I Haven't Forgotten You

"I haven't forgotten you" are some of the kindest words a person might hear. "I haven't forgotten you" may be the primary reason for the success of Facebook among the many Friends who have re-connected after years of separation . . . and may prove, too, to be the reason for the lack of success of FB on the Stock Market as Friends prove less inclined to shop FB and more inclined to use it as a tool for networking.

"I haven't forgotten you" is the look on anthers face when they see you, more than their ability to recall your name. It is that sense of shared history, shared story, shared understanding, shared journey which connects soul to soul, heart to heart, and life to life. "I haven't forgotten you" is that intimacy which connects lives by the merest of handshakes, in the slightest of nods, in the tenderest of attentions. "I haven't forgotten you" is the language of shared life-womb experience and brings home the security of never, ever being alone wherever one may go.

"I haven't forgotten you" are some of the kindest words a person might hear . . . and as much as you and I like to hear them, when was the last time you spoke those words to God? With the merest of handshakes? In the slights of nods? In the tenderest of attentions? When was the last time you looked God in the eye and, in that moment, you knew as you are known?

Today would be a great day to begin a new for, truly, God hasn't forgotten you.

Have a blessed day, my friends!

This Memorial Day - Remember

"'Remember': to bring to mind or to think of again.", according to Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary. 'Remember'.

It is Memorial Day Weekend and I have been hearing for weeks about what Wal-Mart wants me to remember, not to mention, Target, Macy's, several auto dealerships, Walgreens, and Sam's, yet I know that what they want me to remember is not what I need to remember. What I need to bring to mind or to think of again is not something so easily quantified or put on the auction block. No, what I need to remember has to do with the sacrifice of others for my life . . . which makes what Wal-Mart wants me to remember far easier, but much less beneficial. To ponder the gift of one's life for another is inconceivably difficult, so complete and final the gift. Yet, there it is: this weekend we remember those for whom the only acceptable gift was the gift fully given in self . . . and we are the grateful, if not a bit uneasy, recipients.

The tendency in my lifetime has been focus on those who have given of themselves in service to our country in WWI, WWII, Korea and Viet Nam, but then, that just names the context of my growing up. Today, kids under the age of 12 have only known war . . . and the names of those who died in such a wars . . . and those before them remember The Gulf War, Libya, The Second Gulf War, Grenada, and a wide variety of places where the United States has been 'present' for others to the current day. War has a cost and that cost is flesh and blood.

This weekend we remember flesh and blood whose names we may or may not know, but whose very existence has made our existence easier, maybe even possible. We remember precisely because we cannot afford to forget, for to forget is to dismiss their sacrifice, to disparage our heritage, and to spit upon the very history we cannot afford to again repeat. We remember because, in their self-giving, someone who did not know us, still chose to live and die for us. We remember, for affluence and time often foster an amnesia that dooms those who forget their root to repeat their past behaviors. We remember for we are eternally grateful.

'Remember', for you have been remembered. 'Remember' and live for those who, like you, need someone to live for them. 'Remember' . . . that in thanking those who have served and those who have given their lives completely, we might come to a broader and deeper understanding of the life and freedoms we so enjoy.

Remember, giving thanks to God for the luxury of such a time of remembering, then live towards that day when all people might know it as well and Remember.

My Boys Didn't Believe Me

My sons didn't believe me and I was crushed. Actually, they made fun of me which hurt all the more and I couldn't understand it.

Yesterday evening, playing golf in the Thursday night Men's League at the White Oak Golf Course in Marissa, my tee shot on #2 rolled up to the 100 yard marker, just a bit to the right of center on the fairway. I had never hit a shot that far on that fairway before and, knowing that both of our older boys regularly hit it that far and even farther, I stopped and took a picture of the ball with the yardage marker in the background with my cell phone, saving it to send to the boys and Nancy later. After the round was over (No, I will not tell you my score for the round, but suffice it to say, I always get my money's worth.), I took a few moments to bring the picture up from the Gallery, prepared it to Share, and added a message explaining the picture.

It didn't take long for the responses to come in: (Matt) "Yeah, I'm not believing you hit a 420 yard drive . . . from the men's tees. Those senior tees are treating you well!"; (Ched) "Oh wow. Hell of a tailwind, eh?"; and, not to be left out of the fun, (Ray) "Did you tee off from the green and play the hole backwards?" Nice guys, my sons! I wasn't sure how to respond, but just laughed it off granting each of them the amnesty of having a good time at their Dad's expense. Thursday night crowds can be tough on the golf circuit. (Mind you, Nancy didn't say anything through all of this, loyal and dutiful wife she is.)

Later in the evening, as Nancy and I were getting ready for bed, my cell phone rings and it was Matt. Curiosity was killing the cat, I thought as I waited to see where the call was going to go. And, as always with Matt, it didn't take but a moment: "Okay, Dad, tell me where you were, what hole you were on and how the ball flew that far." "What do you mean?" I replied, "I was at White Oak, on #2, and my drive went to the 100 yard marker, and I parred it. What's so hard to believe about that?" Matt said, "Well, there's nothing hard to believe about that, but what you said in your text with the picture was, "My drive on 4. That's the 100 yard marker across the way. Par."

Suddenly it all made sense! I had inadvertently typed in the wrong hole number, which is no small difference. Number 2 is a 398 yard hole, making my drive 298 yards. Number 4 is a 523 yard hole, which would have made my drive 423 yards, leaving the likes of Tiger and Phil in the dust. No wonder my boys were making such fun of me! After laughing at the irony and humor of it all, I hung up with Matt and texted Ray and Ched and explained the gaff, taking them off the hook for their apparent lack of faith and making fun of my own texting ineptitude.

Finally, laying down and watching the last of the Cardinal game and the news, smiling at the exchange between the boys and myself, I began to relax. Somewhere in the twilight of sleep it occurred to me: 'The boys really didn't believe me! Not that they should have, given the context of the situation, but the boys really didn't believe me!' Coming fully awake, I pondered the thought of that, then smiled all over again, 'We've raised our boys well and they question everything which seems out of the ordinary or out of line. And, if they can do that with that own Dad about a golf story, how much more likely are they to do that in the things that really matter?'

My sons didn't believe me . . . and that is quite alright. I slept well last night and I hope you did, too

Standing in the Garden

I find myself standing in the garden more these days, not particularly doing anything constructive, though once in a while I do threaten a weed or two with the blade of my hoe . . . mostly I just stand there and admire God's handiwork and watch the birds flit about in the trees. I don't answer the phone, I don't text, I don't check FB, and I do not wonder what else I should be doing. The garden has turned into my technology 'dead-zone' and consequently has become my safe harbor.

More and more, 'days off' at the farm have become farther and fewer between. It's no-one else's fault, I own my work ethic, yet I am beginning also to own my spirit's need for peace, my body's need for rest, and my heart's need to savor the journey. This time between Advent and Pentecost is always something of a maddening period for Pastors, especially for folks like myself who have been raised to believe that idle hands are the devil's workshop, which is only further complicated by being something of an 'A' type personality. There is always more to do, one more person to call, one more committee assignment to finish, one more service to write, one more person to visit, one more meeting to attend . . . and one more day becomes history, lost to the white noise of 'accomplishment'. While in service to God I sacrifice the joy God intends for me to know in life for the satisfaction of believing I can bring the Kingdom in on my own. A sad and not very faithful commentary for a Pastor to write about themselves, but there it is, God help me.

So, this evening I'm going to stand in the garden for a while. I may even move our patio table and chairs near it so I can sit there for a while with a glass of iced tea with lemon, no sugar thank you. If you happen to drive by and want to sit and visit, feel free, but let's just talk about the goodness of God's creation (Lord only knows we can't fix the State of Illinois!) and, there in those moments, treasure what most God wants for all people in laughter, grace, understanding, connectedness and peace.

As the garden heals from the recent hail storm, so it also is becoming a balm to my weathered soul. The vegetables yet to be harvested are already nourishing my deepest longings. I pray you have a garden to stand in, too.

"What's Love Got to Do With It?"

"What's love got to do with it?", sang Tina Turner as she reflected on her own life and journey and, for whatever the reason, that tune just keeps going through my mind this morning.

"What's love got to do with it?" as the American people reach a critical decision point regarding politicians who are worried more about their benefits than being a benefit to others; as the American people ponder the choice between the competing ideologies of political parties and Presidential candidates; as the American people in Illinois try not to get too mired in the finger pointing tactics of Springfield politics (otherwise known as Chicago politics to downstate constituents) and work to fund the essential human services and commitments for the people most in need; as the American people peer through the smoke and mirrors of political spin doctors, attempting to discern truth and act decisively for the sake of the nation; or, as the American people strive to create jobs in a toxic taxing environment, hoping all the while to provide sisters and brothers with essential opportunities to grow in self-respect and integrity.

"What's love got to do with it?" as the hierarchy of the Catholic church takes aim at controlling the women of the church, not just the nuns, but all women, in a time when the behaviors of old are just that, 'old'; as the Church universal struggles to find its voice of authentic Christian witness in the midst of a world torn by hatred, prejudice, fear and mistrust; as local congregations walk the walk of faith where they are, as they are gifted, only to be told that, because of dwindling numbers, their ministries are not financially prudent; as people in the pew turn their heart and soul to God for the Word of Relevancy and Challenge, instead of the tempting nectar of modernity so often offered as a placebo; or, as the identity of the Christian community is hijacked by so-called 'evangelicals' who presume to know exactly what God wants and where, shrouding their personal attack agendas with the language of 'who is in and who is out'.

"What's love got to do with it?" when one person sees a white man and thinks, 'racist', or another person sees a Latino and thinks, 'alien', or another person sees a black man and thinks, 'entitlement'; when one person sees a Middle Eastern woman and thinks, 'terrorist', or another person sees an English woman and thinks, 'snob', or another person sees an Asian woman and thinks, 'war'; or, when one person sees a farmer and thinks, 'ignorant', or another person sees a corporate executive and thinks, 'rich', or another person sees a blue collar worker and thinks, 'too bad'.

"What's love got to do with it?", Tina Turner sang, yet the tune and lyrics beg the answer yet today. Jesus gave one new commandment to the disciples, "Love one another." Love has everything to do with it: with our attitudes, our responses, our daily attention, even our moment by moment decisions, all in relationship with each other. When we fail to love as we are Loved, we have despised our humanity and subverted God's intention for our own will.

Love has everything to do with it. Thank you, Tina Turner, for reminding me of that today. I only pray that we, as members of the world community, find in ourselves the strength and will to reclaim the very purpose for which we are born in caring one for the other.

Love has everything to do with it.

Things To Which I Cling Tightly

Things to which I cling tightly:

The love of God which surrounds me; the forgiveness of Jesus who befriends me; the presence of the Holy Spirit who guides me; the love of a woman who knows my foibles and stays with me anyway; the gift of three sons who, in spite of the challenges of growing up as 'preacher's kids', still regularly pick up the phone and say, "Hi, Dad, how are you?" and wait to hear... what I say because it matters to them; the adoration of three granddaughters who know that all they have to do is look at me and say, "Papa, I love you!" and they will get anything they want, yet embrace me with kisses not wanting anything more than kisses and love in return; the steady friendship of those who know me as 'Don' and require nothing more than me being me; the wonder of the gift of a call from God that carries me in every moment; the ecstasy of the Church striving mightily and humbly in serving God; the joy of the St. Paul UCC, Lebanon, faith family who tend to my spirit and ministry with arms of grace beyond my deserving; the blessing of Grace UCC, Culver, Indiana, who saw more in me than I ever saw in myself; and, the connective tissue of Lebanon, Illinois, whose communal understanding crosses every boundary with such completeness that even a stranger such as I find a home and place in the midst of daily life and service here.

Such are the things to which I cling tightly this day. How about you?

Birthdays

What is a birthday?


Today I have telephoned birthday greetings to my younger brother, Bruce, and my cousin, Sharon, and sent Facebook greetings to our friend, Donna Wood, and to a good friend and classmate of Ched's, Barrett Stehr . . . all of which got me to pondering on 'birthdays'. What is a birthday, anyway?

We celebrate the day each of us caused our mothers great pain . . . yet, on the other hand, we celebrate the day that, after nine months of a 'free ride', our mothers were finally able to shoot us out into the world and no longer have to carry us.

We celebrate the day that a doctor or nurse spanked our bare behind, causing us to cry, while everyone stood around and said how cute it was . . . yet, on the other hand, we celebrate the day that, upon finding our voices, we have for the most part never since shut up.

We celebrate the day that our father's, having just learned of our birth, started handing out cheap cigars to anyone who would smoke one with them as they bragged about this new life in the family . . . yet, on the other hand, we celebrate the day that our fathers, having now just met us for the first time, continue to smoke cigars just to cover the stench of our poopie diapers.

We celebrate the day that many of our family and friends gathered at the window of the Nursery in the hospital to coo and make over our recent arrival . . . yet, on the other hand, we celebrate the day that our friends and family started the public tradition of staring and making strange faces at us, regardless the circumstance, expecting us to continually tell them how much we appreciate their attention.

We celebrate the day that our siblings first get a chance to hold us and have their pictures taken with us . . . yet, on the other hand, we celebrate the day our siblings begin to run the other direction every time they see us, praying that they won't have to take care of us and put us with us in front of their friends.

What is a birthday, anyway?

We mark our age in years, our intelligence in ACT or SAT numbers, our personality type in Briggs Myers identifiers, and our maturity in shoe sizes. We add candles to our cakes until we are old enough to know better then, rather than call the fire department to put out the increasing flame, we just quit using candles as though no more years are being added. We can't wait for birthday gifts when we are young, can't figure out what to do with the novelty gifts when we are older, tell folks the best gift is their presence when we are middle aged, then, when we are old, we figure everyone forgot about us when they neither show up, nor send a gift. We post our birth date on social network websites, then complain about people knowing too much about us. We give our birth date information to every credit card company and loan officer we meet, then bark if the government seems intrusive by asking for the same information. Men cannot ask women how old they are and women really don't want to know how old men are (mostly because men rarely act their age anyway). And, birthdays are that one day in time when we are expected to be cordial to people who wish us well, even when we wouldn't give the time of day to the one addressing us (in all Christian humility, of course!).

So, what is a birthday?

It is a contradiction in terms providing florists, card shops, retail stores, bars, and ice cream places with ample opportunity to make a huge profit from our schizophrenia. It is a day for family, friends, co-workers, social network folk, and even strangers to make fun of us, all perfectly certain that 'as a good sport' we will take their abuse without a word. It is a day for siblings to chastise us, parents to rue us, and neighbors to torment us. Yet, the one thing which is most clear to me this day as I ponder 'birthdays' and their meaning: I am extraordinarily pleased for the opportunity to have one each year.

In all that a birthday may or may not be for you, I pray you enjoy each one fully, for truly, each is a gift of God.

A Valued Gift

I received the nicest gift today, totally unexpected and humbly offered, which made it all the more valued: Kevin Schwaegel stopped by the house to visit.

Affectionately known among his peers as 'Snags', Kevin and I share a couple of things in common: We both love farming; My son, Matt, was a High School classmate and remains a friend of Kevin; and Kevin has a great sense of humor, especially when it regards irony. So, when he drove by the house today and saw that I was working in the garden and chose to stop by to visit for a few minutes, he gave me a great gift, especially when you consider that, until a few minutes ago as I sat down to my computer, I didn't know it was also Kevin's birthday today. Kevin stopped by - on his birthday - just to visit.

For anyone who knows Kevin well, the typical response is probably, 'Yeah, so what? Kevin always loves to visit', and you would be absolutely correct. But, to stop on a day that is filled with so many other things a person could be doing, not to mention celebrating your birthday with other people who know it is your birthday, well, that to me is a moment to be prized. Especially poignant is the fact that Kevin just wanted to visit . . . . he didn't need the church opened, didn't want to discuss some deep personal issue, or work through the shocking trauma of recently getting married (just kidding, Ashley and Kevin!), no, Kevin was just checking in. Kevin was being a friend - and I am ever so grateful for the gift.

After he got back in his truck and drove away I started thinking about what a nice visit it was with Kevin . . . and how often it is that I give that same sort of unfettered attention to God. How often is it that I pray without asking for something? How often is it that I just share the news of the day and a few of the humorous happenings with the One who calls me 'friend'? How often is it that I just check in because, in my life, Jesus matters, the Spirit is in my heart, the love of God fills my thoughts? How often do I see God at work and, in the middle of my running around, stop and share the load without any sense of expectation, other than friendship?

The answer to all of those questions is, 'Not nearly often enough. Not nearly often enough.'

Thank you, Kevin, for the gift you gave me on your birthday. Because of what you shared, I have learned something more about myself which will allow me to treasure your gift all the more in the days ahead. God's blessings guide and keep you in this day and in all your birthdays - for in your giving you become the blessing God desires in each of us.

Ched's Twentieth Birthday

Twenty years ago today, about this very hour in fact, Christian Edward Wagner (Ched) was born. I remember the day well, since Ched was the first of our children whose birth I would witness. Matthew, Raymond and Ched were all born by Cesarean section. When the older two were born the father was not allowed in the delivery room in that particular facility, but by the time Ched came along birthing practices had changed and I could be in the room with Nancy as she gave birth.

It was an incredible moment, one which words cannot encapsulate, yet one that the heart fully takes in and ponders . . . much as Mary 'pondered' throughout His life the birth of Jesus. The human birthing process is, at it's best, nine months long with a special focus and 'push' at the end . . . all of which is a gift of God and the work of the mothers among us. Ched was no different. Yet, as with each of his older brothers, the umbilical cord which gave him life through his mother also had an early connection to his father. Don't tell them, but each of them has always had me wrapped around their finger. Long before I looked into their eyes, I loved them. Long before I held them, I knew them. Long before they walked, they ran through my heart . . . and today we celebrate the birthing of our youngest son, Ched.

Much has happened in his twenty years and most of that is closely associated with faith, family, academics, sports, and friends. Still, I believe, what is before Ched will make what is past seem mighty small, for the future is as big as a person dares to believe and as broad as God equips them to achieve. For Ched, his twentieth birthday is a celebration of what has been a spectacular journey thus far and, also, an anticipation of where God will lead him in the days ahead. As the great cultural anthropologist among us, Buzz Lightyear, proclaims, "To infinity and beyond!", and our living becomes a response to that possibility. So it is with Cadet 3rd Class Christian E. Wagner, Soaring Instructor Pilot in the 94th Flying Training Squadron of the United States Air Force Academy - "To infinity and beyond!"

The words, 'Happy birthday' are incapable of carrying the joy, the love, the wonder of who you are becoming in our lives and in the world, Ched, still, from my heart to yours, from a father's lips to the ear of his youngest son, from the faith of my soul to the yearning of yours, 'Happy birthday, Ched! You are a gift of God in our family, to the Church, to our community, our nation and our world. Much like your older brothers, you are still discovering the wonders of what God has to show you - and only you can take the journey you are on. However, know in your heart that our love goes with you. As your root is set deep in the connective tissue of family, so extend to the heavens the expressiveness and vision of who you are becoming in God. We are so very proud of you!'

Who knew twenty years ago where you would be flying today? Why knows where you will soar in the days ahead? Ride the strong currents of the Spirit in celebration of this day and all else will take care of itself. I love you, Ched.

Dad

Matt's Surprise

"Your oldest son took care of me", is what a friend and colleague told me as we chatted on the phone yesterday. Caught a bit unaware and wondering what Matt might have been up to, I asked, "How?" All the while thinking, 'Changed a flat tire', 'Helped moved a couch', 'Organized a meeting', or 'Spoke to an issue I supported', would be among the responses my friend would cite, instead he said, "I asked him a question about parsonage allowance. Matt researched it and got me the answers I needed."

Imagine that, our son is a professional and people ask him to help them! Never mind that Matt is 33 years old and has had a variety of professional experiences added to his resume already. Never mind that he studies constantly, works continuously, and networks unceasingly. Never mind that Matt has served on the Illinois South Conference of the United Church of Christ Personnel Committee for a number of years, chairing it for the last two years. Never mind that Matt is deeply invested in his faith and endeavors constantly that his daughter's would know the Christ of his faith. Never mind all that he has and is accomplishing . . .

I was still taken somewhat aback when my friend and colleague said to me, "Your oldest son took care of me", for in my eyes Matt is still 'my boy', my son. As my friend affirmed Matt's gifts, I connected with the Baptism of Jesus in a whole new way: "You are my Son, the beloved; with you I am well pleased" (Mark 1.11), became for me, "Yes! Alright! Way to go! You did it! I couldn't have asked for more! I'm so proud of you!" If we could see it, what would be the 'happy dance' God does when we live in the way we are birthed to live, when we follow in faith the hope within us? Scripture records a rather 'dry' affirmation from God of Jesus in Baptism, but I would like to bet that, much as I did in hearing of Matt's assistance of a friend, God did that parental dance in the public setting of the Kingdom which mortifies every child who sees it. Maybe God said those words just as they are recorded, but those words cannot contain the joy of a parent's heart when their child amazes them all over again.

Thank you, Matt, for being the son you are. I am so very pleased with you! And, thank you God for giving me the language and the 'moves' to express such joy! May our children always surprise us so powerfully and may our response to their gifts always cause us to sing and dance, regardless what they may think.

Roger

I had the privilege of celebrating the life of a friend yesterday as we said goodbye to him on this earth. The sanctuary was nearly full of friends and neighbors, many of whom this person had given nicknames to over the years, and there tears mixed with laughter as memories were shared, stories were told, sympathies were offered to the family and the good news of the Gospel was proclaimed. It was an incredible visage as this vast mix of humanity clung to resurrection hope in the midst of deepest despair much like the woman who reached to touch the hem of Jesus' robe as He walked by.

The power of an empty tomb has that effect on us: God gives us a reason to believe beyond the domain of earthly understandings. God grants us a peace which death cannot deny.

I will miss my friend's easy smile, hard-working ethic, wise-cracking ways and, especially, his continual living out of the story of the Good Samaritan. I know when Jesus told that story, He told it of my friend whose life the story embodied. Yet, I know, I believe, I trust, I have faith, that all my friend ever was, as much as I will miss him . . . he is now even more as he dwells in the perfection and wholeness of the One who birthed him from the beginning. Someday, somehow, in the time beyond this time, in the Kingdom beyond this earth, we will meet again and my heart will rejoice when I hear him say, 'How you doin', Preacher? Welcome home!' . . . and I will know, in the mercy of God, my friend, Roger, will have helped to pull one more life out of the ditch - and this time it was me.

Rest in the Peace of God, Roger Trentman, child of God, disciple of Christ, member of the Church eternal.

Rabbits in the Garden

Two rabbits come into my garden to eat every evening - which is making me feel a little like Mr. McGregor chasing Peter Rabbit.

The other evening I looked out our bedroom window and there they were: one in the midst of the cabbage plants, the other nibbling on the tender young pepper plants. Putting on my flip-flops, I rushed out the front door, ran along the newly seed lawn, sped along the side of the house, and then sprinted full-out to the garden, clapping my hands and yelling, 'Hey! Hey!' The rabbit in the cabbage plants calmly watched my approach, not bothering to stop chewing until I was about five feet away. Then, quickly turned around, only to slowly hop out the garden as though saying, 'Man, what a drag, Mr. McGregor! We're not eating that much!' The other one, which was working on my pepper plants, pealed out with a far greater sense of urgency - nearly matching my sense of frustration.

Maybe it was the fact that, at 10:30 at night a balding, somewhat overweight man in running shorts and an old tattered *M*A*S*H* tee shirt was running at them acting like a lunatic, maybe it was a sense of impending doom, maybe there was the realization of not wanting to be there when the ambulance with the nice little men with the oversized coat with long wrap-around arms showed up to pick me up, I'm not sure . . . but, whatever the reason, they both sprinted across the road and I was just left there steaming. I was Elmer Fudd - and Bugs Bunny had just left me in the dust hollering, "You wrascally wrabbits!!"

Returning to our bedroom, Nancy urged me not to use my pellet gun to dispatch them next time (probably envisioning me shooting at the rabbits from our bedroom window) and encouraged me to seek a more peaceable solution. "Darn it!, I thought, "This Christianity thing really gets in the way when really all that I want to do let out some of the frustration . . . . through the barrel of a gun!" Thank God for Nancy - and God help Nancy, for she's the one who speaks reason to me when all I hear in my minds are ways to 'get even'. "You wrascally wrabbits!!"

But then, isn't that basically how wars start? Isn't that how feelings get hurt? Isn't that how dissension is sown? Someone perceives a wrong being done them, acts upon it without hint of thought or grace and, what once was an innocent enough transgression, has now become a nuclear event. 'I'll show you' is lived out on the road, across the oceans, in the midst of national governments, even, potentially, from the window of a bedroom. And, who is really served by such behaviors?

I cannot imagine what my neighbors must think of me, though really I'm not too sure I really care . . . after all, it was my garden that the rabbits were in, but I'm fairly certain it wasn't a Christian evangelical message they got that night. On the other hand, it is people like me who are the very reason Jesus came to earth: that the rest of the world know that not all God's people act like me. Thank God!

Sometimes a little righteous indignation can go a long way and not every rabbit must die for my garden to live, yet . . . would God miss just these one or two rabbits? Would God miss me if others thought the same of me? It's something to ponder while I stand guard on the borders . . . of my garden, that is. Have a great day!

Remembering Mark Trautwein

I have been remembering my High School band experiences this morning. More particularly, I have been remembering our High School Band Director, Mark Trautwein. What a remarkable man with an incredible gift of music! He is truly blessed of God.

When I arrived in High School, I had been playing First Chair, First Section trumpet in Grade School . . . and pretty much was sure I would 'wow' the High School. Oddly enough, God had the audacity to place very talented trumpet players in High School who were both 'upper classmen' and unwilling to just let me take their place. 'How dare they?, I thought as I took my place as the Second Chair in the Third Section, 'I'll show them!'

To top off the insult and teach another lesson in humility, Marissa High School had hired a brand new, just out of college Band Director by the name of Mark Trautwein. Mark came to Marissa, a small rural town in Southern Illinois, sporting 'long hair' (not a flat top), a mustache (not clean-shaven), an infectious laugh and an unending supply of optimism regarding the talents of his students. To summarize, the students loved him and the parents were suspicious of him . . . ah, the wonders of the early 70's!

Our band had one person playing sousaphone as we started the year and Mark looked at me and asked, "Would you play the sousaphone?" I thought, 'Are you nuts?? I'm a great trumpet player!' Then, I looked down the line of 'great trumpet players' and thought, 'Maybe I should play the sousaphone.' So, to the big brass instruments I went, Mark skillfully helping me make the transition which turned out to be great fun and lasted two years before I went back to the trumpet section. Mark also taught me how to play the string bass for the 'Dance Band' (which would be the only way I could play with that group as a freshman). Looking back, Mark saw in all of us in the band what, often, we did not or could not see ourselves: He saw potential, he saw gifts, he saw God at work.

Much as Michelangelo believed that he never sculpted out of stone anything which wasn't already there, Mark saw in his students that which was just waiting to be released into the complexity and awe of creation. His task: to enable the release, to chisel away the surrounding stone, to free the possibilities, which is exactly what he did for me and many, many others . . . and I have been thinking of him this morning with a grateful smile on my lips.

In many ways, Mark Trautwein's understanding of music and the many ways to bring notes to life in music through marching band, concert band, dance band, and musicals (and who really knows how many other ways Mark has inspired people!) has announced throughout all of creation the nearness of the Kingdom. In my life, Mark Trautwein inspired a fundamental attitude of, 'There is music to be played in your life. Just play it!', and I have never forgotten that lesson. Many have been the times when all I could see were the folks ahead of me who were better than me and nearly became lost in despair - and many have been the times I remembered the sousaphone, the string bass, and daring to try out for 'Oklahoma!' as a Senior. God places among us people who lift us from the nearing abyss of 'cannot', who move us to the mountaintop of 'what might be', and we know them, even name them, as 'friend', 'hero', 'mentor', and 'teacher'.

Mark is all of those and more, at least in my eyes, as I am sure he is to many, many others, but the greatest thing that Mark is to us all is, 'child of God'. He knows by Whom he is known, through Whom he is gifted, in Whom he is blessed, and such is how he lives his life - and I am ever so grateful. As I am giving thanks to God this day for Mark and thinking of him with a smile, I would encourage you to remember those who inspire you, as well, and ponder how you, too, might make the difference in the life of another. Is this not what Christ has taught?

Thank you, Mark, for making me smile with joy today.

Have a blessed day everyone!

Noah Thinks You Are Jesus

Olivia Captain came into the vestry yesterday after the 10:30 a.m. worship service with something clearly on her mind. "Pastor Don", she started, "Noah thinks you are Jesus." Noah is Olivia's younger brother who, for a long time, has been calling me 'Under-God', which in and of itself is a bit of leap for anyone, including me, to either understand or live up to, so I can relate to Olivia's consternation with her brother now thinking that I'm Jesus. Smiling, I said to Olivia, "Well, you know that I'm not Jesus, right?" To which Olivia responded, "Oh sure! I just didn't want Noah to get that messed up."

I knew what Olivia meant, yet I couldn't help but smile at how I had heard it. 'No, Olivia, I don't want Noah to get that messed up, either!'

I am not Jesus, nor am I anywhere near to whom Jesus is. Jesus is the One who is my Lord and Savior. Yet, especially for the young ones among us who are just formulating faith and understanding, seeing and knowing the difference is sometimes a hard thing, particularly when the Jesus of the faith is constantly being spoken about by the one who is Pastor of the congregation. 'Pastor speaks of knowing Jesus' = 'Pastor is Jesus'.

Seem like a leap to you? Not to me, at least when you think of it from a young child's point of view. For Noah, I am to him what he hears about in Jesus. One equals the other. I am touched that he made such a connection. I am also deeply uneasy with the implications . . . as well we all should be.

To those who are new to Jesus, to any who are just in the formative places of faith and understanding, to all who are searching for answers along the way and come to this peculiar community called 'Christian', we who are the ones they encounter, the ones who witness to Him, the ones who embody His welcome, are as Jesus to them. What is it of Jesus that they see in us? What is it of Jesus that they hear in us? What is it of Jesus that feel in their hearts in who we are with them on the journey?

The very thought of it humbles me beyond words. Still, there it is, "Noah thinks you are Jesus." I pray that Noah sees only the best, hears only the words, and knows only the feelings of Jesus in his heart in who he perceives me to be. Maybe that is the truest test of whether or not we Christians are who we pray to be. Time, and Jesus, will only know.

For now, whether known as Under-God or Jesus or just simply Pastor Don, I had better be who God created me to be in the most faithful way I can, for there are little ones watching and I know Who it is that I want them to see: God. Thank you for reminding me of that, Noah, and thank you, Olivia, for trusting me with what you know. I'll try not to get that messed up.

Have a blessed day everyone!

A Stitch in Time

Last evening the St. Paul UCC Women's Fellowship held their Annual Mother's Day Celebration Event. Focused on the theme of 'Quilts', many in attendance had brought special, precious quilts which had been made for them or which they had made. I was in awe. Some well over 100 years old, one still in the quilt rack in which it is being quilted, and the rest everywhere in between, each told a story, each revealed a tenderness, and each touched a heart. From a grandmother's wish for her granddaughter to a whimsical interpretation of raising a grandson, from a quilt made from feed sacks to one made from ribbons, from one which told various Biblical stories to one which told the stories of a daughter's sports accomplishments, all bore the sacred stitches of love and passion which only a quilter can fully fathom and appreciate. For folks like me who are more interested in how a quilt feels on a cold night than the pattern and stitching with which the quilt was made, it was an evening of apocryphal proportions. The nearness of the Kingdom was announced in a language and with a heart that few among us truly know, but all can savor and understand.

One quilt which captured my heart wasn't even there on display, yet was the focus of the program compliments of a wonderful Power Point program: The Patriot's Quilt told the story of an array of women whose contributions to the Revolutionary War helped write the history of an emerging nation. It was a history lesson no class on early American history ever taught - and being a history major in college, I can assure you (at least when I attended college) no such class was even offered. More is the pity, yet incredibly powerful the lesson taught in the blocks of a quilt.

Such are our lives in the hands of God: each of us a stitch in the Master Design; each of us an intentional connection to the other; and, each of us a part of the Story. Though our human minds and wisdom are unable to comprehend the whole of the beauty, I believe, in the moment we enter into the fullness of God which we call the Kingdom, there we will see, there we will know, there we will be known in the completion of the Pattern. Inconceivable as it might seem, such is the power of the Quilter's Hand and we are both, observer and participant in what is, even today, being created. Look and see.

Coach or Fan?

I'm not sure which is hardest: Coaching your son when he is playing sports or being a (grandparent) fan while your son coaches his daughter.


I have always loved sports, though I have never been very good at them. I played basketball through 8th grade, when it was decided that my time would be better spent helping on our family dairy farm. Never played baseball - same reason. I did throw the shot put on the track team in my Senior year, but by then I could drive and had my own car and getting me back and forth wasn't an issue. I played slow-pitch softball for a number of years on two teams, St. Clair County Farm Bureau Young Farmers and Sinn's Inn, primarily doing the catching. And, I did bowl on a league for a decade or so. But, I was never the stand-out athlete. I was part of the team.

So it was that, when our boys started out in sports and, as such things go, coaches were needed, I volunteered. I knew I didn't have a lot of expertise, but time spent with the team and, more importantly, with your children, is time never lost to all of the other 'stuff' in life. Also, my wife observed that when I was coaching the kids on the floor or diamond I was less likely to offer 'helpful observations' to the officials. I was never sure exactly what she meant by that, since several of those same officials always seemed to make sure they knew where I was sitting before the game ever started . . . I believe it made it easier for them to seek out my insights, but then that was my opinion.

Nevertheless, I coached many of the junior sports in which our boys were involved while they were growing up. Yet, now, the mantle has been passed on. Our oldest son, Matt, is a coach on his oldest daughter's softball team . . . and last night I found out that 'watching supportively' isn't the easiest thing in the world. You would be pleased that I didn't offer any advice or direction to the umpire . . . who was a fourteen year old girl who appeared to know more about the game than most of the men on the field. You might also be pleased that I allowed the coaches to do their work, including Matt, maybe especially Matt, since Cailin pitched for two innings in their game winning effort. I focused on being a grandparent, a fan, and that was just enough. I drove home in the glow of love and family and the passing of traditions.

If it is so for me, as a mere human being, then how much more is it true for the God and Parent of us all? How hard is it for God to sit there on the sidelines and cheer on the team without stepping on the field and taking over? Trust, wisdom, understanding and hope in each one of us are expressed by God when Jesus says, "You are the branches." Go out and play the game and do the best you are able . . . "and I am with you always, even unto the end of the age."

It is something to remember while I watch the grandchildren play.

The Streets Smell Like Curing Hay

It smells like curing hay in town, so full of battered green leaves are our streets. Another sobering reminder of the storm which passed a few short days ago.


The smell reminded me of days gone by, when once such a storm stopped the baling of a field of hay which was dried and ready on our farm. The rain poured down for a day, then continued in fits and starts for another day (one of those 'surpri...se' rains no forecaster foresaw), while the hay laid raked and ready for the baler. By the time the field and hay had dried enough for us to even think about baling, the hay was, in fact, moldy and wasted. Too much time had passed, too much water had soaked it, too much moisture was still trapped underneath the rows. All that was left to do was chop it onto the ground and wait for the next crop to ripen, praying all the while that the next crop would be more bountiful than ever. It is a sad day on a dairy farm when that happens, both in mourning the loss of critical winter feed for the cows and in anticipating what it is going to take from slim profits to purchase enough from other sources to make up for the difference. Many is the farmer which has looked up to the sky with questioning eyes in such moments and voiced a deep disappointment.

I can't speak for other farmers in similar situations, but I can tell you of what I observed in my Dad in comparable moments. When such things happened Dad never blamed God, yet he shared his disappointment as a precious gift of trust with the One to whom all people can go. Even the voice of disappointment in the ear of God is a precious gift of intimate prayer, for both the one who prays the truth of their heart and the One who hears those pained words are moved by that moment of closeness - and out of that shared wound comes healing.

Trust God enough to share everything with God, including the pain, disappointment, grief and anger. In Christ, we are taught that no more honest language can be shared than that of child and Parent.

If the god you believe in isn't big enough to take such candor, than it is a very small god you believe in, indeed.

God can take it all . . . and more, which is good to remember when the streets smell like curing hay. Have a blessed day.