She Said Yes

Some old sayings are true:  It's amazing how time flies when you're having fun.  Five years ago on the eve of Valentine's Day I asked this lovely lady to be my bride, and for reasons that defy all logic, she agreed.  It was a great day, and the fun continues.

I suppose one could make a case that waiting for Valentine's Day would have been a bit more romantic.  The problem was I would be heading home on Valentine's Day and flying to California the day after that.  This was not, after all, a carefully planned proposal, though perhaps it should have been.

We'd spent a good hunk of that day enjoying the beauty of Harrison Hot Springs, walking beside the lake, enjoying lunch, and talking with each other and with the Lord about what the future might hold.  Harrison is a beautiful spot.  It would have been a great place to pop the question.  So why, you might ask, would anyone in his right mind wait until he was speeding down the freeway heading back towards Abbotsford to ask that all important question.  And I would look at you, shake my head, and be thankful once again for grace.  The truth of the matter was that our conversation that day assumed that we had a future together; it wasn't until the trip back that I realized that I hadn't actually asked.  So I did.  And she said "yes."  (Later that day I waxed sufficiently poetic to make up for the day's odd timing with a poem that won't appear on the blog.) 

It was a great day, but the best thing about it was not the weather, nor the date.  The best thing was that she said yes.

The Older Generation

Somewhere along the way I became part of the older generation.  I'm not sure just when (or for that matter how) it happened, but it did.  And it's not a bad thing.  In subtle ways it adjusts the way one looks at the world.  Now, for example, when I pass a senior citizen driving too slowly down the road, my criticism is interrupted by the realization that the old dude might be younger than me.  Any doubt that I belong to that venerable "older generation" disappeared four months ago when I began discovering the joys of being Grandpa.  For all of my life "grandpa" has been a guaranteed identifier of someone who's a part of that older generation.  Now I am there -- and it is good.

There are, however, responsibilities attached to being part of the older generation.  Scripture repeatedly exhorts people like me to be sure that we are passing on what is important to those who are what we used to be - the younger generation.  In the words of Asaph, "we will tell the next generation the praisworthy deeds of the Lord, his power, and the wonders he has done." (Psalm 78:4)

One of my valued gifts this last Christmas is designed to help me live up to that responsibility.  It's a journal that with a specific question each day invites Grandpa to share his memories through the year.  There is a lot to like about this gift.  Memories are valuable things that should serve as prompts to thanksgiving and worship.  Simple things like recalling the places I have lived triggers memories of the kind of things Asaph was talking about, those praiseworthy deeds of the Lord and the wonders he has done.

Writing those memories down is a good thing.  Memories, after all, can be fragile things as well.  With seven decades behind me, I recognize the possibility that by the time Mateo gets around to asking those questions, I may not be able to answer them. We're only a month into the year, and I'm not quite up to date with that journal.  But I'm going to keep jotting stuff down in the hope that one day that journal will become even more valuable to this little guy than it is to me today.

Happy Veterans Day; Happy Veteran

I became a veteran by invitation, which is probably a good thing because it is unlikely that I would have become one by choice.  I had a couple of years of college under my belt, attending school part time and working part time, and hoping that the war in Viet Nam would cool down and go away.  It didn't, and I was half a unit shy of qualifying for a student deferment when President Johnson (that's Lyndon, not Andrew) sent me the invitation.  It was, in my view, terrible timing, a fact that I tried in vain to explain to the Almighty, but he was not to be persuaded.  (Fifty years later it is still true that most of my arguments with God have been about timing.  And He is still not persuaded.)

Most of my active duty time was spent as a medic at Fort Sam Houston, Texas.  Though alerted for Asia, we never went.  We weren't in the heat of battle, but we certainly saw the results.  Fort Sam was home to the army's burn center, and the worst of the burn casualties who survived Viet Nam were evacuated and treated there.  Getting acquainted with some of those guys was an honor.  Memories of those times, both good and bad, live on.  The time I spent in the army helped to shape me.  (I'm not talking physically; there are some things you shouldn't blame on the army.)  I'm pretty sure that my military service was better for me than it was for the nation.

Now I have become one of those people whom others thank on Veterans Day, and there is always a little bit of me that wonders why.  It happened again last Sunday at church in Canada when the pastor invited veterans to stand.  I freely confess to serving reluctantly, with all the enthusiasm of the man who, about to be tarred and feathered, said that if it were not for the honor of the occasion, he'd just as soon pass.  For this veteran, I think the thanks need to be expressed in the opposite direction.  What I regarded at the time as an interruption in my life became a tool in the hand of God to bless me.  So this Veterans Day, thank you, America, for the privilege of serving.

Sojourning Citizens

Valerie became a US Citizen last week, two days too late to participate in today's election.  I think I envy her.  Never have I filled out a ballot with less enthusiasm.  

Elections are supposed to be about hope; for many people this one seems to be about depression.  It's not that people worry about the consequences if their candidate doesn't win; that's pretty normal, though usually unnecessary.  This time too many people are worried about the consequences if their candidate DOES win.  Whatever happened to Obama's audacity of hope? 

Valerie and I both retain citizenship in the countries of our birth; Canada for her, and the United Kingdom for me.  We have adopted this country, a land that we love, and it has adopted us; we're glad to be here.  But having dual citizenship helps us to understand that we are sojourning citizens, here only for a while. 

Last Sunday we were in Canada and attended what used to be Valerie's church for the first week of a month-long emphasis on missions.  On one wall was the largest Kenyan flag I have ever seen, a reminder of the two decades that Valerie sojourned there.  She remains attached to Kenya, and it will continue to claim a hold on her heart.  But her roots lie elsewhere; she was a sojourner in Kenya.

And we are sojourners here, as well.  For as long as God gives us, we will seek the good of the land where we are, but we will do so with an awareness that our roots are elsewhere. In spite of that oath of citizenship, our first allegiance is to God's kingdom, and it is in seeking that kingdom that we have hope.  

Though it may surprise this election's winner, only God is sovereign, and it is likely that the United States will survive its next president.  Whoever holds that office is less important than he or she - or we - believe.  So with due respect to this year's candidates, this election day I'm not concerned about making America great again; my priority is to seek God's kingdom.  And I'm not with her; I'm with Him, the One who is my King.  It's a whole lot harder to be depressed when you're a sojourning citizen.

Practicing Hospitality in a Xenophobic World

Garden gnomes.  They can be useful little critters, and I confess to having a bit of a weakness for them.  So when we were wandering through the shops of Leavenworth a couple of weeks ago, I was drawn to an interesting collection of them.  The one that first caught my eye was this frowning gnome holding an axe with a sign behind him that said "GO AWAY!"  I thought it might make a nice addition somewhere near the front door on Halloween, but my wife vetoed the idea, reminding me that in our complex we actually haven't had any candy-seeking visitors on Halloween the last few years.  And the message didn't exactly seem to reflect a Christian attitude to our neighbors.  In fairness, the sign did have a reverse side that said "WELCOME" which would have been nice except for the word NOT written across the corner of it.

But the gnome got me thinking about biblical hospitality.  It's a topic that has scratched at my mind a number of times over the years.  One of the blessings of moving to the Northwest over thirty years ago was getting to know Vic Walter, who was my District Superintendent and mentor.  Vic regularly encouraged us pastors (and wives) to practice hospitality, to creatively find ways to invite people into our home whether we thought we could afford it or not.  And it was a value that he practiced.  I remember, for example, an invitation to enjoy the pool at his Olympia apartment one hot day.  Never mind that I didn't have a swim suit with me; I could borrow one of his.  (For those who knew Vic, please do not ask me if those swim trunks actually fit me; let's just say we made it work.)  I was welcomed.

It's an interesting word that scripture uses when it tells us (Romans 12, Hebrews 13) to practice hospitality, a word that continues to scratch at my mind.  The word translated hospitality literally means to love the stranger.  Unfortunately in the current political climate, loving the stranger is a difficult topic for conversation, even among Christians.  We live in a world that has become xenophobic, where fear of people who are different from us has become the norm, and love has become the exception.  Before you disagree too sharply with that observation, try tossing the word "immigration" into a conversation, and then listen to the results.  Frequently it is not a pretty picture, and politics poisons the discussion.  It's a difficult thing to love the stranger while you fear the stranger.

Not that there aren't plenty of seemingly good reasons for becoming a xenophobe.  The world has become a dangerous place, and there is no lack of haters who would prefer eliminating those they regard as the enemy to tolerating them.  Am I really supposed to love that kind of stranger?  (Which somehow reminds me of an overheard comment about cross-cultural church outreach:  Look what they're doing to our church.)  The trouble with scripture is that it doesn't include a convenient list of exceptions.  It doesn't encourage practicing hospitality only when it is convenient.  Or safe.  Or inexpensive.  It doesn't tell me to love the stranger unless the world gets too dangerous.  And it doesn't let me display with a clear conscience that garden gnome either at the front door or at the border.

So we chose to leave the unwelcoming axe-wielding gnome behind in favor of a gnome with a different message.  It sits just outside our door with a message that we mean: "WELCOME FRIENDS."  It reminds us of our desire and commitment to have a home and hearts that are open to others, even others who are - dare I say it - different.  It's not that I'm totally over my fear of strangers; I'm not.  There is, I suppose, a bit of the xenophobe in all of us.  But I'm pretty sure that loving the stranger is a more certain road to joy than avoiding him, so we're going to choose to practice hospitality as best we can, even in a xenophobic world. Tea and scones anyone?

It's Autumn Again

It's autumn again, and it's a great time in the journey.  Living in the Northwest has given me an appreciation of this season that I didn't have growing up in Southern California.  The air is crisper, and the world is changing colors with more drama than I was used to as a kid.  And of course, if that road were in Southern California, there would be a whole lot more cars, and the trees would have been replaced by three or four additional lanes of asphalt.  I like fall in the Northwest.

The season does admittedly have its down side.  The mail is filled with propaganda and political pitches from hopeful candidates and optimistic fundraisers, but I guess that's okay.  It does, after all, create jobs for the folks who sort the recycling.  

I sense, though, that some of my friends are not enjoying the season.  It has something to do with the coming election, which is admittedly a strange one.  The good news is that soon it will all be over.  In four short weeks we will wake up, and the election will be history.  There are quite civilized nations in this world that, were they holding an election in four weeks, would only now be launching the campaigns, and it would be incomprehensible to think of who might run four years later.  Here it seems we launch our campaigns early enough to be able to land settlers on Saturn before the election takes place.  And in this particular election season, there is no shortage of folks who would just as soon settle for Saturn as for either of the two major candidates.

Yesterday Valerie and I meandered through the Cascades to Leavenworth and back.  We didn't talk about the election and generally ignored the occasional political poster.  It was a good day.  Mind you, we didn't escape completely.  There was, after all, that window display of both Donald and Hillary with a sign that said "I already hate our next President."

Strangely, it seems to me, many of my fellow-evangelical friends have embraced this season with a gusto that has them burdened by the fear that one or the other (or both) of the major candidates will create irreversible chaos for the nation in general and Christians in particular.  Some have confused the concepts of spiritual and political loyalty, or perhaps see no difference between them, and they have invested Donald and/or Hillary with greater power to shape the future than God himself.  It is inevitable that four weeks from today, some of them will be severely disappointed, and the burden will be heavier.  To paraphrase that famous poem about Casey, there will be no joy in Mudville, for mighty (fill in the name of your candidate) has struck out.

To the distress of some of my friends, I have chosen not to be burdened with care about who is elected President.  Neither major candidate comes close to reflecting my values.  Yes, you read that correctly.  I have chosen not to care.  Let me explain because I think my choice is a thoroughly biblical one.  I am certainly concerned about this country that my parents adopted when I was a child.  I'm concerned enough to pray, concerned enough to weep, and concerned enough to trust God for its future and mine instead of being burdened with care.  And I'm concerned enough to wonder why so many Christians have opted to invest more in political polarization for a candidate that doesn't reflect their values than they invest in prayer.  It strikes me as a strange choice.

I accept my responsibility to a nation that is mine by choice to seek its good no matter who leads it, but I will seek God's kingdom first.  I think that means I need to pray for whoever leads this nation.  But I'm not going to care; God can handle that, and he has said that he will.  It is more important that I seek first His kingdom, which, everybody else's Facebook posts aside, is different from seeking Trump's or Clinton's or any other candidate's.

Whatever I awaken to on November 9, some things won't change. I expect the mountains will still be there.  The leaves will still change color in the fall.  And God will still be God.  He will still continue to build his kingdom, an endeavor He can accomplish purely apart from politics and to which he invites our involvement.

It will still be a great time for my journey, and the destination won't have changed. 

The Fulness of Time

Sometimes I like to describe myself as a lifetime learner.  It sounds so much better than saying that I haven't quite mastered this lesson yet.  One of the lessons that I seem to be taking a lifetime to learn is that God's timing and mine aren't always the same.  Over the course of my 71 years, most of the arguments I have had with God have been about timing.  (And just in case you are wondering, I have lost them all.)

A year ago Valerie and I returned from a trip to be presented with a gift from my daughter and son-in-law.  It was a book with the title The Gifts of being Grand, and was their creative way of telling me that there was a baby on the way.  It was good news!  A few days later excitement turned to sadness with a miscarriage.  The time was not full, even though I thought it should be.

Fast forward a year.  Last week Suzanne gave birth to a heathy bundle of joy named Mateo.  He arrived right on time.  Well, actually he arrived a week after the due date, but it still turned out to be the fulness of time.  Example:  Suzanne's friend Tricia (who happens to be a labor and delivery nurse) had planned to visit for a few days.  As it turned out, her planned arrival date coincided with Mateo's, and she went from the airport directly to the birth center.  Only God could have pulled off that kind of timing.


So for the last week, this very thankful dad has started to learn about the gifts of being grand.  They are good gifts. And in the fulness of time it's something I plan to take a lifetime to learn.