Things I Have Taught Our Kids

Things which make my children laugh, yet I remember as true:

• I walked uphill both ways to school, in three feet of snow, after milking the cows and doing the chores . . .
• I was a pretty good basketball player in Grade School. In my mind I scored from anywhere on the court and always under duress. Actual statistics can be cruel . . .
• When I was a kid life was simpler. We never had much, but we always had enough. Homemade ice cream was a staple of summertime evenings and swimming in the pond was a nice way to end a hot day of baling . . .
• We never baled hay unless it was at least 100 degrees, with 95% humidity, the hay shed was always nearly full so that we had to stack every bale directly under the tin of the roof, and all the bales weighed at least 100 pounds each . . .
• If I got in trouble at school it was guaranteed I got in trouble at home. Period. 
• The school bus ride back and forth to school was a country boy's first hot box of socialization and, often, the place where rank and privilege were first taught . . .
• Mom and Dad always knew what we did, even when we were sure they didn't . . . and now I know that because I understand they first did some version of everything I did long before I ever imagined it . . . the same way we, as parents, do now . . .
• Don't ever underestimate the power of a Dad's hand on your backside or the safety of a Father's embrace when you are in need . . .
• Mom sees what you do behind her back, including the faces you make while she is lecturing you, but continues to love you anyway . . . and is quite capable of leaping over that chair and wiping that sneer off your face with the hardened side of her hand OR pulling you into the embrace of her love at any moment . . . 
• A grandparent's job is to quietly dispute a parent's teaching about what the five food groups are and how much of each to consume . . .
• A grandchild's job is to encourage their grandparents in their work . . .
• Before there was cellular technology, we used our imaginations in games, rode bicycles to our friends homes, played outside by the hour, shook hands when we met, talked with each other, and believed that it was okay to disagree, even to fight, but also imperative that we make amends . . . after all, in the country we needed each other . . .
• A handshake was a form of contract and was understood to be binding . . .
• Your word was your bond - and you always knew who could not be trusted . . . 
• Lawyers were really only needed to do legal descriptions of land and property transfers or to deal contractually with people whose handshake or word you couldn't trust . . . which says something about the number of lawyers today . . .
• Especially when in town, when a funeral procession passed you always pulled over in a show of respect for the deceased and their family. Always . . . 
• When country folk wave at you with just their index finger in that slow back-to-forward motion they are being friendly . . .
• There is always enough food on the table for visitors, family and friends, regardless of when they show up . . .
• There are always enough chairs for everyone to have a seat at the table . . . 
• Visitors, friends and family have first choice of all dishes on the table . . .
• Your friend's parents had as much authority over your behavior as did your parents . . . 
• Even if you aren't caught in a lie, it is still a lie . . . the same with the deductions you take on your taxes . . . 
• One of the most telling ways to recognize integrity, respect and honor in a person is in the way they farm their land and keep their home place . . . the cleanest places aren't always the best and the messiest aren't always the worst, but where there is pride in the job there is heart for others . . .
• There are few smells more wonderful than newly worked soil, freshly cut alfalfa or corn pollinating on a hot Summer afternoon . . . 
• Every person has the right to remember their history in the manner which gives their life the best light - allowing, of course, that there will be an intersection of Truth and Accuracy somewhere in the general vicinity of where your story goes . . .
• Always remember: the person to whom you are busily telling your story also has a story to tell you, which is why God has given you one mouth and two ears. Listen more than you talk . . . which is a good place to end this rambling . . .

I pray you see a bit of yourself in where I have been and am in this journey . . . and give thanks to God for allowing you the joy and responsibility of passing your experiences on to the next generation, which kind of makes me wonder how their stories to their children will begin . . . 

Only time will tell . . .

Solo Voices and Players

Our oldest granddaughter, Mary Cailin, sang a solo last evening in the Red Bud Middle School Christmas Concert. Well, it was not exactly a solo . . . Mary was one of approximately 150 students who sang together as a chorus, yet hers was the only voice her Papa heard. In my mind, all others joined in supporting her angelic singing, in harmonizing with her clarity and in expanding the fullness of her rejoicing. It was truly an incredible event organized exclusively for Mary that she might share with the world her operatic skills - and share with the world she did! "Bells of Christmas", "Jingle Bell Rock", "Let It Snow" and "Somewhere in My Memory" were never sung as pure, light and tonally clear as Mary sang them last evening . . . and "Silent Night" simply reduced me to tears as Mary's telling of the story brought the birth of our Savior into the home of my heart. 

Then, were that not enough, Mary Cailin, played a saxophone solo (albeit with the rest of the Junior High Band) that would have made Kenny G or John Coltrane blush with envy. She later told me that she missed one note, but I never heard it. All this Papa heard was her unencumbered joy of music being celebrated before hundreds of her adoring fans. The applause was thunderous, the adoration overwhelming and the lingering of well-wishers long but, what can one so talented do other than acknowledge those who see the gifts of God in her?

Later, after the throngs had dispersed, Mary, her Dad, Matt, and her Nana entered the local eatery where I had gone ahead to reserve a table for the emerging diva and her family at the end of an exhausting evening of performances. As Mary entered the room she opened her arms to her Papa and said, "Thank you for coming! I love you!" . . . and the world stopped spinning for a moment. There are no other words a Papa would rather hear from his granddaughter and, already so proud of her for her accomplishments, now his love for her, his willingness to do anything for her, and his incredible humility in even being recognized by her (in public!) deepens the connection they forging in love far beyond human expression. It is pure Joy. Pure Joy.

'Ask for the world and it is yours', I thought. 'Direct me to slay a dragon for you and it will be done', I mused. 'I will forever be the one who protects you from those who would hurt you', I promised . . . all said in my mind, not out loud, yet none the less true.
"Thank you for coming! I love you!" are the words my oldest granddaughter spoke in my ear last night and, from the depths of her being, I knew she meant every word. Not only can this girl sing and play the saxophone, she knows I would go to the ends of the earth for her . . . and she appreciates it! "God", I thought, "I am so blessed . . .and humbled . . . and grateful for such a gift. Thank you."

Later, as I drove home in my pickup truck, it was my last thought with her that kept coming to the foreground of my mulling along the miles of the journey. "God, I am so blessed . . . and humbled . . . and grateful for such a gift. Thank you." And, if such raw emotion can fill the soul of this Papa as he shares a moment with his granddaughter, how much more is it for You, God, The Papa, as You share each moment with us?

Are each of us 'soloists' in the choir and band? Do You look at me as I looked at our granddaughter and, though You see all the other mouths moving, hear only me? When I play my instrument in Your band, will mine be the instrument You hear above all the others? When I whisper in your ear, "Thank You for coming! I love You!", does your heart melt the way mine did?

Is that what You were trying to say when your angels sang over a stable in Bethlehem? When the heavenly orchestra lifted Your praise into all creation at the birth of Your Son? On each step of His journey, were You gathering us into your arms and reminding us just how much we mean to You? How far You will travel to sit, even in the middle of a crowd, and hear only us? Could it be that, in the moment we rejected your Gift, You still waited at the Table for us to return that, in the emptiness of the Tomb, we would enter Your continual embrace and be moved to say, "Thank you for coming! I love You!"? Do You weep as I wept when "Silent Night" is sung and the story of the birth of our Savior comes home anew into Your heart? And the questions kept coming . . . .

If it is so with we who are human, how much more are such things true for the One who creates us?

Our oldest granddaughter, Mary Cailin, sang and played solos last evening . . . or so it seemed for her Papa . . . and on his way home The Papa reminded him that it no less for any of us in The Papa's heart. Thank you, Papa, for Coming! Thank you, Papa, for Listening when I whisper in Your ear that song I would only have You hear! I love You, Papa! I love You always!

I Gave Jesus a Ride Home Yesterday

I gave Jesus a ride home yesterday. Oddly enough, he lives in Litchfield, Illinois.
He came to the door of the St. Paul UCC Church Office. Actually, I noticed him when he walked by the door as though looking for somewhere or something else, then came back to the door. At first appearance he was wearing a thin tee-shirt, jeans which were spattered with something, those hospital non-skid socks in institutional gray, and flip-flops. He also had hospital wristbands on each wrist. Ringing the bell at the door to the office, he turned his face towards the Conference Room where I was sitting in conversation with a couple of other people and it was then that I also saw his black-eye and bent nose. Clearly this man had been in a brawl at one time or another and was now here at the church needing something.
Not sure of his circumstance and feeling a need to shield our staff from Lord knows what (no pun intended), I went to the door and opened it to him, inviting him in and asking him his name. (I will not share his name here to protect his identity, but let's just call him 'Jesus') Jesus told me his name and then I asked about his hospital bracelets. So it was that Jesus told me his story:
It seems that on Saturday evening Jesus and his wife were home watching television when, suddenly, there was a commotion on their front porch and a pounding on their door. Jesus got up from his chair, went to the front door and opened it only to be met by the fist of a man who was in a drug-induced craze. "He was out of his mind", Jesus said, "and was beatin' everythin' and everyone in his way . . . and, I was jist the one at the door." "Turns out", Jesus continued, "that he had already beaten his uncle nearly to death before gettin' to me." "It was scary, but the po-lice came and got him in cuffs and took him away . . . or so I was told. I don't really remember much since I was knocked out from being hit and what I do remember is pretty hazy. I've got a concussion."
I inquired, "You've got a concussion?"
Jesus continued, "Yeah, that's what they tell me and that's why I was in the hospital. They airlifted me from my home to a hospital in St. Louis because they were afraid I was bleeding in the brain. They done enough tests now to think I'm okay and this morning they turned me loose about 6 or 7 o'clock."
Thinking this a pretty odd story because, really, what kind of a hospital receives a patient airlifted in with a concussion, diagnoses them, pronounces them 'Okay enough to be sent home with a concussion', then turns them out on the street with prescriptions to fill, but with no-one to receive them? Really? I asked him which hospital it was, but he didn't know. So, I asked for some sort of identification. Jesus didn't have anything in any of his blood-spattered pockets (Remember I said earlier his jeans were spattered with something? It was blood, his blood from  being hit.), except . . . except the 'Welcome' folder from the hospital with his prescriptions inside. There on the outside of the folder was the name, "St. Louis University Hospital". So, now we know who turns the beaten man away with no ride home.
Unemployed, probably uninsured (I never asked, simply because it wasn't my business), disabled by a construction accident some years earlier when he fell off a three story home, Jesus was turned out on the streets of St. Louis to figure out in his foggy state how to get home to Litchfield.
As it turns out, Jesus' wife has her own health issues as she battles her second round of cancer and the effects of treatments. She wasn't answering her telephone . . . I tried her number and left a message that Jesus was in our office where someone could pick him up. Then I asked him how he got here. Seems someone had told him to go to the Metro-Link station and get a ride to Illinois and he had managed his way to the Metro-Link station where someone had given him enough money to purchase a ticket which would take him to Illinois. Thank God for good Samaritans along the way! Yet, the Metro-Link only took him as far as Scott Air-Force Base. It seems that once Jesus was at the SAFB station, he was able to convince the driver of one of the Metro buses to give him a lift to Lebanon, where he would at least be on Route 4 and might get a ride North. From the Lebanon bus stop, he went to the Police Station and explained his circumstance and they told him . . . this clearly concussion affected man who was speaking and remembering with no little difficulty, with a black eye, broken nose, a thin tee-shirt on a cool morning, blood spattered pants, hospital bracelets on each wrist, and hospital sock covered feet in flip-flops . . . they told him to walk to St. Paul where he might be able to get some help. Hmmmm.
So it was that Jesus was in the St. Paul Church Office, looking for help to get to Litchfield, to get home to his wife for whom he was worried because she wasn't answering the telephone. I looked at our Office Manager and said, "Well, I was planning to drive to Litchfield sometime this week anyway to visit an old friend in need, there's no reason it can't be today." So, Jesus and I got in the church car and headed North towards his home.
Along the way, Jesus told me he had grown up in the Mississippi bayou, near Biloxi. Since he didn't have much education, he had worked as a laborer nearly all his life . . . well, up until the time he fell off the three story roof and hurt his back.
I asked him what brought him to Litchfield. Jesus looked at me with a twinkle in his dark brown eyes and said, "Well, I came here on a job - and stayed here because of a woman. Isn't that jist the way it goes?" We both laughed a man's laugh at such a thought. Later, driving into Litchfield toward his home, Jesus pointed out the building that had once been the tavern where he had met his wife. "She's a good woman, a hard working woman. Had a job all her life and raised her kids mostly by herself 'til I came along, then we did it together. Been nearly 25 years now. I got kids of my own in another state, but I ain't seen 'em much. Love 'em, just ain't seen 'em much."
I thought, "Isn't that the way things sometimes go for the laborers on the road?", but I didn't say anything. I just kept following Jesus' directions to his house.
Turning into his driveway, there were two men standing outside his modest single story frame home waiting for him. (His wife had called the Church Office after we left and our Office Manager told her we would be there soon.) Between the three of them there were about 16 teeth, but all of their teeth were visible because they were smiling so much to be back together. Jesus was home.
Before Jesus got out of my car he shook my hand and asked if I wanted to come in and meet his wife and have a cup of coffee. I declined the opportunity, reminding Jesus I had given him a ride because I was on the way to see someone else. He just smiled and said, "Thank you for bringing me home. I won't ferget 'yer.", and I firmly believe he won't . . . for I will never forget him.
After visiting with my friend and on the way back, I reflected on giving Jesus a ride home. "How many times in our lives", I wondered, "are we privileged to give Jesus a ride home . . . and don't?" Sometimes we are scared, sometimes we are too busy, sometimes we don't want to be bothered by the 'poor among us', and sometimes we simply can't bear the thought of Jesus riding in our car. But how many times do we miss the opportunity to be the Good Samaritan because Jesus only has a couple of teeth or blood spattered pants or some sort of hand-me-down tee shirt or flip-flops or hospital bracelets on each arm or clearly, doesn't have all his mental capacities because he has a concussion? And this guy had them all. Jesus was left along the side of the road . . .
In the Biblical narrative it is a lawyer who asks Jesus, "Who is my neighbor?" Sometimes, it is life itself which continues to ask such a question of us today.
I gave Jesus a ride home today . . . and I am the one who is at peace and healed because of it.
I just thought you would like to know he lives in Litchfield, at least that is where I took him. Have you met him anywhere today?
Peace on the journey.

Questions of Church Growth

I recently read a column in a local newspaper which tried to address the issue of declining numbers in the Christian tradition. The author pointed to the dichotomy between nearby mega-churches with their large attendance numbers and the ever-shrinking numbers in their own faith tradition, all the while mingling the gall of a civic organization into the conversation, finding no satisfying answer to their wonderment.
I am no expert on why people come to Christianity or why they leave it, but these are a few things I am observing:
Most people do not want to become Christian for the sake of Christianity, to reach heaven or because they fear Hell. They become Christian because they have had or desire to have a genuine experience with Jesus that isn't laden by liturgy or sermons, but is highlighted, even set free, by acts of acceptance, welcome, healing, love, mercy and community, such as Jesus Himself modeled in ministry.
The local congregation which is not engaged in the issues present in the local community, providing leadership and opportunities for folk to witness in ways of justice, grace, equality, understanding and faith, is a congregation caught up in the study of its' own belly-button and will languish and die. There is far more to faith in Christ than Christianity and there is far more to Christianity than maintenance of tradition and tending to sacred cows . . . and those who are seeking a meaningful root to their sacred journey know the difference and are drawn to places where their time and gifts are nurtured and valued as those who are God's children.
The church was never meant to be judge and jury of God's people, neither was it intended to become the gatekeeper of God's Holy Kingdom. Those who are disciples of Jesus of Nazareth, the One who is Christ, Lord and Savior, are those who will be found feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, clothing the naked, giving a drink to the thirsty, tending to the sick and caring for the imprisoned. Those who are disciples of Jesus will be found in the leper colonies of our current age, touching the unclean, eating with sinners, offering welcome to the marginalized and striving for justice, God's justice, even in the midst of the Temple. Sometimes the tables have to be overturned before anyone notices something is wrong in the way we have been doing faith all along.
People today are multi-sensory in their daily lives and the thriving faith community strives to engage, both the wonder of sacred silence and the holy of joyful praise. This does not mean that praise music has 'taken over', nor that amphitheater seating with few religious symbols is the way to go. No, rather, the people who continue to walk in the door of the congregation with whom I am sharing the journey are seeking a time and space where the Spirit is welcome, praise is considered a response to God's ongoing Presence and Love, and Peace surrounds them in a community of faith which resembles the world in which they live, inclusive of race, sexuality, culture and experience.
Now, I am not certain I have answered the question any more than the author of the column I read, but of this I am certain: The church more engaged in reliving a memory of what once was or saying they want to become something they really don't value will struggle mightily until they truly walk with Jesus . . . or simply die away. The church is not a civic organization . . . the Church is the Body of Christ alive in the world. Maybe when organized religion accepts such a call and such an identity the questions some now ask will become moot . . . for the Answer will truly have the final say in Whose we are becoming.

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.

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

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.

Nancy's Visit to Colorado Springs

Tonight Nancy leaves for Colorado Springs to visit Ched . . . and I'm not going. Nancy asked me this morning if there was anything special I wanted her to tell Ched or give to him. I thought for a moment and said, "Give him a big hug from me and tell him how much I love him."

There is not an ounce of resentment or jealousy in me that Nancy is going to the Springs without me to see Ched. It is just the way our calendars worked and I have other obligations to tend to in the days ahead. I am grateful and glad that Nancy is going . . . but, I do wish I was going with her. Somehow, giving Nancy a hug this morning and asking her to give that hug to Ched just isn't the same as giving him a hug myself. There is something about having your child in your arms, giving them a kiss on the cheek and saying to them personally, "I love you", that makes all the difference in how life itself is ordered.

Maybe that is why Jesus came into our lives. God sent all the prophets ahead of Him to tell the world how much they were loved, to give them a hug, to connect in a 'nearly-present' way, but it just wasn't the same. It's only when Jesus arrives that, at least for the parts of the world ready to receive it, we are given a sense of how much God loves us. Jesus is the embrace of God, the kiss of God, the "I love you" of God, to all who would enter into God's open arms. Jesus makes all the difference in how life itself is ordered.

Nancy and Ched will have a great time together this weekend. There's even a chance Ched will be trying out his new Soaring Instructor Pilot wings on Friday while Mom is watching (weather permitting)! Yet, I know the best part of the visit is not in all the things they will do, it is in the 'being together' in the midst of all the things they do. It is in the hugs, the kisses and the "I love you's", the connections, the touches which make all the difference.

So it should be for all of us, with family, with friends, with God.

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.

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.

When I Have An Extra Moment

I have a nagging suspicion that, when my days on this earth are over, the headstone my wife and children will place where I am laid to rest will simply read,

Rev. Dr. Donald C. Wagner

"Finally, an extra moment to . . ."

An extra moment to read the books lined up on my shelves; An extra moment to do the writing I've always imagined I could do; An extra moment to play golf with those folks who have been persistent in inviting me; An extra moment to go hunting with my friends who know my passion; An extra moment to get caught up on the correspondence with family; An extra moment to get the Wagner family cousins together for a reunion; An extra moment to see the plays and musicals I have always wanted to see; An extra moment to see the world through Ross Brewer's eyes as I listen to all of his wonderful travel stories; An extra moment to work on the garden I always knew I could grow; An extra moment to landscape our home; An extra moment to build the home of my dreams, in the place of my dreams; An extra moment to listen to Christine Brewer sing; An extra moment to do mission trips; An extra moment to work at disaster relief; An extra moment to plant flowers; An extra moment to savor the music of jazz greats like Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and Sadao Watanabe; An extra moment to visit with my Dad, Melvin, and his wife, Dorothy; An extra moment to visit with my brothers and their families; An extra moment to visit with my wife's family; An extra moment (or two or three) to work on the farm; An extra moment to cherish our children, Matthew (Bethany), Raymond (Kara) and Ched, and our beautiful granddaughters, Mary Cailin, Ava & Norah; and, especially, An extra moment to delight in the love of my life, Nancy.

Notably missing on such a list are: An extra moment to write another liturgy; An extra moment to preach another sermon; An extra moment to attend another meeting; An extra moment to raise money for another worthy project; An extra moment to get caught up on paperwork; and, An extra moment to make sure my calendar is up to date.

Not missing on my first list are: An extra moment with God; An extra moment with Jesus; An extra moment with the Spirit; or, An extra moment in the Body of Christ, the Church. All my moments, regardless of activity, are rooted in such holy relationships: They were before I was born and will be after I am long gone. Thanks be to God!

I have observed with great interest folks around me who seem always to have the time to do whatever it is they want to do. It seems their pace is slower, their countenance more relaxed, their demeanor more intentional AND I am forever bumping into them with smiles on their faces and laughter on their lips. They are so disgusting!

Maybe, when I have an extra moment I can be like them . . . but then, will I be able to be who I am called to be? Gifted to be? Led to be?

Does my life still have meaning if I am not getting everything done? If I'm not toiling 24/7/365? If I am not meeting everyone's expectations? If, even for only a moment, I don't give a thought to making sure everyone else is happy (which I don't always do anyway!)?

I am quite capable of preaching a pretty good sermon about taking Sabbath rest, about caring for the soul as well as the heart, and about putting the important things in life first. Yet, listening to that sermon . . . well, maybe I will give that some time when I have an extra moment . . .

Let's just pray I find it before I have eternity to ponder what that extra moment might have been!

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Lessons to Learn on Memorial Day

May 30, 2011 is Memorial Day in the United States of America, a day established by law as a time to remember those who have made the supreme sacrifice of life to defend and preserve the freedoms and liberty enjoyed by the citizens of our nation. Too, this particular Memorial Day is one I pray I will never forget.

As is our family custom, we gathered at the Marissa Cemetery, Marissa, Illinois, near the Veterans Memorial where the Memorial Day Service is held at 11:00 a.m. each Memorial Day. My wife's father, William Norton, Sr., arrived just a few minutes prior to the service, parking his car as close as he could to where the service was to be held. Bill has a hard time 'getting his air' these days and long walks are no longer a part of his regimen, so he was especially grateful for the lawn chair we brought so that he could closely observe the events of the day.

An Army Air Corps veteran of WWII, trained as a tail-gunner in the B-17, Bill has attended and participated in these services for 60 years, never missing one, and he was not about to miss this one, though today he wouldn't be participating as in year's past. His health just wouldn't allow it.

Still, when the colors were advanced to the area, with assistance Bill stood, saluting. Near the end of the service, when the colors were presented, the riflemen volleyed their salute, and the bugler played Taps, Bill stood, saluting, his left arm firmly held by his oldest grandson, our son, Matt, who had his hand over his heart. Bill's health couldn't hold him back from that. Love of country, commitment to defense of our liberties and freedoms, respect for others who have given so much, and understanding of citizenship, all combined in that one moment, that one tin-type picture of grandfather and grandson, saluting the flag as they honored the memory of so many fallen in service to country . . . and I wept. I couldn't help it.

In an age of instantaneous communication and 4G equipment, one man spoke volumes to our nation about patriotism in simply standing when the flag approached, never touching a cell phone or computer. In the midst of rampant cultural concern for political correctness, one man stood saluting what makes such conversations possible. In the milieu of backyard grilling, holiday camping trips, shopping center sales pitches, and relief at having a 'paid day off work', one man stood at attention, supported by a grandson and surrounded by his family, honoring the dead while reminding the living of the cost for such freedoms.

Some accost the American Public Education System for not teaching enough of what children today really need. Yet, after viewing today's events, I would suggest that what children in the United States of America really need begins, not in the classroom, but in the home; not at a computer or cell phone, but with their parents; not in expecting entitlements, but in accepting responsibility; not in claiming the rights of freedom, but in participating in the works of liberty; and not in wearing the stars, bars, and colors of our flag as a fashion statement, but in giving of self as a citizen of the nation to what those things mean, both in our history and to our future as a country.

It is not cliche to stand at attention when the flag passes, nor is it inappropriate to sing the words of the National Anthem as they are played: It is what the flag means and what the words evoke in us that causes us, as those before us, to willingly give the last measure . . . or risk losing it to those of other nations who will.

One 86 year old veteran taught our Nation a lesson today and I am humbled to have been there to witness it. Thank you, Bill, for your continuing service to the United States of America. This Memorial Day, we remember and we will not forget.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

It's Time to Get Up!

"It's time to get up!

It's time to get up!

It's time to get up in the mor-ning!

It's time to get up!

It's time to get up!

It's time to get up today!

Oh, you don't want to get up?

Well, you just have to get up!

Oh, you don't want to get up?

Well, get up any-way!

It's time to get up!

It's time to get up!

It's time to get up in the mor-ning!

It's time to get up!

It's time to get up!

It's time to get up today!"

(sung quickly and to the tune of Reveille)

With songs like this and many others like it, I woke up our three boys each day for school. Swinging open the door to their rooms, often intentionally singing off key and as loudly as I could, these moments came to be as much dreaded as they were anticipated by the boys. When I didn't wake them up 'abruptly', it wasn't unusual for one of them to find me and ask if I was alright. Seldom did any morning go by that the boys wouldn't seek me out at the dining room table where I had already gone to eat breakfast and read the paper, give me a big 'good morning hug' and an 'I love you" before heading on to get their breakfast ready and their day started . . . . and, this morning, Nancy reminded me that I wouldn't have to sing to the boys anymore. They have all left home.

I had mentally noted the end of this particular, peculiar tradition on Wednesday, June 23, the day Ched left for the Air Force Academy, yet this morning as Nancy headed off to teach, the reality hit home and the silence of the 7:00 a.m. hour resonated loudly. The doors to their rooms were already open, their beds were neatly made, and the incredible stench of athletic shoes has long ago dissipated from their closets. Much like the teacher who retires in May, yet doesn't really experience retirement until the school year reconvenes, I had seen this coming, but couldn't anticipate how it would feel. Today I know and my heart aches for their laughter, chastisement, hugs and voices. They are each on their journey.

Though I would never wish any of them back to the rooms of their childhood for a moment, I do miss having 'our boys' at home, bringing to mind the words of Genesis 2 echoing across the generations to my heart today (as Adam first sees Eve, created as she was from one of Adam's ribs): "This at last is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh . . . ." (2.23a NRSV) There is something deeply connective beyond the brick and mortar of residence and geography which binds our souls together and causes us to care and long for each other, regardless the time or place. What began as just Nancy and me became three times deeper in the birth of each of our sons. How much more is that so for the God who births us all?

Last evening, as I held our newest granddaughter, Norah Caroline, in my arms and felt her tiny fingers squeezing mine it was as if she were assuring her Papa that the connection continues, the flesh and bone of family is deepened, the heart of life itself pulses even more vibrantly. Though tears may flow in the morning for songs no longer sung, laughter and hope fills the evening in the breath of a baby cooing assurance, the gift of the One who knows our days.

My prayer for you, as for each of our sons and their children after them, is that you know both, the fullness of a home resounding with, " . . . . bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh . . . ." and the bittersweet awareness of silence echoing in the hallways as that which is 'of you' seeks their own future in the presence and goodness of God. Traditions may change, habits are meant to be broken, patterns of living will be transformed, but that which is of us will remain in us as a gift of the Father who knows all the children as, ". . . . bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh . . . .". Thanks be to God.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Superman

++Author's note: As many are headed to colleges and vocational training in these days, it seems appropriate to re-print this article from 'Pastor Don's Corner' of the St. Paul UCC "Caller", September 2004. I pray those parents who read this find it helpful in pondering the deeper feelings of your child maturing - and that those children reading this,trying to understand their parents in these days, will find some measure of patience and peace with those who love them so.
In Christ's service,
Pastor Don


Pastor Don’s Corner . . .

Superman has left the house.
We took Raymond to the University of Kansas last Sunday and helped him move into his new room. Six round trips of about a quarter mile each way to bring all of his earthly possessions to the dorm, then up five flights of stairs with each load, joining with about a thousand other students and their parents (just in his dorm building) to set up a new way of life uniquely designed to last only nine months. Somehow, there just must be a correlation between the nine months of pregnancy and the nine months of the school year, but right now I’m just too tired to think about it.
We were ready to make this trip, after all it is the school of Raymond’s choosing. It is his dream, his ambition to play basketball for the KU Jayhawks and to get a quality Division I College education . . . so, Nancy and he sorted for weeks through a lifetime of accumulation and storage to cull it all down to what would fit in our Explorer for the trip to Lawrence, Kansas. Necessities were determined, addresses were changed and people were notified, a computer was purchased, a telephone plan was laid out, and a transition was made ready. We left on Saturday afternoon for the five and a half hour journey so that we would be fresh for the move-in on Sunday morning.
Tearful good-byes and good-lucks were exchanged between Raymond and a multitude of relatives, friends and well-wishers, and promises were made on every front to ‘keep in touch’ or, as in the case of his big brother, requests were made for tickets to KU basketball games (There’s nothing like a Rock Chalk Jayhawk Basketball game!). But, just the same, I knew I was ready to ‘drop him off’ and ‘clear another one out of the house’ and had told an unknown number of people exactly that . . . and was ready to do so as though it wouldn’t make any major difference in my life until that moment in the Explorer when he asked me for the fobs off of his key chain.
You see, Raymond has been driving the Explorer pretty regularly and one of the Explorer key chains was his to use. Raymond had placed two Superman key chain fobs on his key chain and everyone in the house knew that was ‘his’ set of keys. Knowing that we were not leaving the Explorer in Kansas for him to use, Ray turned to me while we were driving down a Lawrence, Kansas street and said, “Since you are taking the Explorer home, why don’t you give me my Superman fobs for my key ring here at Kansas.”
And, don’t ask me why but, with those few words it suddenly hit me, Superman has left the house and Metropolis will never be the same.
This young man who grew up in three different towns in eighteen years, whose super-powers include impersonations, telling jokes that can make the dourest person laugh, caring more and deeper than a person his age should know how to, a passion for basketball that is matched only by his passion for the Christ of his faith, and a solid belief in family and love . . . this young man who may not be faster than a speeding bullet, nor mightier than a powerful locomotive, nor ever leap tall buildings in a single bound . . . this young man, like his older brother before him and his younger brother after him, has my heart. And, like every parent who loves their children, I believe he will make the world a better place to live, will be able to address the evils of our generation, and give men, women and children of every background a reason to hope and smile. This man of steel is human and may make his share of mistakes, but I know his heart is in the right place and his passion for Christ and others will see him through every crisis. He is our son and, though I hadn’t known it until that moment, to me he will always be Superman.
And Superman has left the house.
As Nancy and I drove the five and a half hour trip back to Lebanon, and as I struggled with this huge lump of parental joy and sadness in my throat, and as tears streamed from sunglass covered eyes, my thoughts turned to God . . . and to just how God does it with each one of us. I mean, think of it, God is the ultimate parent: God births every one of us into life, gives us roots to grow, space to spread out, a place to know we are safe, is always putting food on the table, is constantly encouraging us to follow our passion in faith, and assures us that, when we are ready, our wings will carry us swiftly and strongly onward. God knows the path will not be easy, that dreams are often shattered by the cruel fist of a reality that is mediated by others, and that the choices we make would not always be the choices God would make. Yet, God sets us up for success anyway and sends us forth in love and joy.
I wondered: as God drives away from the ‘dorm’ of our new journey, is it as hard on God as it was on us, to watch ‘Superman’ walk away across the heat soaked asphalt parking lot, a mere mortal preparing to engage in cosmic combat? Do the words that God hoped to say just before leaving get stuck in God’s throat the way mine did? Is God grateful for the opportunities that God’s children have, all the while secretly hoping that they will not wander out in those opportunities and forget they have a home to return to? Is it possible that God sets us up for success, freedom and self-reliance, all the while praying that we will know that we will never fully outgrow our need for God and God’s love and care? . . . . . . Just how hard was it to drop Jesus off in Bethlehem and watch him grow up to walk all the way to Jerusalem? And, if God has it this hard, what makes us think it should be any easier for us here today?
Maybe we should take our cues from the One who defines parenthood for every generation: Superman has left the house, but he will never leave the home of our hearts. Whether his journey takes him to the heavens above or the earth below, our love goes with him, above him, below him, around him and through him. Metropolis may never be the same again, but it will always be profoundly better for his having been with us for a while.
Fly high, be strong, strive for justice, truth and mercy, and know that we wait with the world in breathless anticipation of what God is yet to do in you, through you, and with you, Superman.

“It’s a bird, it’s a plane . . .” it’s a child of God soaring to new heights. Be careful on your journeys, Superman, and know that, in the home of our hearts, you have a place and are loved always.
Love you,
Dad

Norah Caroline

"Happy is everyone who fears the Lord, who walks in the Lord's ways.

You shall eat the fruit of the labor of your hands;

you shall be happy, and it shall go well with you.

Your wife will be like a fruitful vine within your house;

your children will be like olive shoots around your table.

Thus shall the man be blessed who fears the Lord.

The Lord bless you from Zion.

May you see the prosperity of Jerusalem all the days of your life.

May you see your children's children.

Peace be upon Israel!"

Psalm 128 NRSV

At 7:30 pm last evening I received 'that call' for which we had been waiting: "Dad, the contractions are about 6 to 7 minutes apart and the Doctor told us to go to the hospital. We'll see you there."

'That call' was Ray letting Nancy and I (Nana and Papa) know about Kara and the imminent arrival of Baby Wagner. 'That call' was a blessing of God about to make her grand entrance into this world. 'That call' was an invitation to be immersed in the happiness of the Lord, to " . . . . eat the fruit of the labor of your hands . . . ", to witness the wonder of a ". . . . fruitful vine . . . ", to see ". . . . children like olive shoots around your table . . . .", and to ". . . . see your children's children." 'That call' was to share the journey with our children as now they formally welcome their first child into the home of their hearts. 'That call' was Norah Caroline, child of God, disciple of Christ, member of the Body of Christ, whispering God's love into my ears and, like Grandfathers in every age, I turned to my wife and said, "She's coming!"

Ray and Kara had attended worship with us that morning in celebration of my birthday, after which we had sat at our dining room table and feasted on 'Wagner beef', T-bones from the farm, twice baked potatoes and salad, complimented by a Double Chocolate Chocolate Cake and lots of wonderful conversation. Though Kara appeared to have 'dropped' quite a bit, she said she still felt very comfortable and enjoyed the feast. They left around 2:00 in the afternoon . . . and that drive started the journey: about half-way home the labor pains began.

Though Baby Wagner was projected by the Doctor to arrive on August 11, I had long been telling folks I thought she would arrive on August 8 and share my birthday with me. Now, it seemed, God and Baby Wagner agreed with me . . . . yet, as always, God has a wry sense of humor. Without going into all the details, Norah Caroline arrived at 12:02 a.m. on August 9 or, for those of you into such coincidences, 08-09-10, and has her own day, her own celebration, her own integrity in God's laughter at my chagrin . . . and I could not be happier.

Kara is an amazing woman and our son, Ray, is blessed to be married to her. The two of them will be wonderful, faithful parents who will raise their daughter in the joy and wonder of God - and that shown through both of them as they tenderly cared for each other throughout the labor and delivery process. For a Grandparent, I cannot imagine a more humbling, tear-evoking, heart-filling moment than when your son walks out of the delivery room smiling and says, "She's here and she's perfect!", then gives you 'that hug' which is the final benediction to 'that call' received earlier in the evening.

Nancy summed it up best as we got into the car sometime around 2:15 in the morning after having held our newest granddaughter while shedding the baptismal tears reserved for such holy occasions: "We are so blessed and Norah is such a gift of God." We offered a prayer of thanksgiving, then pulled onto the highway, each swimming in the baptismal waters of our gratitude and love for what we were privileged to see and adore.

Norah Caroline joins her cousins, Mary Cailin and Ava Isabel, in declaring the power and imagination of God - and promises, I'm sure, to give us all a run for our money, but I could ask for nothing more. "Happy is everyone who fears the Lord, who walks in his ways . . . . your wife will be like a fruitful vine . . . your children will be like olive shoots around your table . . . . May you see your children's children." And if someone as simple and human as I can be so much in awe of new life, how much more is God delighted in what now is birthed for the world to see?

God bless you Norah Caroline! You are far more than your parent's daughter or your grandparents granddaughter: You are an ongoing announcement of God's Covenant, God's vision for all that can be in faith, hope and love. May your days be filled with all the joy I feel in this moment and, yet, so much more, that in your time you may sing the ancient song of the Psalmist and savor the meaning of the words, pondering them in your heart as well.

In the praise of God: Abba, Son and Holy Spirit!

Papa

Thank You

Two simple words never carried such meaning and resonated in my heart with such power as when I heard Ched say, "Thank you."

We had traveled to Colorado Springs and the Air Force Academy to see Ched advance from 'Basic' to 'Cadet' in rank on Acceptance Day and it was an impressive parade and event. Four thousand Cadets marching across a rain soaked parade field, a U-2 fly over, the Air Force Academy Band playing stirring marches, a legacy class ('74) presentation of 'Contrails' to Outstanding Cadets representing their squadrons and then, of course, the presentation of shoulder boards to the newly 'accepted' Cadets. It was the first time we had been able to be with him since we dropped him off at the St. Louis International Airport on the 23rd of June - and those have been long weeks and days. For two hours we delighted in being with him as, first, the Commandant and Flight Commander of his Squadron attached his boards, then as we walked with him to his room, ate with him at a picnic we provided, and enjoyed the company of his newly-made friends and colleagues. Time seems never to have flown so quickly.

Then, with about 25 minutes to go before he had to report in, he and I carried the few items he could have in his room the half mile, up hill (no kidding), back to the dormitory, while Nancy, Ashley and our friend, Harvey Haynes, cleaned up the remnants of the repast. On the way he and I just talked 'talk', the kind of father/son stuff that only happens when no-one else is around . . . and the kind of which you will never hear in such an article as this, if for no other reason than it is sacred talk, much like the prayers we speak to God. It was a holy moment. Yet, it wasn't in that talk that it happened.

No, it happened as he escorted me back across the Terrazzo, back to the place where he would have to return to his dorm as I would move on towards our car. It happened at the door where our journeys would divide and it caught me so unexpectedly: This strong young man in blue, with newly attached shoulder boards marking endeavor and accomplishment, turned to me and gave me the biggest hug and whispered, "Thank you." He stepped back from me, then embraced me again and said, "I love you. Thank you." Oh my God, what a humbling moment!

With tears running down my face, I mumbled the words of fatherly pride and love that were, at the moment, all that I could manage, even as I told him we would see him in a month at Parent's Weekend, then I turned and headed to the steps before my emotions got the best of me. Pausing for a moment on the steps which would lead me away from him, I watched as he turned and began his walk of the marble pathway back to his dorm, the marble pathway of Doolies, and I quietly answered him through the wind, "Thank you, too, Ched."

Struggling to swallow the rising tide of emotion on the walk back to the car, the words he spoke kept echoing in my mind until, at the gate where visitors are stopped, it struck me like the lightning which had been passing through the region that day, "He is not a boy anymore." In those simple two words Ched was telling me, 'Thank you for getting me this far', 'Thank you for the faith you have placed in me', 'Thank you for your love and support', and, 'Thank you for never, ever just dropping me off anywhere.' But now, 'Thank you' also meant, 'I'm ready to be on my own.'

Oh, I know Ched will still need us for one thing or another (especially to pay the bills for the airline tickets back and forth from Denver on his times of leave), but now I also know he is at a point in his life when he is listening ever more intently to a Greater Voice who leads him on into the future God intends. Ched prays to, and trusts, God. As he held me and told me 'Thank you', he wasn't dismissing me, he was taking his place in God's future for him and owning his responsibility to follow God's call. Ched was acknowledging the love of his father as he endeavors to live into the Love of the Father. Is there anything more a father can ask?

Those two simple words have been rolling around in my heart for the last 48 hours - and I doubt that they will ever leave me, I pray they never do. Thank you, Ched, for being the man you are becoming and for the faithfulness you express in caring the way you do. May the Air Force Academy live into the gratitude you offer in your journey of life and may this father always cling to the power and transformation two words have had in him.

Thank you, Ched. I love you.

Dad

In Love All Over Again

With our youngest out of the house,

Nancy and I are learning to live together again - with just each other.

It has been thirty years since Nancy and I haven't had a child in our home to occupy our time and attentions. When I am counseling folks who are preparing for the Covenant of Marriage, I always ask them what their plans are for children in their relationship precisely for that reason. Children are such a permanent fixture in the lives of their parents, whether they are home or away, for a child never is out of your heart and to have a child is more than a moment of birthing: it is a commitment to a lifetime of parenting. For those blessed to have children in their lives, you are never 'just a couple' again. You are always a family, however perfect or dysfunctional that definition may be.

Now Nancy and I find ourselves inexplicably becoming part of a new reality series whimsically known as 'Married, with Children, but None of Them In the Home'. It is a 24/7 program with absolutely no commercial breaks, sort of like The Truman Show, but without the hype and direction. Periodically we have a flurry of visits from children and grandchildren, but with no regular boarders, and even our refrigerator is suddenly, inexplicably staying stocked with all sorts of goodies for those evenings when I come home from the office with the munchies. Lights are magically being turned out in rooms where we are not presently doing something. Laundry is miraculously finding its way to the basement instead of laying strewn in the bedrooms. The dishwasher doesn't run for days on end because of a low volume of dirty dishes. Chip bags are actually closed with a 'Chip Clip' on them, keeping the contents fresh rather than letting the air make everything stale. There is hot water in the shower and little or no water on the bathroom floor. We can turn on the TV whenever we want and watch whatever we want . . . sometimes the channel never changes between the times we watch it (I had forgotten that happens!). Items placed on the counter for use later . . . remain on the counter until we are ready to use them. Imagine?!

Yet, even as I write of the irony of these changes, regarding the mundane as ridiculous, there isn't a moment I wouldn't gladly take back all of the differences and return to the hectic schedule of school, sports, friends, Scouts, band, and family, just to have our kids back home . . . which isn't going to happen, so I had better get over it and move on. Right? Well, the walls of our home maybe be quieter now without children there making the sounds that only children can appreciate, but Nancy and I are finding that our hearts continue to grow with love of those who still make us a family, wherever they may be. Our children are always our children, whether in our home or not, and their lives, their schedules, their interests still are our own, though now from miles away.

We begin a new journey, Nancy and I, a new experience in our relationship that we hadn't thought of until now, a part of the vows spoken 34 years ago that must have been lost in the fine print, as all over again we recover what it means to be just 'she and me'. I have always loved my curly-haired girl, my 'Sweetie', my best friend, yet I am finding in the latest turn of the chapter a new type of love, a sonnet of sorts, that only deepens what we have shared before. I cannot imagine life without children, for our kids have been, and continue to be, such blessings to us, but I am grateful to God for the moments into which Nancy and I are entering together. The days which some have termed the 'late-Summer' or 'early-Fall' of life I am coming to appreciate as the 'Savor of the Fine Wine' or the 'Wonder of the Evening'. We are learning to love all over again and I know now, as I have always known, there is no one with whom I would rather be, just she and me, setting course on a whole new sea.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

A Prayer for the Basic Cadets

Holy God, singular Authority above all,

Author of 'the chain of command',

Visionary of freedom,

Spirit of service,

Hear the prayers of your children this day:

We pray for the Basic Cadets of the Air Force Academy

in the midst of their Basic Training.

As the Israelites journeyed through the wilderness

and trusted You for every good thing they needed,

may our Basic Cadets find, in every step of their training:

reason to know Your nearness;

strength for every challenge;

food to nourish their bodies;

camaraderie in those around them;

quality leadership in those above them;

a design of program which will build them;

a sense of accomplishment which will urge them;

and a purpose of heart which will keep them.

We pray for them a sense of unity,

a certainty of soul,

a blending of minds,

and a desire to achieve which will mark their class

as faithful to You.

We pray that their generation

will discover in justice, peace,

in mercy, hope,

in equity, life,

in giving, love,

and in serving, freedom.

We pray that the color 'red' which marks their class

will be for them the color of passion,

in pursuing their dreams,

in seeking their gifts,

in serving our country's interests,

and in lives of integrity, truthfulness, and honesty

before You.

And we pray this day, O God,

that the Holy Advocate fill them

with clearness of thought,

decisiveness of action,

tenderness in attention to those less fortunate,

advocacy for those in need,

respect for those who have gone before them,

and a desire to have their journey remembered,

not for what they have done,

but by who they have been

in relationship with You.

We pray these things

in the name of the One who has taught us to pray

in the midst of every trial,

to persevere in the face of every enemy,

and to overcome evil through devotion to You,

Jesus Christ, our Lord.

Amen.

Thinking of Advent

“Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.”
Matthew 25.13 NRSV
As a child, I never thought it odd that Santa Claus came to our home on Christmas Eve while we were attending services at church. The Wagner Farm in rural Southern Illinois, just like all the other homes around us (I was sure), was early on Santa’s route. With all the flying around the earth that Santa had to do and with all of the homes into which he had to take gifts, I was just glad that we were early on his schedule and not late: I just couldn’t imagine what it would be like to wake up with no gifts under the tree, waiting to see when and if Santa would show up! Santa’s ‘early’ arrival at the Wagner home was a blessing for which I have always been grateful, because it saved me having to grow up as an anxious child. I know it is hard to believe, yet, there it is: Some semblance of sanity is granted for a lifetime when the things for which you so wait and long for to happen as a child arrive early and, thereby, shape your adulthood.
These days, Santa arrives at the Wagner home on Christmas morning. His route changed, I suppose. Yet, I am not anxious about being later on the schedule, nor I am worried that he will have the things I am wishing for on his sleigh: I know that he knows me and will not forget me, whenever he arrives.
The season of Advent has become, over the years, a time that I truly cherish, a journey I anticipate walking as we move towards Bethlehem and Christmas Joy. Much in the same way I would pour over catalogs as a child and carefully choose the items I really wanted to see under the tree delivered by the hands of Santa, now I savor the days that mark our preparation to receive the most loving Gift no-one on earth could ever have imagined. Now the days, which once seemed to drag on and on and on before Christmas Eve laughter would fill the air, seem simply to flit by, like a butterfly on the wings of a Fall breeze, coursing its way over the stalks of standing corn through which I move. Now the days fairly run into each other with increasing speed, event blending into event, night quickly following day, week rapidly engulfing week until, much too soon, that for which we were waiting is a diminishing image in the rearview mirror of another Church Year.
So, this year (like many before) I vow to slow down during Advent, this season I love. I pray to be awake as the Gift arrives, not dozing in my easy-chair worn out by ‘events’.
The need for humanity to be in control of all things is what led the early Christian Church to ‘designate’ a day on which Christ was born, that similarly minded people might gather on a singular day to observe and praise God’s Holy Name for such a Wondrous Thought. A good thing, perhaps, yet, a horrible limitation to our spiritual journey: Instead of living towards a Gift, we live towards a day, often herded like cattle towards market by cowboys with visions of profits dancing in their heads. By limiting God’s Gift of Life to arrival on a specific day, we narrow the field of focus and lessen our responsibility to always be attentive. Jesus tells His disciples, “Keep awake . . . you know neither the day nor the hour.” Important words spoken to children lounging on the couch near the fireplace waiting for Santa to arrive, certain as to how and when ‘it’ will happen.
This year I vow to slow down during Advent, the season of blue, the color of the night sky. I’m not sure when He will happen, I just know He will, so I will slow down and stay awake, ready to receive the Gift. I know that He knows me and will not forget me, whenever He arrives.

Have a blessed Advent and a Joyous Christmas!

Anniversary Thoughts

As of today, Nancy and I have been married for thirty-three years. Thirty-three years, three sons, two daughters-in-law, and two grandchildren later, it seems that there is still much more to learn about love and marriage. Yet, of these things I am reasonably certain today:

• Love is a gift of God;
• Creation with the capacity to love also has the capacity to begin to see God;
• Love cannot be possessed, neither can it be forced upon another;
• Love is that which allows the heart to perceive the perfection in another;
• Creation with the capacity to love also has the heart to forgive the imperfection in another;
• Love believes in the fullness of unity God places within all things;
• Love hopes for the completeness of soul God intends for creation to share;
• Creation with the capacity to love also has the soul to dwell in unity without distinction;
• Love cannot be extinguished;
• Love will not be forgotten;
• Creation with the capacity to love also has the mind to remember and bear Love's light;
• Love lives beyond human years;
• Love underlies all human undertakings and wisdom;
• Creation with the capacity to love also has the humility to perceive love's eternal nature;
• Love never ends.

It is not a lot that I know about love, but what I know of love I share with you. That Nancy has within her the capacity to love me for so long, in all of my imperfection and weakness, only deepens the faith I have in God to make strong and tender the love I pray to share with her into whatever future we may journey. Praise God for the simplicity and splendor of love, ever unfolding before us, in us, and through us, like the opening of a lily on Easter morn!

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don