Horse Poor - Experience Rich

We recently experienced the joys of being "horse poor." For thirty days we assumed the care, custody and control of a horse that was intended to move us into the equine-enabled community.

We learned some things. Others we relearned. Still other lessons we transfered from former pets.

On the internet I identified a horse that appeared to possess our needed qualities. After a trip with our stable owner to check him out, we brought him home on a thirty day trial lease. If it didn't work out, the owner would pick him up at the end of the thirty days - no questions asked.

In thirty days he transformed from a shy, insecure, almost fearful horse into a headstrong, belligerent animal that walked through any fence except the metal round pen. He became more difficult to handle as the time went on. During the last five days of our tryout time he exhibited aggressive behaviors toward the people that run the stable so I made the decision (which wasn't hard) that he had to go back.

When I contacted the owner to tell her of our decision, I became aware this was not the first time he had gone through this. She asked me what the problem was because "no one will ever tell me what he does that is wrong." (Did you hear the bell go off?)

I explained my observations and experiences. The stable owner shared what she saw and endured. We then watched as a calm, under-control horse was loaded into a trailer and hauled 200 miles to another person who was convinced that this was the horse for her.

Maybe we ought to change his name to "The Professor" because the thirty days were not lost time. Here are some of the lessons he taught me.

Lesson 1) You may buy an animal, but all you have done is assumed the responsibility for their care. They decide whether they become yours and how they will relate to you (horse whisperers not withstanding). If you have ever had a cat for a pet, that is always lesson number one.

Lesson 2) Before you arrive at the stable barn have a clear plan in mind for your time together. He was not very tolerant of the person who failed to have a firm agenda for the day. You don't want a horse that stands 16.2 and weighs over one-half ton to be picking you and your indecision apart.

Lesson 3) Even if you are not a horse trainer, you are a horse trainer. You will train them with your attention to detail or you will train them by being lazy, foggy-headed and overwhelmed by the job at hand.

Lesson 4) Even with good leadership, buying a horse is a "crap-shoot" at best. There are some good rules and measuring tools that can help. Having an experienced and objective advisor is critical. But in the end it boils down to "He'll do or he won't." As I was advised, decide what holes you can live with and make a decision. In this case we decided we couldn't live with additional holes in our body.

Lesson 5) The cheapest part of getting a horse is buying it. 'Nuff said.

Lesson 6) If you are not a rodeo cowboy or an active rancher, expect to enter the world of female equinologists when you buy a horse. Estrogen runs rampant at the stables I have visited. That isn't bad. It is simply a truth that if a testosterone-enriched individual has problems taking instruction from a female, the first lesson you will have to learn is not how to halter the horse. It will be how to halter your attitude.

I'll stop here so as to not recreate "The Ten Commandments."

We are not out of the horse business. We are just a bit wiser. And somewhere out there is the animal we are looking for. We also learned a lot about patience.

I can imagine that on the evening of January 29, 2007, a dapple-white horse, 16.2 hands, was led into a new stall. He looked around the barn and thought, "OK, bring on the next student. Graduation is only thirty days away."

How does it feel?

In the Biblical record of Ephesians 4: 17 - 19, Paul states the world has lost its sensitivity and is given over to sensuality. What a timeless observation. The juxtaposition of these words calls attention to their differing approach to life.

The world is given to sensuality. How does it feel? This is a critical question, regardless of the overwhelming issue at hand. How do you feel about your job? How do you feel about your mate, your friend, your car, glass eye or golden retriever? It is all about feelings.

Often sensuality is packaged with sexuality. I suppose there is a strong family bond between the two. But even if sexuality flies out the window (or sags around your middle), there are still feelings to contend with. Feelings of loss, discouragement and fear ransack our brains looking for a welcome home.

Being overly sensual makes us dependant on chemicals - whether natural or artificially introduced. The jogger strivings for the natural high or the drunk, crackhead, and meth addict chasing their addiction share one affinity. They are looking for a feeling.

Paul points us to a different way to think and talk. He states, by being sensitive, we become "others" oriented. Later in the letter to the Ephesians he tells them they need to be "submissive."

DUCK - INCOMING!!

I figured that would trigger a grenade or two. Submission is not what is required of a wife for a husband. It is what is required of a believer for another person. Read the rest of his words after what he says about wives.

He addresses the submissive attitiude of a husband to his wife. (I won't restate - you read it!) He talks about submision of children to parents and parents to children and of employers to employees as well as employees to employers.

These are sensitive positions. They require a sensitive approach to others, a willingness to put oneself in another's position, and an authentic desire to look at them through the heart of Their Creator.

He calls the sensitive lifestyle an enlightened view of life. The current sensual lifestyle is called a dark approach to life.

How interesting that Paul would use such a visual approach. The humanist world called the Age of Reason, which rejected Biblical Authority, a time of emerging from the "Dark Ages" and entering the "Age of Enlightenment." So the world says that a reasoned approach to life is enlightening even if it leads to sensuality, selfishness, striving for entitlement and debauching consumption.

Sounds like the world view that has melted the ice pack, depleated the ozone, promulgated STDs, murdered babies and stripped whole nations of ethnic dignity is bound for a no more successful conclusion than an out-of-control freight train shunted to a dead-end line and slated for eventual destruction.

Boy, I wonder how that will feel?

The Critical Question

There are many questions a person must answer in the course of their three score and ten. A first grader is asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" Whether firefighter or ballerina, professional athlete or nurse, our children are primed to make life-defining decisions from those earliest of days.

The need for relationship and significance in the eyes of another drive us to search for companionship and collegial cohorts. The need for community asks us to choose between conformity and nonconformity, whether we will be a leader or a follower, whether we will choose excellence or mediocrity.

One can say, after looking back on their life, their days are filled with one question followed by another. But is there a question so significant, so critical and so life defining that it is found in the history of each person who has, does or will walk the face of this earth?

The Bible records a discussion between Jesus and Peter in the Gospel of Mark 8. After asking Peter what people were saying about Jesus's identity, Jesus asked Peter the most important question ever be presented to a man. "But who do you say that I am?"

This question requires a person to evaluate the relevance of Christ to their life. In this question they must deal with their sinfulness and need for forgiveness. They must acknowledge their brokenness from the Father and their need for restoration. They must deal with their need for restoration in the form of a new birth that creates a new man, rather than simply a reformative process of the old man.

From birth to death this question must be answered by every human being.

The desire of the pagan who refuses to see the object of nature as simply the handiwork of God but chooses to call it god himself is not spared the need for forgiveness and restoration. Though desiring to be united with the Father, they have not answered the question posed to Peter. Though there is a sincere desire to be united with the Father, being unable to answer the question forces an eternal separation from the Father. It is the ultimate realization of the failure of humankind to create their own answer.

But what of the one who desires to bring all humankind under the banner of loving Christ that does not include the saving event of the cross? This Universalist approached the crucifiction, even if motivated by an inclusive view desiring all to experience the love of God, nonetheless subjects the spiritual needy to an eternity no different from the one who rejects the specific message of Jesus Christ.

In other words, whether Gospel hardened or denied by circumstance the opportunity to hear the message of Christ, that one who does not properly answer the question posed to Peter by our Lord is not to be afforded a place as a part of the Bride of Christ.

It is critical to note that regardless of all the acts of piety and holiness, conformity to religious rights and procedures, if the answer to Peter's question is not "You are the Christ, the Son of the living God," there is no salvation, there is no forgiveness and there is no restoration.

This position is not one of exclusivity held by the body of Christ. It is a position mandated by God's sovereign will, His right understanding of justice and His loving provision of grace.

Football may be war, but War isn't football.

(Big disclaimer: I am a citizen of the United States of America. I support my government. I would normally wear the moniker of conservative without shame. I have to say this to the people who would not agree with what is to follow.)

There is some discussion about the original quote being correctly recorded that says, "War is hell." Having never carried a weapon into battle nor spending even one night "in harm's way" (except for the several weeks I served as boy's camp counselor for our church group), I am sure I am not qualified to comment on that.

I was raised in a portion of Texas that venerates Friday Night High School Football (notice the caps - as if they are all proper nouns forming a title). Our team during the years I attended Bay City High was never the powerhouse we wanted it to be. Our freshman year was the only time that I remember we went past Bi-district play-offs.

Our school would hold pep-rallies for the team. Coach Haley would come to the mic after our cheerleaders led us in a few "Rah-Rahs." He would give us a quick report on how our boys would dismantle Wharton, West Columbia or El Campo. We would cheer and send the guys, who sat slumped in their seats, too cool to be bothered by anything so mundane as our cheering, out the door to do the last minutes of preparation.

I guess the cheering was for us and not for the guys. The band got pumped. The cheering squad got pumped. The cheerleaders were so pumped up they could hardly contain themselves. And we sent our men out to do battle for school pride. We did that because, as our coaches would tell us, football is war.

It is a cool way to have a war. You have a clock, referees, cheerleaders, and fans in the stands. When the game is over there is a winner and a loser. You can have injuries and some could end an athlete's career. Coaches who do well leave for bigger schools. Coaches who do poorly leave for smaller schools or stay and teach driver's ed and social studies. (Some end up as PE teachers for the elementary schools.) It is a neat war. It has a season and rules, letter jackets, medals, state champions and glory. There is even glory for the loosing teams because they are our boys.

Football is war. But, the war we are fighting in Iraq isn't football. There doesn't seem to be clear winners anymore. There was a beginning, but what does the end look like? There are no referees and our boys come home with wounds that you can't see, much less effectively treat.

Our opponent doesn't play the same game that we play. (I am sure this was much the same complaint the British made during our war for independence.) We play on the field, but the opponent is playing all over the stadium, including the parking lot.

We forget what war is about. It is about killing, maiming, and/or beating into submission an enemy that wants to do the same to you. It is obscene and pornographic. There is no Pattonesque glory in filling an enemy bunker with explosives to rid your life of a threat.

There is one consistent quality. The winning coach gets to leave for greener pastures. Colin Powell, Norman Schwarzkopf, Dwight Eisenhower, and U.S. Grant all enjoyed, or are enjoying, the fruits of victory. How many generals did Lincoln sack before he found a winner in Grant? Pearl Harbor signaled the end of Naval careers. They paid the price, or reaped the benefits, of leadership. The warriors, however, suffered. Some died. Others wished they did.

I honor the memory of our warriors who shouldered weapons to fight for freedom. I am free to write what I do because of those who served. Among those warriors are my uncles and my father. I lost an uncle during WWII, as did many.

That being the case, I look at our current conflict and wonder not whether we should be there or whether our goals are lofty. I wonder if we should be playing the game we are playing. I wonder if we shouldn't embrace a different world view and say, "Waging peace is hell and darn worth the price."

I know that some reader will say that is what we are doing in Iraq. I know that to clean up a room you have to mess it up, also. But if we spent as much time in studying how our opponent thinks with the view of defeating them on the battle ground of public opinion or the stadium of international cooperation, would waging peace in this manner be any more difficult? It can't be more bloody. It certainly can't be more detrimental to our national position of leadership.

Next time we decide to liberate a country, let's make sure we will play the same game our enemy will play. I am not saying we should capture passenger planes and crash them into tall buildings. Capturing the planes and killing the people was not the purpose of the act. The road-side bombs that kill and maim are not intended to show military strength. The enemy wants to be recognized as a determining voice in the international conversation. They want to be seen as a vital, powerful lobby capable of making decisive moves whenever and wherever they want.

We have not proved our ability to match their will and capacity to win simply because we can "bomb them into the stone age."

Let's play a new game. Let's look for the Anwar Sadats and Jimmy Carters. Let's look for generals who can redefine the game. Let's find men and women with courage to lead army's of warriors for peace, willing to join a new battle for the hearts of a people and not their political identity.

BTW, in case you are letting your mind wander, 9/11 was not the opening kick-off. That happened during the Crusades to "free" Jerusalem from the hoard of barbarians.

Scratching The Itch

I am not, it appears, a committed blogger. I don't live and die by the words I spout on this site. I suppose I am afraid I will be discovered to be like the boyfriend on "Designing Women" who was rejected because, "After all, you can only go so shallow before you hit rock bottom." Another way to discribe it is to be found to be "a mile wide and a foot deep."

So how important are these blog site people work so hard to assemble?

For one person it chronicles the progress in preparing and selling a house. http://wigleyhouse4sale.wordpress.com/

Others launch blogs to present a political perspective or advance a niche cause (I'll let you search the world of blogs for those. It won't be hard.)

There are some lonely hearts (or leacherous ones) who use them like an old fashioned fishing line thrown into the river. They return every so often to check for nibbles. I think some are simply lonely and find this a way to reach out from their cloistered world into the travels of others.

There are one or two, like me, who just get an itch to write and need to scratch it. I find my itch usually starts with an off-hand comment or a well-turned phrase. They get the juices flowing. My mind reaches out to explore verbs, nouns, prepositional phrases as well as local and regional word pictures to describe what I am wading through.

Unfortunately for me (but probably a fortunate event for the reading public), I am usually bound the steering wheel of my pick-up, enduring another hour of windshield time. By the time I get in front of a keyboard and am able to organize my thoughts, the muse has flown to another heart and I am left with the empty feeling of an unfilled writer's larder.

My "itch" has been very quiet lately. The flighty muse must be off visiting poets, painters, and purveyors of various prose. I wondered lately why my western, begun in a blaze of glory, has bogged down in a muddy river of apathy and stunted vision. As I tooled along country roads this week, I checked off the list of reasons many writers have given (some are excuses, I am sure) for leaving a story for other more interesting vistas.

The reality is, unlike many efforts buried in the genre of blogging, creative writing, whether fiction or non-fiction, fluff or techno-jargon, life-changing or simply entertaining, is hard work. Some follow a stream of consciouness in writing that meanders like a rural creek or thunders like a untamed river pouring out a torrent of verbal energy. Others adopt a disciplined approach outlining in such detail that the final creation is as meticulous as their well-ordered sock and underwear drawer.

In the end, however, creativity is an investment of a person with an abundance. They are willing to take a chance on another who is desires to draw on the writer's available resources and touch a part of life denied them.

It is the reason Tom Clancy took the reading public to the bottom of the oceans in "Hunt for Red October." Generations have solved mysteries with Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. Stephen King scares the bejeebers out of folks who are relieved to know the dog isn't real.

Writing is good. It is, for me, somewhat theraputic. I hope, however, it gives you time to think, to measure, and to enjoy this day.

It’s not babysitting. It’s grand-parenting.

Eyes flashed as her tongue snapped a response worthy of the steamy August Missouri evening.

I asked a male acquaintance to accompany me to the local golf course. He said he was to be with his children while his wife completed certain tasks and activities. In a moment of dubious humor, I responded, “Oh, are you baby-sitting today?”

She answered for him. Quickly. “It’s not baby-sitting. It’s called parenting.”

Oh.

Feeling the sting of rebuke and with no effort on her part to lesson the discomfort, I extricated myself from that situation, backing out of the room lest I provide an undefended target. The prompt and efficient response was not merely a shot across the bow. It had the appearance of an ongoing conversation that, doubtless, would continue unabated long after my departure.

I have no illusion of being a great parent. I earned the requisite hours to bear the title “Absent Parent.” Employment and personal education schedules were significant symptoms of the common parental disease “familius interuptus.”

In my defense, I encouraged my daughters’ academic challenges and athletic opportunities. I once verbally duked it out with a fourth grade teacher I believed “done us wrong.” When one of our offspring began to wander from the road society encouraged her to travel, along with my wife, I spent multiple hours with school administration and professional services to understand and protect her.

Most of the time, however (I’ll say for the people who are afraid to), I was clueless.

Some expert may point out if I spent more time with them when they were wearing diapers instead of waiting for them to don their jeans, I would be awash in clues. I doubt it, actually.

However, I am prepared for their children. I am a grandparent reaping the windfall profits and mega-dividends of the meager investment I made in their parents.

My grandchildren are very patient. They allow me to indulge in whimsy’s and digressions, writing it off, I suppose, to the old guy’s senility catching up with him. They are welcoming. I have standing invitations to watch them at athletic practices, school events and take them to an ice cream stand. The two second generation offspring who live near me and the three separated by 6 hours drive time express affection verbally, quickly affirmed by their hugs and tugs.

I think I disagree with my she-bear acquaintance. She made parenting sound so task-oriented. (I guess baby-sitting isn’t much better.) Watching and sharing a young person’s life is more than making sure they don’t do something stupid. It is making memories and creating a bond that has the strength to endure life – a bond that ties not just people to each other but generations together.

A Chameleon in Disguise

A chameleon can’t help itself. It changes colors. Unlike the horse pulling the carriage in Oz, it can’t celebrate glorious colors and flattering hues. It must adapt or die. In the life of the scampering changeling, there is little room for celebrating colors. They are for managing, using, manipulating and life saving.

Adaptation to survive is a handy skill, I would think. I doubt the chameleon school system puts off educating their charges on the values of picking the right background to match their skill level. It is likely that during the first week of the first grade, Mrs. Hue, looking over her charges, will discuss the wisdom of one shade of green over another.

These are important skills for a defenseless chameleon. How sad to find a person willing to live as a chameleon; always shifting, disguising, and hiding; never confident of potential, prospects, or presence; fearing every threat as mortal, every opportunity as hopeless and all plans as futile fantasy.

The ability to adapt to challenges is a cause to celebrate. The dinosaur lacked the power to adapt. Today he powers our society from his vast pools of oil reserves.

Companies that made the best buggy whips adapted to a changing market or risked their trademarks becoming a footnote in a niche world of elite two wheel carts pulled by a matched pair of flashy black percherons.

Morphing is not bad. It celebrates a new vision, new possibilities and a hope in the future. However, becoming a lie just to survive what appears to be an overwhelming enemy is not morphing or adapting. It is certainly not a cause to celebrate even if it does show a measure of street smarts or even some stealthy combat skills.

Our society celebrates a winner. We agree. What we do not agree on is what makes up a winner. Those with perspective say a winner is one who is genuine, interacts with the truth and willing to embrace the outcome, regardless of it penalty.

Ultimately, the ones who will win in this thing we call life will take stock of their “three score and ten” and say, “When it was important, I was there. I counted among those taking a stand. I lived a life, even if for a brief time, of value in a transparent fashion.”

Easter is all about transparency, reality, and the willingness to grasp at obedience as it faced the threat of failure.

The cross was no chameleonesque opportunity or solution. It was love without reserve, lived - and died - in transparency. I can celebrate what appeared at the time to be a total loss, but only if I am willing to be just as transparent as The One who took me to Calvary.

You see, there are no chameleons on Golgotha.

In A Moment Of Pristine Clarity

In a moment of pristine clarity, my wife of 35 years observed I was a “high maintenance person.” I knew exactly what she meant owing to the atmosphere of our conversation.

We were discussing the ebb and flow of my obsessions, projects and life goals. As a part of the discussion, we reflected on whether communities understood, or even cared for that matter, what another individual valued as a life goal.

It is safe to say in the midst of our discussion I endured a reoccurring bout with the “poor little me.” There is no one so depressingly fulfilled as a neurotic who discovers he is right. My wife, tiring of my self-analysis, stopped the exercise by going to the bottom line. I tend to spend too much time “maintaining me.”

I guess there comes a time we “stop cutting bait and go fishing.”

For a Christian, there can be no greater purpose than to live in the will of God. Other non-Christian faith groups are oriented around self-actualization, personal growth and supernatural appeasement. The Christian, on the other hand, sees life through a different perspective.

Our goal is simply to develop our personal relationship with Jehovah God made possible through the death, burial and resurrection of His Son, Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ. The simplicity of the statement is betrayed by a spiritual landscape littered with stumblings, bumblings, and complete catastrophic failures.

My wife’s clarity and her willingness to share with me brought back the truth resting fallow in my subconscious. If my focus is not “on Him” then it is on me. Anytime I focus on me rather than on Him, I am out of line, out of touch and soon out of options.

The best callings, sometimes described as “an internal sense of oughtness,” are rendered mute and powerless when the prime motivator becomes self-oriented.

A physician, once moved by the plight of the helpless, becomes shallow and crass when the needs to pay medical school loans dictate treatment. A teacher, previously overwhelmed by the burden of another’s inability to read, becomes jaded, harsh, and even cynical when they no longer see a student on a journey but rather a barrier to the successful completion of a lesson plan. Even those in vocational religious employment are in danger of losing their life focus and slipping into other visions easier measured and more concretely described.

A Christian believer is to be forgiven for losing their way in a world focused on self. In fact, it is the central message of God’s restorative work. He does forgive. It is through forgiveness that we are brought to Him. It is by forgiveness that we are held to Him.

The power of forgiveness orients us properly. It keeps us before The One forgiving. It instructs us on the proper perspective for our projects, plans and campaigns.

If I am high maintenance, and I have no reason to doubt my wife of over 35 years, I find it is not held against me. Rather, it is used by The Almighty to draw me closer to the only one who can truly maintain my heart, hope and health.

I suppose I will continue to explore new tactics and strategies for life. I am confident, wherever they fall within the explicit or permissive will of God, He will use them to bring into focus His will for my life. He desires me to know and develop a love for Him in response to His love for me.

If it doesn't make sense, it makes a mess.

"What's good for the goose is good for the gander."

"What goes around comes around."

"You get what you pay for."

Life is all about balance. One of the first things a child learns is you have to balance front to back and left to right or you will surely fall every time you try to stand. The very act of walking employs controlling your balance. You can't go forward if your vertical baseline is overbalanced to the rear.

Gravity demands you take notice of her.

Reciprocity is another form of balance. That is the act of receiving "your just deserts." Paychecks are a form of reciprocity. At least they should be.

Modern purveyors of slavery, the owners and knowing customers of sweatshops and as well as industries that depend on underpaid illegal immigrant labor, trust that a whole segment of society is helpless and without a viable voice of defense.

We find the slavers as repugnant. We often do not seem to find their products as reprehensible.

When balance and reciprocity are knocked akimbo, the fabric of our society begins to shake like a ’68 Chevy II with the left front wheel out of balance.

You don’t really notice it at first. Twenty-five miles an hour and she rolls as smooth as the day you drove her off the lot. Even thirty-five is a nice ride, though the balance problem is quietly rubbing the tread from tire. At forty-five there is a bit of a vibration but nothing to worry about. Fifty-five and the steering wheel shakes visibly.

By the time you are rolling down the road at seventy your mind says, “Houston, we have a problem. We gotta take care of this or it will shake the whole car apart.”

It seems to me our society has a problem.

California just cancelled a scheduled execution because they can’t find a licensed medical professional who will administer a lethal dose of sedatives to the condemned person.

It shouldn’t be hard to find a professional with the necessary ethical and moral underpinnings to do that. All you need to do is find the individual willing to discount the value of a life. The process involves determining a life is parasitic in nature, without any redeeming value and most important, not have the ability to vote in the next election.

I find one other segment of our society falls in to that uncomfortable, zombie-world of the as-yet undead. Regularly ripped apart by medical staff, it looses in the desire of a primary client base to return to normality.

California cannot find medical professionals who will intentionally sedate a person to the point of death under judicial orders but seems to find no trouble in financing a whole industry that condones the horrendous practice of partial-birth abortions.

At the same time the California judicial system wrestles with an ethical means to take the life of the condemned, they are at the center of a Supreme Court case that seeks to protect the right to drag a late term child from the womb of the mother, crush its skull and suck the brains out with a vacuum cleaner.

A word to the prison system of “The left coast,” I know where to go to find your medical professional. Check out the nearest abortuary. They have no trouble in determining which life is valueless, champion-less and without a viable voice to protest. Their condemned can’t vote either.

Balance and reciprocity seem to be such a basic core value of life that I am shocked when I see one part of our society deliberately seek a position severely “out of kilter.”

Maybe they are trying to run.

I wonder where.

Vision With Depth and Perspective

Is there a time you deeply desired to complete a task or shoulder a challenge? Has the call weighed so heavy that you spent each spare moment resetting priorities and adjusting schedules so as to insure no hindrance to your engagement? Has a vision so focused your sight that everything else dissolves into a mist?

How is it that one person looks a vacant lot and sees an office building? Another walks by and sees a garden. A third strolls by and is impressed by the possible home of a ballfield.

Vision draws not from the need. Neither does it draw from available resources. A burning vision and a life-consuming call wells up from the issues that make us unique individuals.

For some in this world, there is no greater calling than to preserve all living things. For others the greatest need is to provide resources for shelter and food the masses so dearly clamor.

These two visions put whalers in high seas in conflict with Greenpeace. The Sierra Club continually opposes the logging industry. (Note: I include these links simply for reference. No stance is taken on either position)

Only the most myopic is unable to see that conservationists and commercialists have a vested interest in making sure the other side wins a few small battles.

They need each other for the competition. It focuses outside attention and raises money for both sides. They each give the other a reason for emotions to run hot and opportunities to cry foul and claim the moral high ground. And, ultimately, they need what the other produces - food, shelter and preserved resources for harvesting another day.

It is when visions, complementary and not totally dissimular, meet that the greatest good rises.

A community had a great health care need. A group of women bore a great calling to serve. A man with great talent and skill in medicine agreed to cooperate. Several generations later Rochester, MN, has the Mayo Clinic.

A vision works best when piggybacked on the calling of another. Each uses their strengths to bolster the other's weakness. One recognizes a single size does not fit all and gender-neutral clothing, though stark and functional, offers little hope for the pizzaz that is needed to call others to join the battle.

There are several things I want to do in the next few years. I'll not bore you with listing them. But if any of them have a hope of making a difference, it will be because I, along with several others, forged a chain strong enough to bind all of us to a common sign post.

Back in the saddle again

Several months ago I put my blog down. I feared I overstayed my welcome. I worried friends tired of my ramblings. With compassion, they allowed me to think what I had to say mattered.

In the interim, an occasional reader asked me what happened to my corner of the world. I often told them I did not have the time or energy to pour into this exercise of cerebral athletics. The time usually spent on submissions took several hours. These were hours I could have spent on my book, with my family or any of the other items that vie for my attention.

It is true that my time grew short. However, like so many who say, “When I make time…” or “When I finish this task…,” I made the time and finished the task but didn’t start on the book or any of the other well-meaning promises I made to myself.

I now find what we all know, you do what you want to do and you will find time to complete each task you want to complete.

I have decided to reestablish my blog. The goal is the same. These are my thoughts. They will not be profound. They will, however, be mine. They will seldom be original. I am sure someone, somewhere, has already coined a phrase I will use. I will struggle to write 900 words on a subject and then find another has written a book covering the same issue.

All this will be true. The difference will be these are my thoughts.

I now reengage in this effort of self-expression. No one has begged for my opinions. There is no publisher pounding on my door for my submissions. These are my thoughts and my words.

This is my corner of the world.

Her Chronometer Is Becoming Her Speedometer

With this post I am moving to a monthly submission. I appreciate the support so many give. I believe readership is high for such a narrow cast as this blog provides (Nearly 400 page views in the first month). The slightly slower tempo allows more time to sharpen my work. At the same time it will give me the opportunity to continue constructing "Sandy's Castle." I will email updates as they occur. Thank you.

May I send a tribute to our mom this Mother’s Day?

What an unusual person our mother is. I am proud to say her music-teaching career, which began during the post-war 40’s, continues until today. That is seven consecutive decades of Hanon exercises! (Not much Bartok, I’ll bet!)

In a recent email to her, I reminded her that some careers, like professional athletes, are over by 35. Other careers, while they aren't over at 60, determine their maximum impact long before then. Mom’s career, as well as her life, began picking up speed at 70.

A strong and independent woman, she lives her life in the face of great danger. She is in danger of confusing her age with the speed she wants to live her life. It appears her chronometer is becoming her speedometer.

I could recite the number of things mom did to support our family. They, however, are events. From the days before Solomon penned Proverbs 31, humankind knew a virtuous mother not by what she did, but by how she did them.

Time reveals virtue, the excellence of life in a woman. Bathed in the heat that creates the purest diamonds, it takes the patience of time to release the purest colors and the greatest brilliance.

When I say that mom has been long-suffering, please do not see a little, old woman wobbling down the sidewalk carrying a loaf of bread from the A & P. She isn’t the poor woman in jeopardy of charlatans and panhandlers. You have to understand. She puts up with the five of us.

There was the time one of my siblings gave her a phone that didn’t ring. It quacked! (Her childhood nickname was “Ducky”).

There was the time I teased her without mercy at a large restaurant in Kansas City. (Oh, wait, she got back by starting a food fight in the middle of the restaurant dining room.)

However, (dare I say it?) the longest running joke is the bird of destiny and the albatross of her fate she unleashed on herself. We never let her forget the feathered mascot that will forever be associated with her in our memory.

Our teasing is in good spirit. After all, we aren’t making fun of her. We are having a humorous interlude at her expense.

She has to be honest. She provides so much of the material for us.

In 1995 she opened her home to a foreign exchange student from Germany. You would expect her to get a girl, right? Nope, she got a 17-year-old boy! Here is this sharp dressing widow and her new male hunk of a houseguest. Talk about an opportunity for some humorous interludes. It got even better when he broke his arm and couldn’t dress himself!

She enjoyed the trips they took as she taught him about Texas. I suspect there is a young man in Germany that knows more about the Lone Star State than many redneck Bubbas raised on bar-b-que and frijoles.

Her testing isn’t always at the hand of humor. She watched as one by one, each of her children moved from our hometown to other cities and states to build their lives. Viki and I were the first. We took her grandchildren to Minnesota just a scant six months after dad died.

My brother lives north of Houston and makes noises about Alaska. My oldest sister lives so close to Mexico she carries a dual citizenship in case she rolls over in bed. Sister number two lives south of San Antonio in a town that thinks Wal-Mart is a shopping mall. Our baby sister just announced her plans to move to DC to help ol’ George out.

I am sure Mom would like to have her chicks around her, but parenting isn’t about tying children to your apron strings. It is more about fastening knots with your heartstrings.

Apron strings break. Heartstrings stretch. Apron strings drag children around. Heartstrings allow children to grow, explore and, at the end of the day, bring life lessons back to the whole family.

I started this to tell you about this unusual woman who travels the world when most others her age are looking for a retirement center. I planned to tell you about a career that is speeding up while others in her generation have long ago put aside their tools of the trade.

In fact, I am unable to describe this woman I have known for 55 years in 900 words. A talented and experienced musician? Absolutely. A skilled and accomplished teacher? Without question, unless you are an administrator in the Bay City school district who wouldn’t know a real educator if s/he walked up and slammed a McGuffey’s Eclectic Reader shut on their nose! A seasoned world traveler? In the past 20 years, she has regaled us with tales of her numerous trips to England and Scotland, as well as journeys to Spain, Thailand, and Egypt with a cruise down the “Blue Danube” thrown in. A fresh itinerary lists China as the next destination.

Instead, I want to give this tribute to my mom.

When the Lord called Dad home, she looked around and said there was too much life to live and a High School daughter to raise. She has done that and more since she began the widow’s journey.

Mom shares one constant with many women and men who become suddenly single due to the death of a mate. There may be days of loneliness, but they aren’t alone. Memories fill the quiet times. Common goals, once shared with a significant person, are still just as important. When under-girded by an abiding faith, their life doesn’t end. It changes.

Our parents are the first people we meet. It is only right they are the ones we admire and want to be like.

She is, and I do.

The New Stuff

The forty-two voice “Hallelujah! Kids Choir” presented their spring musical this evening. The production, “Who is like the Lord,” featured contemporary praise music and custom-crafted dialogue for our children and our church. The voices of youth and optimism filled the building as they sang and quoted scripture.

As usual, they made the leadership look stronger than we really are.

There were a few moments of adventure. Children made decisions to do things they never did during practice. It wasn’t possible to stop and correct. We just continued and enjoyed the creativity and responsiveness of those young hearts.

The music was difficult at times. Contemporary rhythms are hard for me to count and even harder for me to teach. For the most part, they grasped them immediately.

The parallel “Praise and Worship” format our church uses made our job easy. There was no disconnect between what we asked the children to do and what they hear on a regular basis in the worship services.

I know that some dismiss the contemporary praise and worship style as “7-11 music” (you sing the same seven words eleven times). I won’t deny that at first glance some of the music found in “P & W” services may come across as meager. After spending over 18 months as part of our church’s worship leadership team, I do not share the desire to dismiss the music as shallow and lacking in life-changing content.

However, I do reflect on my journey into this “new stuff.”

The church culture that nurtured me reflected the strong work ethic of the members who lived through two great defining events. The Great Depression shook the nation to its very core. A whole nation found itself having to work everyday just to get by. There was no guarantee about tomorrow. There was only today.

This prepared the nation for a complete commitment needed to win a war fought on a global battlefield. Every sector of national life rewrote its purpose to include doing what was necessary to defeat the enemy. Families sent loved ones off facing the fear the generation they birthed and nurtured would not return.

The church needed a hope to hold as well as a hope that held.

Our music gave promise. We sang of our hope in the hereafter. “When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder,” “On Jordan’s Stormy Banks,” and “Shall We Gather At the River” recently comforted me when I questioned how much journey was left in my life.

My childhood memories recall songs that exhorted us. “We’ll Work ‘Till Jesus Comes,” “Are Ye Able,” and “Toiling On” ingrained in our heart that free grace is but one side of God’s coin of the realm. The other side reminded us we had a responsibility to do our part in building the kingdom.

To be sure, we had our “Praise and Worship” music. “Holy, Holy, Holy” still reverberates in my soul as does “To God Be The Glory.” The music of my heritage often made great theological statements. Some were a whole systematic theology as in the marathon hymn “One Day.”

A few of the hymns made the transition. They are still part of our church’s musical literature. “Amazing Grace” is destined to live on through the ages. “It Is Well With My Soul” will comforts the heart of the grieving and discouraged for generations to come.

Whether we sang songs of testimony (“Whosoever Surely Meaneth Me”), songs of divine protection (“No, Never Alone”), or words intended to encourage a decision (“Only Trust Him”), these songs became a part of my spiritual heritage. Sometimes I miss them. They are “the stuff” of my religious heritage.

One of the biggest raps against the generation that leads the church today is that it is selfish. Some say we want it given to us and we believe the church ought to pay for it.

If that charge is true, then the accusatory voices should take great comfort in the “Praise and Worship” format. Every time we meet, our musicians remind us that community church worship isn’t about us. Whether we sing “What A Mighty God We Serve,” “Lord, I Lift Your Name On High,” “Awesome God,” “Holy Ground,” or “Majesty,” we are humbled in the presence of the Almighty.

I suspect that some Sundays I am not alone when I miss “my stuff.” I get nostalgic for the songs of my youth. However, when I am in the position of worship leader and I see the church energized by music designed to replace the issues of this world with eternal ones, I am loath to return to that more familiar worship format, as comfortable as it was.

My children’s choir stood before more than 200 worshippers last night and proclaimed, “This God, He is our God.” They sang, “He knows my name.” The children’s voices literally shouted “Nobody” when they asked, “Who is like the Lord.” A young man led the night off with a contemporary systematic theology of his own as he sang “I believe in a risen Savior.” A relationship with the divine was affirmed when they stated, “Jesus, you are my best friend.”

I may miss “my stuff,” but the “new stuff” I have in common with the children of my church is a reminder to me. Childhood biblical lessons, resting on scripture and set to music, still serve me well. That style of teaching works today, regardless whether the rhythm is accented with a trap set and a few bass guitar riffs

I Was Just Having A Ball

When our daughters were twelve and nine, my enthusiasm got the best of me. Our small community risked not fielding two girl’s softball teams. The coach for the teams would be at college all summer. No one wanted the job. I knew if someone didn’t do it, my daughters would miss out on a great summer of activity.

I stood up and said, “I’ll coach the teams.” How dumb was that?

I played little league baseball two years and never hit the ball. When it came to sports, I was the best trombone player in our High School. I didn’t even know how far it was from pitcher’s mound to home plate.

There is one great thing about small communities. They are more than willing to loan you all the shovels you need to dig a hole to fall in.

The first game, a specially arranged meeting for my older team with the community to our north, was traumatic. I went to home plate with the line up and realized I had never actually been on a ball diamond when I wasn’t a late game substitute. So this is what the chalk lines look like around home plate. I remember thinking, “I hope I don’t trip.”

The local umpire told me the dimensions of the field. He asked if they were OK. Being the likable fellow I am, I quickly agreed. Besides, I still didn’t know how far it was from home plate to the pitcher’s mound.

The game went well. We pulled ahead based on excellent ball playing and the coach staying out of the way.

I guess I have a hard time handling prosperity. I decided to pull the pitcher three quarters through the game. I can’t remember why. I replaced her with the shortstop, an excellent athlete but a better infielder than a pitcher. We were ahead going into the last inning. They hammered us.

I managed to snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory.

I looked around after the game. All the parents who previously pledged their undying loyalty were gone. No one came to me to say, “Good game, coach.” They were busy consoling their children (and probably telling them they would have won the game if that bonehead coach had left everything alone). My daughters consoled me.

Later that night I confronted myself with my own promise that I would not let this ball playing get to me. It was the girls’ game. I was, after all, just the coach. This was about giving the children a chance to enjoy life.

I can’t say the pep talk was particularly successful, but that afternoon game began seven years of great fun and personal satisfaction.

I learned how to coach a sport I couldn’t play. I found the coach isn’t the performer. He is the enabler. I found his goal is to create challenging opportunities for players to compete and discourage situations not suited for their skills and abilities. Some of the best management skills I ever developed I discovered leading those young girls.

Isn’t it interesting where we learn? It is said, “All the world is a stage.” It can also be said, “Each event in life is a classroom.”

Sometimes I remember those games. I wish I could be there again watching daughter number one play second base or daughter number two set her teeth as she stepped into the batter’s box.

I have images of one of our less athletic girls barreling into the catcher and scoring because her coach told her to steal home and she trusted him.

I remember watching daughter number one get her first hit, a hard line-drive over third base. I wasn’t the coach of that game. Even better, I was her dad. A later photo showed her eyes on the ball at impact and her arms at full extension.

I remember teaching the second and third grade girls the ball would not hurt them. My players never bailed out of the batter’s box on close pitches. Ever.

I remember coming up with a drill to teach a catcher how to throw to second base and catch the runner trying to steal. The look of satisfaction and pleasure on her face the first time the runner lost was pure poetry.

I remember my brother, an excellent ball player in his own right, relay to me a bit of Tommy Lasorda wisdom. The great Dodger skipper said 68% of the times you lose, your opponent scored more runs in one inning than you did in the whole game. I taught the girls to get the out, stop the rally and stay on task.

But more than anything, I just remember having a ball.

You Can Win All the Battles and Still Lose the War

It began in the early 90’s. I couldn’t put my finger on it. There just wasn’t a sense of physical wholeness.

I pastored a church in northeastern Missouri at the time. Hospital visitation was a major part of my work. One stressful day, after climbing a set of stairs while making my hospital rounds, I had difficulty catching my breath.

My wife, ever the diligent one, encouraged me to see a physician. (I think it was more like, “If you don’t go on your own I will stick you in a burlap bag and drag you.”) After a series of tests, probing in places that had absolutely nothing to do with my breathing (except I inhaled quickly when they did it) and a round of diagnostic imaging, the cardiac specialist had these sage words of wisdom.

“So, you see a lot of sick people in your job. Stop seeing so many. You will feel better.” I could have gotten the same diagnosis at the local gossip shop for the price of a cup of coffee.

Several years later, after adjusting to being less resilient and suffering from a low tolerance of heat and high humidity, a new round of health issues surfaced. Again, conventional wisdom directed me to a cardiac specialist. Fast-forwarding through EKGs, MRIs, and the rest of the medical ABCs, I ended up at a sleep clinic.

Hey, people, the problem is not when I am asleep. It is when I am awake!

I dismissed a half-hearted medicinal approach by the cardiologist and decided to self-medicate myself through the administration of Bar-B-Que and Sonic Burgers. After all, homespun wisdom says, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” It made as much sense as reaching my heart by going through the other end!

I didn’t feel any better. I did enjoy feeling worse.

One night I tried to play broomball. (It’s a game for hockey addicts played during the three weeks of Minnesota summer.) After just three or four minutes, I began to hurt. This, I knew, was no nagging problem. My chest felt like someone was sticking an ice pick into it. I couldn’t get my breath even after sitting down for ten minutes. However bad I felt, I was more afraid that when I went to the doctor he would tell me to do something like buy a size larger under-shorts. I just refused to go through the whole thing again.

I reinvented my life. I slowed down to almost a stop. I slept a lot. I downsized everything I could to put off the inevitable. In the end, I felt “old.”

One day in November, while calling on customers in Austin, MN, I began to hurt. I was two blocks from my car. It took me nearly two hours to get back to the car. The next evening, while sitting at my computer, the pains started again. As I promised my wife, I called Son-In-Law Number 2 and off to the hospital we went. This time the pros found the problems, fixed them and sent me off to mend.

I look back and realize it wasn’t the doctor’s fault an earlier opportunity to diagnose failed to find the developing problems. Timing, after all, is everything. I ended up in one of the premiere health facilities in the world being care for by my wife’s handpicked health-care colleagues.

We often see so much better in retrospect.

Some wars you won’t win, regardless how well you manage the battles. Preparation and prioritization will get you only so far. There comes a time when you have to stand up, face the challenge and ask for help. When you join with your allies to face your greatest enemies in the “Valley of Decision,” victory often goes to the one who marries the strength of commitment with the lack of viable options.

As a teenager, I attended a funeral service of a man who took his own life. Our pastor made a most remarkable statement. He said the deceased was his own worst enemy. He said it in public, during the service and in front of the family. An unfortunate person, this man saw his future replete with evidence of ever diminishing opportunities for victory.

The overwhelming sadness is that he never recognized his potential allies. He never saw there were others willing to stand with him. He went into the “Valley of Decision” thinking he was alone.

He thought he won the battle. How sad he lost the war.

Abstinence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

Thanks to Erica Vetsch, member of my writer's group that meets under the mentorship of Joy DeKok, for serving as my editor this week.
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I love titles. In fact, I think I get as much enjoyment out of writing titles as I do writing the stuff that goes after them.

Take the title for this submission.

The play on words is obvious. The familiar platitude reminds us of two absent lovers’ hopes thriving while forced to separate for an anguishing, life-wrenching semester of college (or two weeks of family vacation). For some, absence worked. The heart yearned, burned and endured the separation only to celebrate the reuniting. For others, it merely made the inevitable demise possible.

Ah, but abstinence, that is a whole different story. It is not merely a platitude. It is a truth in multitude.

Think about it. Diets are all about abstaining. They are all about saying “No” to one thing and “Yes” to what tasted like the wrapper the last candy bar you ate came in. I remind myself, when tempted to indulge in a Tootsie Roll, that I am not sweating at the “Y’ just to create an opportunity to indulge.

How about sleep? Do you ever struggle, feel the strain, become overwhelmed with the danger of needing to sleep, all the while hurtling down I-35, 5 minutes from Albert Lea and within one hour of home? How the heart is so fond of sleep at just that minute.

Conditioned to abstain from time to time, we hear, “It is for your own good.” “It will make you stronger,” echoes through the halls. “You will be a better person” and “You will appreciate the sacrifice someday,” are submitted as encouragement. Just then you look up from your second bowl of salad and see your loved one get three more slices of thick crust pepperoni pizza with extra sauce and cheese.

Don’t think these familiar phrases describe a shell game played on us by friends and loved ones trying to acquaint us with pain. Abstinence - it actually works. It really has a purpose in our life. There are times we need to abstain. But what is it that reaches into our mind and dredges up dread when told we must forego something which, only 24 hours before, barely blipped on our radar?

We know if we are to abstain, it will depend on us. To be absent means someone left. You can’t do much about that. To abstain means to give up, go without, cease and desist. It means we initiate everything and ultimately have no one to blame but ourselves. It comes down to saying, “I put myself on the line. I have the discipline, the foresight and the wisdom to make a decision that wilts lesser mortals.

Abstinence can bring out the best in a person. Absence simply inconveniences us. Abstinence can define us, direct us and make us wholly true to our calling. Absence passes the time until “the next big thing.”

Abstinence is full of worth, filled with vision and packed with purpose. Absence is valueless. The very nature of morality is bound up in abstinence. There is no morality in absence.

Abstinence affirms that I am not simply a consumer. Ecological stewardship runs on the commitment to abstain. Financial development depends on abstinence. The blossoming of marital union requires you know the difference between fidelity and “tom-catting.”

Abstinence creates its own reward. It builds capacity and it heightens hope. It creates the opportunity for a clearer understanding and gives time to chart the future. In the end, it is more than just saying, “I won’t.”

It is about saying, “Because, I will.”

A Room Full of Student Teachers

Directing a children’s choir never made my short list. No one was more surprised when after talking to our Minister of Worship and Arts I found myself staring back at 25 pairs of eyes that first Sunday evening.

I struggled the first few weeks. My leadership was not good but the choir responded even when I did a bad job.

I began the year committed to working the children into my schedule. I made sure they had my attention when I was with them. I set goals at the beginning of the year and tried to stay focused on them.

At times I came to choir and didn’t have a clue what to do or where to start. That didn’t seem to bother the children. They just wanted to do something important and this was their opportunity.

I could see the end of the year and it looked like an eternity away. I was not optimistic about my chances to pull off two musicals and a couple of worship service performances. I knew my hope rested in the quality of support I would receive from parents, church staff and my own team. I depended on them. I am sure there were times when they looked at me and wondered why I took the job.

I did, too.

From the beginning I intended to keep the job one year. I was sure someone else would step up the next year. As for my legacy as a director, people might not remember that I was a good leader, but they would remember me as a person ready to cooperate and take on a job even if it wasn’t “a good fit.”

Everything in my life changed during November 2003.

It doesn’t take long to catch on to the seriousness of heart disease. Sober-faced doctors, committed nurses, task-oriented support-staff and clueless but well-meaning residents all build a community focused on the patient. After a while, however, even the most hard-boiled patient starts to realize a lot more is at stake than just whether you can make it past “the knife.”

As I watched the world parade past my bed, I began to see people differently. Maybe I began to see them for the first time. My church family took time out from busy personal schedules to pray with me. When my employer kept paychecks coming even though it was a hardship on the business, it touched me deeper than I was prepared. My beloved family put their lives on hold until they knew everything would be OK.

Nothing, however, reached me like the first Sunday evening after I was released from the hospital. I returned to the children’s choir to thank them for remembering me. Their response, when I walked into the room, overwhelmed me. It wasn’t the height of volume. It was the depth of joy. They knew I would be back and their prayers were a part of what made it happen.

I left the hospital a physically changed man. I left the choir room changed in a whole different way.

When I left the rehearsal room I saw the children and my time with them as precious. I still believed I would be the director but one year. Instead of being an eternity, however, the time was in danger of flying past me. I saw my limited ability in children’s leadership required more than just my previous “work around” mentality.

As I walked from the choir room that night I acquired a sense of urgency. Somehow I started seeing the difference between dreaming and having a vision. Somewhere in time children became the canvas rather than the resource. My leadership purpose changed and the choir became the paint. In the process the leader became the student and the student became the teacher.

When it is healthy, the symbiotic relationship of student and teacher makes for a dynamic that is difficult to measure. It is a relationship that works best when we let it happen naturally as each does their assigned tasks, fulfills their vision and follows their hopes and dreams. In the end we draw lessons from our time together that will weather the storms of life.

The following are some of the lessons I have drawn from my short time of service as the children’s choir director. I restrain from offering the actual stories and shared learning experiences behind these ideas.

Children know how to express joy.
You haven’t seen joy until you see it in the eyes of a child that knows what they are doing is important and they are doing a good job. This is different from having fun. Children teach you the difference between fun and joy. Jesus didn’t say, “I have come that you might have fun and have it more abundantly.” Children get it. Sometimes we don’t.

They know how to express joy with their whole being.
Getting children to do something loud is not hard. They do that so well. They are energy. The challenge is getting them to do it under control and on cue. When they do, you have something very unique. You have a person so focused and vibrant that the world lights up around them.

They know the right way to say, “Thank you.”
Children aren’t into gimmicks or cute things. They are into drawing, coloring, wrapping with uneven corners and poorly placed tape. But most importantly, children are into looking you in the eyes and saying something important to them. They know saying “thank you” is ultimately not about “me.” It is about “you.” They say “thank you” to tell you something about you. It is never about them.

They know the right time to say, “Thank you.”
A child doesn’t wait for that perfect moment. They just say, "Thank you." It is in that moment that everything you are measures up to their expectations. Relish in it because the moment moves on too soon.

They show me how easy it is to inflict pain.
Unfortunately, children are not perfect angels. They also give us a picture of selfishness. Being selfish is the heart of sin. I look back and realize the times I hurt others. A child finds out it is so easy to do. Paul addresses my inner child when he says, “I put away childish things.”

They show me that sometimes l like to hurt people.
The child is not a bad child. The child is simply looking for a way to be seen and acknowledged. There are times the darker side of my humanity leaks. My selfishness runs unabated. The childish things of life rear their head and I stumble. I am reminded there really isn’t that much distance between childhood and adulthood.

They teach me how to ask forgiveness, give forgiveness and go on living.
I watched as a child went to another and said, “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t one of those adult oriented, set-up apologies. The child found out he hurt someone and he apologized. Something wonderful happened. Forgiven, a transgression forgotten, they sat together and shared a piece of music. Forgiveness given and granted filled the whole room with music.

They remind me how good it feels to share a part of my life.
No man is an island, Children help me to open my life to others and ask from them. They help me be a cup to hold the elixir of vitality that only children can squeeze from life. They fill the cup and stand ready to fill it again each time I am empty.

They teach me to remember the purpose as l prepare for performance.
Children aren’t that focused on purpose. They enjoy the moment. They remind me how easy it is to get so lost in the celebration that I forget someone had to bake the cake. Working with children reminds me that someone has to keep “the main thing the main thing.” As long as the leader knows where they are going, the children will follow even onto a stage before 400 people to recite lines that only 24 hours before floated in a foggy mist. They do that because they trust. It is a heavy mantle to wear. Only keeping centered on the purpose will protect the leader.

They teach me that everything l do is a foundation for the next event in my life.
I watched as the first group of children left for youth groups. I had them for a year and the next group I will have but for two. I remember the leadership of my childhood. Mrs. Davidson rehearsed our Books of the Bible until they were a part of my Sunday fabric. Mr. Perry, Wiley Stuart and “Jinks” Middleton sat patiently as we read our Sunday lesson out loud. They did their best to fill our time with wisdom from the Bible. Our children’s choirs sang, our Vacation Bible School marched and our mission groups prayed. All taught me lessons long forgotten. What is not lost is that each set a stone. They squared it with life and prepared me to enter the world ready to bear the weight of adulthood.

There are many in our church more qualified than I to lead this group of musicians. There isn’t a single person I know who appreciates them and looks forward to the next time we meet more than I do.


Chas Schaal, 2005

Not All Pickles Are Gherkins

This, the second of my posts, initiates a regular posting schedule. I plan on publishing each Monday. If all goes well I will increase it to twice a week.

Thanks for all of the encouragement I received after my first effort. I hope those to follow will be worth the time it takes to write them.
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The humorist Will Rogers said, “I have never met a man I didn’t like.” Well, I’ve never met a pickle I really cared for.

First off, they are green. For most of my childhood if it was on the table and green, I let the serving plate pass. I am not sure I cared too much for green "Jell-O" or green "Kool Aid." If it was green, I said, “No. thanks.” Pickles are green.

Secondly, they are sour. Why do I want to eat something that will warp my face into the visage of a grimacing old man with no teeth? I will look like one of those dried apple heads you see at the Ozark tourist traps hawking products pretending to be home-spun Americana.

I know stores sell pickles they call sweet, but I don’t believe them. If they were really sweet they would put them in a brown wrapper and call them "Snickers." And you can’t honestly tell me your great Aunt Sadie really makes sweet pickles every year.

That is the same woman who knitted your Christmas present when you were eight. You remember that chartreuse, teal and hot pink pull-over sock cap assembled from yarn scraps of the two baby blankets and fifteen potholders she made for the women’s mission society. Do you really think she knows what is sweet? That is how she said you looked just before your mom forced you to go outside and play with your friends.

Thirdly, pickles stink. One Christmas our family journeyed back to Texas. My wife, bless her heart, is a pickle lover. (I have considered taking this to the state to see if I can get one of those special blue parking cards for my car. It has to be a disability of some kind.) Just past Kansas City, a large jar of pickles slipped from her hands, tipped over and baptized our Impala with the pungent fragrance of dill, vinegar and other secret industrial toxic wastes.

Talk about aroma therapy. My nostrils flared, my lips puckered and my eyes watered. It was midnight on a rural Kansas interstate. There wasn’t anywhere to go to get relief. I just smiled, said I loved her and never uttered a complaining word the rest of the trip. After all, I am not a person to point out the misadventures of others, even when it causes me great discomfort. So, you see, I know pickles. They stink.

Now I find myself in a “pickle-ish” situation.

When I began my blog, my list of potential submissions numbered four. I was smug enough to think I was set for several weeks. Now as I review the available material, I am a bit uneasy.

A friend of mine recently encouraged me. She said I am transparent, alluding to my ability or my weakness if you happen to be my spouse or offspring, to recognize, dissect and over-analyze every little wrinkle in my psyche.

I suppose being transparent is not a bad thing. The problem in me over-analyzing every little bump and bruise in my make-up is I reveal my thoughts and feelings about what others do that I wouldn’t do if I were doing what they were doing. (Are you following me?)

So here I am, with this great article and I realize someone is going to miss my creative brilliance all because of a little off-handed comment that could be construed as saying they are clods, morons or Democrats. Their nostrils will flair, their lips will pucker and unfortunately they may not be as charitable or as disciplined as I am. We may find ourselves involved in a lively exchange of ideas and concepts.

So how am I to handle this pickle jar?

First off, I am going to make sure the lid of my jar is on tight. I mean, does this jar even need to be opened. After all, hamburgers are good without pickles and you don’t need pickles in your potato salad. I can just leave the article on my computer and chalk it up to a private venting that the world is just not ready for.

However, if I open that jar, I need to be careful. I don’t want to dump a mess in my lap. I may find I need to do some judicious rewriting. Maybe an illustration or two needs to be exorcised.

When I serve a pickle I need to do it as delicately as possible. You know, make wavy slices and try to pass off something that is sour as an item of delicate taste for the discriminating palate.

If that fails, maybe I can just say I was only joking, having a little fun and meant no harm. After all, no one wants to be known as a bad sport. People want to be known as good natured and understanding, don’t they?

How do I look in my new sock cap?

Unfinished Business

My father’s workshop was never a neat and tidy place. It was not because he was untidy. He simply had more tools, supplies and resources than room to store them.

While it wasn’t a tidy place, it also wasn’t a graveyard of half-baked ideas, DIY kit-bash projects or one-off inventions. When my father began a repair job or started a task, he finished it. It also worked. Well.

He was great at creating what he needed. He designed and built a garden tiller for pennies on the dollar in the late 50s. In the 60’s he attached a vacuum cleaner to his radial arm saw and built a box in the saw’s table. It vacuumed the saw dust as he ran the machine so there never was a mess. He built a set of adjustable baby cribs in the 1970s, the like of which were not marketed until the early 90s. They were only just replaced at our home church.

If dad had a hand in it, it worked. If it was broken, he fixed it. If it was ill-suited, he morphed it.

After Viki and I married, our old black and white TV went on the fritz. In the early 70s you could still go to a convenience store and use their tube tester. When you found the offending tube, they had one to sell you. I earned my stripes as a providing husband when I fixed our TV.

I knew I couldn’t match my dad on many things but I had watched him do this job before. I did get the TV back on and my wife was proud. There is nothing like setting back and taking in the ambiance of a job well done.

I used to think the feeling of a job well-done is just in doing the job well. After a few opportunities to take in the ambiance, I think the sense of accomplishment comes not from doing the job well as much as it comes from doing it until it’s done. The difference may be lost on you. It isn’t on me. There is a special glory in persevering until the end is not just in sight but is behind you.

A wag once said, “When all is said and done, more is usually said than done.” Another childhood proverb says, “Winners never quit and quitters never win.” Of all the contests in the summer Olympics, the most cheered loser is the person who comes in last place in the marathon. A gut wrenching experience and a character builder if ever there is, the marathon runner is a person celebrated not because of winning but because of completion.

On the other hand, the landscape of a fruitless and discouraged life is one littered with unfinished projects, half-baked dreams and meaningless promises of future glory and achievements.

Unfinished business is life clutter. The scourge of clutter has become a hit TV show. The TV hosts come into a home, help that week’s dubious stars to trash, barter or justify every item that takes up space in their home. It is often a cathartic experience.

But life clutter is more insidious than half-finished scrapbooks and piles of unfolded clothes. It is a life that lacks direction and priority. The unfinished projects are but “Burma Shave” signs on a highway going nowhere. They are pieces of humor and cute proverbs that eventually serve only as a shill to sell one more excuse to procrastinate.

It is a source of life pollution. The acrid smell of rotten eggs, the wrenching creep of rotting flesh or the repulsive power of a skunk’s unwelcome greeting have no equal to a life polluted with unfinished business. Life pollution penalizes the vista of hope for years to come just for being an unwitting partner.

It hinders new projects by promoting creative inertia. Nothing succeeds like success. Nothing hinders progress like a life focused on the minutia of details put off to another more convenient time.

It conditions the acceptance of mediocrity. Instead of reaching for the last detail and painting the places no one will see, the cluttered, inert and moribund life learns to accept placebos of completion. “It’s good enough for government work.” This and others may be sincere expressions and at times worthy to be used. But they prepare the fruitless for a lifetime of “would’ve, could’ve, should’ve.”

It camouflages lessons that are best learned rather than repeated. This is not the life of an “also ran.” This is the life of a “never finished.” It is the life of lost opportunities. It is a life of lessons postponed, not learned. The lessons are learned by looking back after finishing, not from the sidelines as others crossed the checkered line.

Is it time to sweep the table clean? Is it time to clear the shelves of trophies others earned? Is it time to unclutter a life, clean up an agenda, place excellence above acceptance, and resurrect opportunities? Is it time to deal with unfinished business?

What was that burning desire when you purchased the sewing machine you couldn’t afford? What caught your attention in the DIY magazine that convinced you the goal was not only attainable, it was absolutely necessary? What was said in a corporate meeting that drove you to enroll in the education program intended to make a difference in your life and your family? What woke you in the middle of the night and filled your commute with dreams?

Reclaim your passion. Reclaim your vision. Reclaim your life. Finish your business. Set one priority. Decide to clear the workbench of life. You are going to focus on cleaning this mess of a life up.

Identify that one project, that one vision, that one event that will make a difference right now because you tackled it and got it done. Find the one you are closest to completing and knock it out. If it can’t be knocked out in a day or a week, cut it up and knock out one piece.

Whatever you do, get that one doable project moved off the “Things I’m going to do when I get time” agenda. Don’t let any other project get in its way.

Start measuring your activity and not your progress. The marathon runner doesn’t worry where he is on the course. He pays attention to his pace, his tempo and his stride. He knows if he pays attention to these details, the end will come soon enough.

When that project is complete, don’t start another one. Don’t pick up another pattern, another magazine or another brochure. Sit back and enjoy the view. Accept the murmurs of accomplishment your heart beats out as cool breezes blow through the newly planted flower garden. It not only feels good to finish. The view is pretty good from up there, too.