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.

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.

Lilac Days

The pungent aroma of blooming lilacs is highly irresistible to me, especially as I walk by them. I can't help but stop and breathe in the sweetness of their fragrance, so profound is their effect. Captivating, scintillating and mesmerizing are the lilac's pink and blue flowers, hearkening me back to a more innocent day . . .

Just outside the kitchen door of my boyhood home once stood a giant lilac bush which towered eight feet tall and had a base somewhere around four feet in diameter. Carved into the base of the lilac bush was a crescent moon shape, carefully dug and maintained there by generations of farm dogs who found that spot the coolest place to lay on a hot Summer day. Just as carefully formed around the outside of the lilac bush were the nesting spots of many of our farm cats who found the shade of the lilac too tempting to pass, even though the dogs were resting inside the bush. That bush may have been the one place on the farm all the animals understood to be a demilitarized zone, so sacred was the comfort found there.

Bursting out the door after breakfast, dinner or supper in the Springtime as a young boy, I was guaranteed the headiness of entering into a bouquet of God's creative abilities, the likes of which words are inadequate to describe. The aroma of the blooming lilac drifted over and through all the other smells an active dairy farm had to offer, demanding one's attention and appreciation at every turn. So powerful the smell, so deep the response even then, I am lifted on the wings of memory to those moments and the joy the blooming lilac evoked in me, still.

We have two Korean miniature lilacs blooming in our yard this Spring and I am ever so grateful to have them there, though our passing neighbors must think me an eccentric because of them: I cannot pass by them without stopping to lift their gentle blooms to breathe in the undiluted majesty of their gift to me, as though God created them just for me. They take me home to Mom and Dad. They take me back to a more uncomplicated time in my life. They take me back to simpler days with my brothers. They convey me to a time when my grandfather's both lived with us and loved the lilac, too. They transport me to a time when dogs and cats waited in the shade of the lilac just outside that kitchen door for the scraps which came from our table. They move my spirit to a gentle remembering . . . and I am ever so grateful.

I do not want to go back to those days, yet am intensely appreciative of the meaning they still carry for me in my life today - and the lilac is sign and symbol of that fluid journey ongoing in my senses. I am amazed, still, in the capacity of the blooming lilac to do such wonders, to induce such reactions, to demand such devotion in me. But, is that not the gift of our senses? To remember that which pleases? To ponder that which blesses? And, to stay away from that which does neither?

Holy Week is God's lilac to us all. Find your comfort in both its' presence and memory, living not to go back to those days but, in remembering, being ready to live into the profound awe God has in store for you. Stop, and breathe in God's lilac love, a healing gift through Christ for us all.