Trying to keep track

 

The Beast is home from the hospital, purring like a maroon leviathan (I realize they don’t purr, gurgle?  bubble?).  It was a minor fix.  Little part, general breakdown, quick fix.  So, with relief I attended presbytery today.  People are beginning to say hello and know me.  I’ve got three preaching gigs this and next month.  Someone asked me if I’d be interested in a new position opening….

I’ve got a feeling things are going to start coming hot and heavy.  It’s been nice to be able to take things as they come, without being worried about getting slammed if something slides by.  Deadlines are friends I haven’t seen in a while.  Responsibilities that don’t have to do with my trees and flowers and lawn and tomato plants are strangers. 

Am I going to become unretired? 

I do worry about the headaches.  My doctors said move away from stress.  So I changed my address.  I guess you can’t move away from a life style.  You’ve got to change your approach to living.  Easier said than done when it’s a habit developed over 45 years.  But I have learned some things over this season of being fallow. 

I’ve learned to spend time being creative every day.

I’ve learned to take a nap when I need one.

I’ve learned to write and read at least three projects and books at the same time. 

I’ve learned that I like our new hometown and our neighborhood.

I’ve learned that I’m pretty good at being a partner with my wife.

I’ve learned we’re good at creating a beautiful home (an ongoing job).

I’ve learned that I’m happier when I’m getting my hands dirty and that I can actually fix, build, and grow things (lots to learn).

I’ve learned how much life has to offer when I’m willing to take advantage of the opportunities.

I’ve learned that I don’t have to live in the eye of a hurricane.

See?  Even a thick head can learn.  Now, let’s see if I can keep all that in mind, keep learning, and do some ministry without blowing a fuse.  Little part, general breakdown.

The general idea is to 'Keep on Truckin' 

 

 

The Beast

 

In 2004 I became the partner of the Beast.  This has nothing to do with goats’ heads or black candles.  The Beast is a maroon Toyota Land Cruiser.  Since the partnership was formed he has schlepped me and my family, towed a sail boat, made fifteen round trips from New Jersey to North Carolina, on five of which he was towing a trailer full of beds, books, dishes, plants, and rocks, don’t ask.  In other words, this being has been an integral part of our existence. 

The Beast is sick.  Something is wrong with the dreaded technological whatzits that make all his systems operate.  They have unbooted, fried, or gone into revolt.  Why something as brawny as the Beast should need whatzits to make it tick is one of the grim metaphysical glitches of existence. He is sitting in the driveway wrapped in two blue tarps to keep the rain out of the windows that won’t operate (they’re stuck in the down position).  This is an embarrassing state of affairs for such a capable fellow.  Too expensive to fix?   Such blasphemy was considered in the same manner that one considers selling a child.

But as I look out there, I realize that I am rather attached to him.  A piece of machinery, you might say?  If that is your attitude, I wouldn’t hire you as a baby sitter.  Surely he is a thing.  But then again, so am I.  And if I was busted, my wife, bless her heart would insist on having me fixed (you know what I mean). 

So, he’s going to the hospital today.  I take him with the anxiety of a family member having to trust a healer with their loved one.  So show a little respect.  OK?

 

So Much for Deals

 

Everybody wants a deal.  Deals to get more for our money, to get more money for our work, to be able to have things we shouldn’t be able to afford.  Deals are short cuts.  They let us cut corners.  They make allowances where there should be none.  Some students in my classes look for better grades for less work.  They want to be able to get away with absences, missing homework.  It seems that the ends do justify the means.  According to this approach to living it doesn’t seem necessary for us to live up to standards of decency, or personal ethics as long as we get our car, our clothes, our flat screen TV’s, our grades, our time off.

It disappoints me when my students try to work deals with me.  But when their parents start calling me, telling me that their children really should get a better grade because they don’t get anything but A’s, then I start wondering if they’re living in a fantasy land that doesn’t even require deals to make things work.  No wonder their kids don’t even see the need to use spell check.

I think that’s the kind of strange place that people often use when they attend church, or profess a set of beliefs.  It’s like a magic wand that they wave to get what they want, or to make things easy.  It doesn’t matter what the scientists say, or whether the ice caps are melting, global warming has nothing to do with how many cars my family drives or my carbon footprint.  I can have what I want because I’m a Christian.  I never picked that up in the gospels. But then again, I’m lousy at making deals.

 

Al Opdyke

 

The magazine from San Francisco Theological Seminary came today.  It comes quarterly.  I like to read through it, though to tell the truth, I have expressed little support for the institution.  Perhaps as I move along that might change.  Nostalgia and all that.

On the page titled In Memoriam there was a name that stopped me.  Al Opdyke.  It took me a few switch backs and double clutches to get it into any sort of perspective.  The Al Opdyke I knew was part of my mythology.  He worked green chain to make money in seminary.  Don’t ask, it’s dangerous.  He spent every spare moment in the Sierra’s, mountains that is.  He nursed me through my seminary internship and probably was responsible with helping me make it through with any sort of sanity. 

He could take a dare.  He had a great laugh.  He worked with cops and got along with farmers.  He liked dogs.  He got pancreatic cancer.  So my mythology intersected with mortality.  I don’t approve. 

Important people in my life have died before.  People do that.  But each time it happens it’s like a body blow.  I can hear him chuckle about my comments.  He’d shake his head a little and tell me I had better things to do than worry about him.  But right now, I don’t think there is anything that is more important than spending some time remembering my mentor and a man whom I valued and respected, and will continue to do so. 

You knew how to love life.  You fought the good fight.  You took time to care for fools and dogs.  You helped me find my calling.  Bless you on your way.

Forgive me

 

It is hard not to become enraged when so many choose to ignore our home.  If someone came into my house and spoke and acted without any sense of decorum, choosing to undo things that we have labored to create, a garden, art, a quiet place to sit and read, a conversation shared with manners and with peace, how would any of us respond? 

I pray for the man.  I do.  But his behavior and the attitudes and actions of his supporters in response to his illogical, dangerous, and just plain rude rantings and policies, make it hard to allow any sort of peace to rule my prayers.  He is polluting my home.  So my prayers for him tend to end with prayers of confession.

I know I shouldn’t throw rocks.  But when I was a child, people threw rocks through our windows because my parents stood for integrated neighborhoods.  The notes attached were awful, lies that threatened and condemned the people who chose to stand for justice and reconciliation.  My family told me to be proud and confident that we stood with prophets.  But I was angry and hurt and afraid.

Now I feel that way again. 

And I remember what my father told me over breakfast before I went to school the next morning.  “Others will know of this.  Some may say things, ugly things to you.  Witness to the truth.  Keep your head up.  They are bullies who live in fear.  They throw stones.  We’ve got better things to do.” 

Martin Luther King said, “The arc of history is long, but it bends toward justice.”

I’ll remember my father’s courage and wise words.  I’ll remember prophets like Rev. King.  But once in a while, I get pissed off.  Forgive my language and my rage.

Blessed

 

Oh, I am blessed to see and know

Through him who has redeemed us

In his giving and his sacrifice

That which is the glory

In this joy of created glory

Light and beauty,

Simple and complex,

Accepted as a gift each moment

Not possessed,

But appreciated and embraced

 

Rufous

Mocking birds are one of the easiest birds for me to recognize.  They’re in your face, not afraid of much of anything, sing all the time every other birds’ repertoire, tail in the air, grey with white.  How can you miss them?  The other day I saw an iridescent brown mocking bird…  Ok, mutant in my yard.  Tail in the air, perched on top of the bird feeder, a singing filial. 

Chris called from the window, “Look, in the bird bath.  What is that?”  It was the mutant, dunking and fuzzing itself out.  With great authority I pronounced, “It’s that mutant mocking bird.” 

She went on, unfazed, valiantly trying to ignore her weird husband.  “It’s so pretty, look at its chest.”

That was her diplomatic method for trying to tell me I was nuts.  She should work for the state department.  And looking at it, it was pretty, and different.  It was speckled.  There was something too consistently different.  So go to the bird book.  There it was, plain as day.  A Brown Thrasher.  Not as common as the Mocking Bird, a bit more shy, but it sang with the same imitative call and it liked to perch on peaks, like the top of the bird feeder, a speckled chest, and a rufous back.

‘Rufous?’ 

Webster’s was the next stop.  “Reddish brown.  Can be iridescent in certain light.”

New word.  New bird.  New fascination for my lovely.  I’d say that was a good day.

Rufous to you too.