magenta

Magenta. I think that's the color I saw this morning as the sun was rising in the midst of the clouds. It was as if the color was being created on the edges of the dawn as the approaching cool-front worked furiously to quiet its presence. Quietly, powerfully beautiful, magenta tickled the darkening skies with joy and anticipation, inviting a response which never came, praying for a change which never occurred. Then, in the next instant, magenta was gone, replaced with the darkening hues of gathering storm. We can't say we weren't given a chance to embrace a different reality, an opportunity to enter a different way in the moments before us, yet before magenta could do its work, grey settled the decision and radiance was ushered into another room.

Magenta.

Magenta got me thinking about how colors are regarded. Think about it. Say the names of some colors: red . . . yellow . . . black . . . white . . . brown. What are the images which come to your mind? The flag? The sunrise? Night? Day? Soil? Leather? Could it be that our culture has also trained us to see much more in colors, even by the mere mention of their names: Republican? Democrat? Communist? Race? Nationality? Ethnicity? At what point did we move from marveling at the hue of a color to color being that which differentiates, separates and defines the human experience?

Recently, while discussing this topic with a really good friend and brother in faith, he said to me, "You have no idea what it means to be black." To which I immediately responded, "And you have no idea what it means to be a white . . . and despised for it." We immediately began laughing, for in both the truth and ludicrousness of the moment, we realized that each of us used our personal experience of color as a shield to hide behind and as a stick with which to beat others. Our cultures have indoctrinated us well.

Maybe that's why I like magenta: to my knowledge, it hasn't shown up on anyone's political map, economic indicator, racial profile, or ethnic differentiation guide. Magenta peeks out at us in the early morning moments of the day and in the late evening whispers of dusk's approach. Magenta. Possibly we would do well to consider the lesson of non-primary colors and set aside our penchant for dividing and defining the human experience by color codes. It seems to have worked out pretty well for God all these years . . . maybe there is something yet to be learned there. Magenta. Thank you, God, for magenta mornings!

Tilth

'Tilth' is the language of farmers and gardeners, referring to the materials (humus) in the soil which both make it loose and enable available fertility. Tilth. It is the way the soil feels, the manner in which the earth works, the capacity of the land itself to provide a home for the seed to sprout and grow.

Tilth isn't something which just happens. Tilth develops as the result of conscientious stewardship of the soil in the blending of last year's crop residues with what is to become this year's crop seedbed. Tilth takes time. One year, one moment of time, one effort is not enough. The development of tilth in the earth takes decades, even generations.

So, why are we surprised when soil which has been mined for every ounce of production it can offer, including the very life of the previous crop itself, doesn't produce well? Why are we offended when cuts appear in fields where water runs from one place to the next for lack of honest faithful stewarding? Why are we saddened when the methods we employ to raise a bumper crop fail for the lack of simple tending to the tilth of the land from which we hope to feed the world? Adding fertilizer only masks our pain, only meets the short-term goal. The earth requires the humus of the season's cycles to have the tilth required to build it for children yet to be born who will eat of its goodness. Tilth.

As it is with the earth, so it is with faith. As it is with the land, so it is with discipleship. As it is with the soil, so it is with the work of God's people. Tend to your faith, your discipleship, your service to the One who knows and creates you, lest in avoiding the need for tilth in your life, you end up with a barren spirit, a life incapable of receiving the goodness of God's Baptismal waters. God waits for the generations of tilth in your life to make all the difference in the journey and feeding of another. So the Kingdom grows. Tilth.

The Well Pump

Dad's well pump 'went out' on Saturday. It broke down completely, never to be used again. Disastrous, right? Not so much, at least not anymore.A number of years ago, both my Dad's home on the farm and my brothers home, which is the main site of our farm, received 'city water'. A rural water district ran lines throughout the countryside, encouraging locals along the way to 'buy' into the opportunity to have this 'new' reliable source of water. Having grown up with only well water and cistern water (and if this doesn't make any sense to you, my explaining it here won't really help you understand), having water available without having to haul it in dry seasons or having to deal with hard water deposits in the water lines was a huge plus. Additionally, at the time the water lines came through the countryside, we were still milking cows and the health requirements of dairy farms stipulated that, if purified water were available, the farm must use it in the milk house and all milking processes. So, the farm got 'city water' and Dad's cattle can be watered with city water until the well pump is replaced. Nice option.

All of which got me to thinking about those people and places who are not nearly so fortunate to have such options. You know those places, where children and mothers walk for miles to get to a source of water (never mind whether it is clean water or not) and then have to carry those few meager gallons back to their home, just to repeat the process all over again the next day. You know those places, where a stream suffices for a laundry, where the same stream is the place of watering for the cattle and sheep who pasture nearby, where that same stream is the place of bathing for communities of people who have no access to running water near their homes and where water for cooking is scooped out with hand turned crocks. You know those places, you have seen them in National Geographic and in the news, you have heard about them in hushed Sunday School tones and in pleas for assistance, and you have pondered their plight while turning on the tap to wash your hands so that you wouldn't have to deal with germs which might ruin your day. You know those places . . . and pray that you never become one of them. Such is our affluence.

My brother called me this morning to tell me that Dad is purchaing a new pump which we will install in the days ahead. Another nice option. I'm not complaining . . . and am incredibly grateful that in this place and time we have the luxury, not only of running water, but of different kinds of running water. Yet, my conscience calls me out and my spirit keeps me honest. Many of my brothers and sisters do not have such amenities in life and they, as Jesus says, are the least among us. For such as these is God's priority . . . not for the ones who choose which water they will use without also assisting those who have no such choice. It is something to ponder . . . as health advocates remind us of how many 8 ounce glasses of water to consume each day in order to maintain and/or reduce our body fat. There are many in the world who are dying for the opportunity to have body fat, much less to worry about how to maintain it with gallons of cool clean water each day.

When the pump breaks down and there is no other to replace it, when you turn on the tap and nothing flows out and there is no fixing the 'city water' lines, where will you turn? Who will assist you? Just something to ponder on the way to Jerusalem, while announcing the good news of the nearness of the Kingdom.

Not Worried

This is Recognition Week at the Air Force Academy, the final 'push' for the 4th Class Cadets (Freshmen) towards being 'Recognized' as full-fledged Cadets in the Wing (or, as some would say, 'having a life again'). It hardly seems a year ago that Ched went through that process, so when I spoke to him yesterday via text and he said he was going to be busy over the weekend with Recognition, I reminded him, "Remember, you once were a Freshmen . . . then do what you have to do . . . with honor." He texted back a 'smiley face' and said, 'Don't worry.'

I'm not worried. The Air Force Academy, like all the service academies, has long-standing traditions which both shape and build the Cadet corps. Those traditions are administered and evaluated by folks much higher ranking than the Cadets, ensuring safety and honor throughout. Still, that 'parent-thing', that radar, that sense of protecting the brood, that little lighthouse guarding the coastline, rings quietly in my heart and soul, "I pray they remember their faith and values, and are always safe in God's hands." Did you ever say such a prayer?

The truth is, I say that prayer about a hundred times a day. I'm not worried, I'm just doing what I believe a parent should do. I'm doing what I know God does, what God expresses to all of humanity in the presence of Christ, 'Remember . . . once you were no people, now you are My people. Remember how I led you up out of slavery, how I walked with you down the Via Dolorosa, how I showed you an empty tomb. Remember, then do what you have to do . . . with honor.' I am not worried, yet this day I pray for the entire Cadet Corps of the Air Force Academy during Recognition Week: that each of them recognizes the One who guards and guides them; that each of them remember the land from which they came; that each of them work with the other to move forward in faith towards the land they are promised; and, that each of them reflect the honor entrusted them, not just in service to Country, but also in who God has created each one to become.

I pray not out of worry, but because of who God is and who I am becoming because of God's nearness. I pray, for there is nothing else I would rather be doing than talking with God as our children mature and find their direction along the way. I pray, for the Holy Parent of us all has taught us so to live and it is my honor so to do each day.

Incredible

I planted potatoes yesterday: Fifty pounds of Kennebec potatoes, carefully sliced to maximize the 'eyes' planted, placed about fifteen inches apart, in fifteen rows in the garden at the farm. The soil worked, well . . . 'like a garden', light and fluffy, easy to rototill, easy to use the potato plow in. It was about four hours of the nicest time I have spent on the farm this Spring, with 80 degree... weather, an occasional cloud, and the sound of frogs absolutely filling the air down by the pond, not so very far away. Incredible.

What is incredible, too, is that I felt guilty about taking four hours away from work. I am the one who preaches constantly about the need for 'Sabbath' yet, if it's good enough for God to take it, if it's good enough for God to include it in the Ten Commandments, if it's good enough for Jesus to observe it, then why do I view taking Sabbath as a guilty pleasure? Is my DNA screwed up? Or have I suddenly found myself worshipping at the wrong altar in the midst of the Lenten journey, sacrificing my soul on the altar of 'way too busy' so that I might achieve the nirvana of 'successful at getting everything done'? Hmmmmm.

While planting the potatoes, I stopped and picked up some soil in my hand and just smelled it. Again, incredible.Some people wax eloquent concerning smelling the roses, I defy you to find a more pure and wonderful fragrance than freshly opened soil in the Springtime. A thousand images of growing up on the farm flooded my memory as I inhaled the intoxicating aroma of that garden soil, but in that moment none stronger than savoring a Sunday afternoon in the Spring just relaxing and enjoying the day, relishing the scent of God at work in new life all around us. Sabbath. Incredible.

I pray for you 'Incredible' today. I pray for you 'Sabbath'. For, and I am speaking to myself here, in the moment we are too busy or feel too guilty to take time to take in the wonders of God, to observe Sabbath, we are missing the very reason we have been created . . . and that in itself is sin. Savor the 'Incredible' today.

All-ee, All-ee, in Free!

A child's voice floats seamlessly over the gathering shadows of late day's twilight, "All-ee, all-ee, in free! All-ee, All-ee, in free!" Ah, the sweet lilt of song and words which please the child's ears who has managed to remain hidden, undetected for a long enough time that, finally, the one who is 'It' in the game of Hide-and-Go-Seek is giving up in forlorn dejection. Yet, the same soft song becomes a bitter draught in the throat of the one who must sing it, for try as they may, the other has outwitted them, out-thought them, outdone them. "All-ee, all-ee, in free!"

Walking along the early morning streets of Lebanon with robins, cardinals, and blackbirds singing their waking music, I found my heart gathered in the freedom of one who was emerging from Winter's slumber, hearkened to joy by the song of God's chorus who, in bursting delight welcomed me from the hiding places of a cold season's demands. "All-ee, all-ee, in free!" 'Come out and savor the wonder!', 'Come out and taste of the Creator's goodness!' 'Come out, come out, wherever you are!' Like Moses leading the Israelite children out of Egypt through the sea, like Joshua leading the children out of the wilderness into the Promised Land, like Jesus standing at the door of an empty tomb and asking of Mary, "Woman, why are you weeping?", we are daily being led from our hiding places into the light of God's goodness, if only we heed the song and follow God's voice. No more hoping never to be found. No more crouching down so low that others will not notice. No more praying that the sound of breathing will betray your place of concealment.

Today is the day to celebrate God's freedom offered to you through Christ. Today is the day to rejoice in God's ongoing song of new life. Today is the day to receive the invitation and come running to 'Home base'. "All-ee, all-ee, in free!" is being sung for you on the lips of God's angels among us. The Kingdom has come near. Come out and marvel in the Light!

Reflections on Harrisburg

The people of Harrisburg, Illinois who inadvertently became a part of the tornadic history of this region have been in my heart and prayers, especially in the last few days since journeying there to lend a hand in cleanup. The power of violent winds to tear apart and destroy, mixed with the seemingly random way such storms touch one place and not another, particularly evidenced as these storms moved through heavily populated communities, is mind-numbing.

Picking through the lives of those whose belongings have been spread out over the miles, sorting through the masses of wood, household appliances, insulation, shattered furniture, and broken dreams, brings to mind other places around the world where volunteers gather in similar fashion to extend the hands of God and neighbor to one another: Joplin, Missouri; Japan; Italy; Iraq; Afghanistan; Henryville, Indiana; and the list goes on and on. You see, not every storm is formed by nature's power and not every disaster is preceded by warning. Some of the worst scenes of destruction around us are wrought in the hearts of human desire for power and manipulation, yet their outcomes are eerily similar. Lives are lost, homes are left in shambles, the landscape is pockmarked with terror, and the human cost cannot be calculated.

I have long maintained that to call a tornado or a hurricane or a tsunami an act of God is incredibly unfair to the God who also creates the rose, a Springtime day, the songs of cardinals, and the likes of hummingbirds and bumblebees. We live in a dynamic, vibrant world which continues to change and evolve around us. We were not the first ones here, nor will we be the last ones left. We are part and parcel of all that God is creating, yet we are constantly mystified, even surprised when such events consume the very place where we have chosen to take residence, however close to the ocean or river, however deeply located in tornado alley, however close to the mountains we may have chosen to reside. Still, as indiscriminate as nature may seem, human warfare crosses beyond the boundaries of expectation, yielding heartache upon heartache, leaving the dead to bury their dead and the living to pick up the pieces.

And that, my friends, is what truly amazes me: the incalculable capacity of the human spirit to cling to hope, to extend assurance, and to build a new community upon the scars of pain and suffering. What I saw in Harrisburg last Saturday, I have seen mirrored in the eyes of those who continue to pick up the pieces of Joplin, Fukushima, Henryville, Baghdad, Tehran, and New Orleans. FEMA may or may not declare these places disaster areas, but to the people who live there disaster has visited them and they know day by day, bit by bit, prayer by prayer, life will be restored . . . not as once they knew it, but as God and neighbor, hand in hand, work with them to build it anew.

To pray for our sisters and brothers around the world who are visited by such events is an act of faith, yet to work with them in addressing the pain and sorrow while daring to construct a new future, whatever that may be, is truly an act of God. For to own our humanity in living in relationship as sister or brother, regardless our ethnic origin, is to become fully human, whole in the sight of the One who birthes and names us. For such as this we are created. Anything less is truly a disaster.

Unexpected Daffodils

An amazing thing, well actually some amazing things showed up in our daffodil bed this evening.About a week ago I wrote an article concerning the one solitary daffodil that has managed to bloom year after year. It was my way of dealing with both, disappointment in only one bloom and rejoicing in the wonder of one bloom. This evening, having returned from an afternoon celebration of our granddaughter's fourth birthday at her Dad's home in Red Bud, I happened to look out the front door of our home at the daffodil, still in beautiful full bloom. Yet, much to my surprise, there in the circle of previously 'bloomless' daffodil plants, were a half dozen beautiful, somewhat smaller daffodil blooms proudly pushing their yellow blossoms skyward.

Calling for Nancy to join me in inspecting the newest and most unexpected blooms in the circle, we hurried down the walk towards the daffodils. They were beautiful, delicate in size and intense in color, yet lighter in shade than the solitary daffodil which had once stood stoically amidst the green of daffodil plants. Now, surrounded by friends, our solitary daffodil seemed more stately, more proud, more full of color and strength . . . and Nancy and I marveled at how quickly the new blooms had appeared.

Then, reality set in: No wonder they were shorter, more delicate, and a lighter tinge of yellow . . . they are silk! Someone had taken pity on our solitary daffodil and gave it some friends, filling out the 'circle of life' with the modern day wonder of 'the kind of flowers that even Pastor Don could grow'. Silk. Nancy and I looked at them and laughed, grateful that someone trusted our sense of humor with a wonderful addition to our flower bed and humbled that someone thought enough of both our flower bed and my previous article concerning the daffodil that they took the time and effort necessary to purchase and 'plant' the companion daffodils. They are, to say the least, a generous gift of levity in a world mired down far to deeply in things which are not helpful. Silk daffodils could well save the day, if only we would listen to the message they offer.

We've decided to let them, planted as they are, in the circle of daffodils around our lamp post along the front walk. Maybe they will surprise others, even as they surprised Nancy and me. Still, even if no one else notices, we have noticed and they have made all the difference, both in our hearts and to our solitary daffodil who now has some friends, quiet though they may be. Tonight Nancy and I will go to bed cherishing the thought of our daffodil benefactor, for in the simple act of good humor and ingenious horticultural skill, you have reminded us there is a wider community of those who need not every answer or skill, but willingly and lovingly share the journey, wryly smiling where common sense leaves off and wonder takes over. Thank you.

Celebrate Life

There was a time when I couldn't wait to grow up. Then there were the days when I couldn't wait to drive. There were the days when I couldn't wait to farm full time. Then there were the days I couldn't wait to get married. Then I couldn't wait to have children. Then I couldn't wait to get through school. Then I couldn't wait to receive my first call to a church. Then I couldn't wait for our kids to grow up. Then I couldn't wait to make the move after receiving a call to our second church. Then I couldn't wait for the kids to get really involved in sports. Then I couldn't wait for Nancy to get a job back in Illinois. Then I couldn't wait for the kids to graduate from High School to go to college . . . .

And after all that 'couldn't wait' stuff, now it seems life is rolling down the hill pretty quickly. There are mornings when I feel like I'm riding in my old 'Little Red Wagon' down a long hill, dragging my feet on each side to slow down. The remarkable thing I realized this morning, though, is that I am laughing while taking the ride. Life is fun.

I wouldn't trade a day, an experience, a moment for whatever lies ahead, because slowly I am learning not to be so impatient for whatever I think might be better. Though I may not have another day on this earth, let it not be said that I didn't enjoy the ride on this day and giggle uproariously along the way. Let it not be said that I didn't savor the gifts of God, for in the savoring I am finding what truly it means to be alive today.

Walking on Sacred Ground

Over the years I have had the sacred privilege of sitting with those who have suffered the death of loved ones. Wives, husbands, grandmothers, grandfathers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, grandchildren, nephews, nieces, neighbors, friends . . . each drawing deep upon the well of God's love and hope to take the next breath, to make the next second, to move the next step. Each looking death in ...the face, as though for the first time, and wondering why it touched the one so close, so intimate, so dear to the heart. Each shedding tears they never knew they had as an unwanted emptiness embraced them and placed a sharp knife in their soul.

Today, I crossed that holy ground again.

Sitting beside them as they face mortality, change, uninvited brokenness and hurt, it is an unceasing and humbling experience to behold as God's Spirit of Peace and Comfort begins to break in where words fall silent and hugs have lost their effect. It is an incredible sight to behold as, along the path to the tomb, they recognize the stone is rolled away and what once they knew to be true in death gives way to something they have never quite beheld or understood before. In the most intimate reaches of unfettered love, in the quiet between touching and knowing, in the whisper of satin stories and ruffled memories, God eases the pain and quiets the sobbing, God dries the tears and strengthens the trembling knees, God touches the heart . . . and what once was finds voice in new transcendence.

Congregations can surround with thoughts, prayers and support; Communities can rally and stand in solidarity with the passion of those who know such pain; Pastors and Priests can speak their liturgies and celebrate a life that now knows Life . . . but, only God can articulate that for which a grieving human soul longs. Only God truly hears the cries of God's children and comes to deliver ~ and ours is to to sit with the other, to cross that holy ground again and again, trusting, believing, clinging to the One who never will let any of us go, nor forsake us to the wilderness.

It is our sacred privilege.

Of Daffodils and Disappointments

We are so disappointed. When we moved to Lebanon in August of 1993 we were delighted in the following Spring to discover a circle of daffodils around the light pole along the front walk . . . but only one bloom. "Odd", we thought, "but we'll give them a chance and thin and fertilize them." Each year since, the ring of daffodil plants proudly circles the light post and each year the same singular plant blooms. Late last Summer, Nancy and I really worked over that bed of daffodils, loosening up the soil, separating bulbs, and fertilizing the area, all in the hopes of inspiring something new to happen. This Spring . . . a circle of plants and one bloom. We are so disappointed.

I have heard it said the definition of insanity is, "Doing the same thing over and over again, each time expecting different results." So, maybe Nancy and I have been living proof of the insanity with which we live every day, I'm not sure yet, neither am I sure what our next steps will be.

I am not enough of a horticulturalist to know if there is any chance that the other daffodils will ever bloom, regardless of how much we work with them, separate them or fertilize them. Still, I look at the daffodils and wonder about the one and think about Jesus and the ten lepers: He healed ten, but only one returned to give thanks. Only one really bloomed. The other nine were healed, yet missed the opportunity to blossom in their new life. Notably, Jesus did not remove the healing of the other nine, but commended the one who came back. Jesus celebrated the beauty of the one who burst forth in raucous color.

Were Nancy and I to dig up the circle of daffodils plants in order to re-plant new bulbs which would bloom, it would be likely that the one which has been blooming all these years would be lost along with the others. So, what are the implications of that decision? Is the one who faithfully returns each year in full and vibrant bloom, the one which has been giving thanks for the opportunity to reflect the sunlight of God's care, to be considered collateral damage for the sake of making the whole of the daffodil bed more productive? Yet, if we do not make a change, there they will be for eternity . . . a whole congregation of daffodils circling the 'T' shaped light post looking pretty in the Sunday breezes, while only one ever blooms.

It's kind of like the church, isn't it? Which pierces my soul when I ponder on the fact that my fervent prayer is that God remembers me even, maybe especially, when I do not bloom regularly or well. What to do about the daffodils . . . I'm not sure. But, for today and all of the other days in which that one daffodil blooms, I'm going to savor the color, the wonder, the majesty of that one which blooms each year. I'm going to remember it and love it for the gift it has become in my heart. For, truth be told, that is exactly what I pray God does with me.

A New Day and Another Memory

Have you ever walked out the door of your home, felt and smelled the air, looked around at the emerging day, and suddenly found your mind wandering back to a day when you were a kid that felt and smelled and looked just like today? "Deja vu all over again," said the great cultural anthropologist, Yogi Berra, I thought. Life has a funny way of coming back to us through our senses.

The day I went back to was a rather non-descript day in nearly every respect, save one: I was about 12 years old and Dad and I were moving cattle around in the lots. Don't ask me why that image came to my mind. I haven't remembered that day since the time it happened, some 40+ years ago, yet, there is was . . . the smell of the 'Little Barn', the heifers milling around, and Dad working with me to move cattle from one lot to another, Dad's gentle, yet strong, "Hep! Hep!" sounding every so often to guide and quiet the cattle. Nothing more exciting than that. Just an event, but one marked in every way by my senses and their resounding capacity to remember a moment captured in time with my Dad . . . and I am the richer for it today.

Many of the lessons I learned, much of the love I felt, most of the experiences of my youth which are lodged in my mind and heart, like the one remembered this morning, especially those of my parents, have to do with time spent together. Who would remember moving cattle from one pen to another on an early Spring morning? But then, who could ever forget the time spent with someone you deeply loved, admired and wanted to emulate? Oh, I am not so much a romantic that I have forgotten the times I never wanted to be like my Dad, but those are times which would come later in life. Today, remembering back then and watching my Dad work the cattle and teach me how to do it well, there was no-one else I wanted to be like.

'Weird kid', you think. You have a right to your opinion, but I think, 'Lucky kid'. My old German Dad told me how much he loved me by working beside me as he taught me the simple lessons of life. Not one given much to hugging in those days, Dad embraced me, and each of my brothers, with a love that would not let us go as he pushed, chided, chewed out, forgave, loved, and taught again each lesson of life which moved us towards manhood . . . and this morning I was blessed to remember that feeling all over again.

As it is with our families, so it is with all of God's family. Remember and give thanks. I think I'm going to give Dad a call today just to tell him how much I love him, while I savor the memory of moving cattle not so very long ago.