Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures

The barber shops are all closed, and they have been for a while. That might not have been a problem if somebody could have told our hair to quit growing. But having reached that point in life where we'd just as soon hang on to our hair for as long as we can, I'm not sure I'd really want it to stop growing. So in a moment of weakness, or perhaps insanity, Valerie and I convinced each other that we could actually give each other a haircut. That might not seem so strange, but there is actually some history here. On both sides. 

Valerie has told me that years ago in her early days with Gospel Recordings, she used to hide when Joy Ridderhof, the founder of the mission, came looking for someone to do her hair. Joy's hair was too fine, about the texture of mine, I would guess. Apparently Valerie was less concerned with the results today than she was then.

And years ago when the kids were little and the budget was tight, I bought some hair clippers and convinced Joan that she could cut my hair. Unfortunately I made a tactical error.  I read the instructions to her as she was cutting my hair, particularly the line that said, "remember, you can always go back and cut more later...." I confess to reading it repeatedly. Along about the 19th repetition, Joan informed me that going back later was no longer an option. So the clippers sat unused until I tried giving Matt a haircut and nipped his ear in the process. I'm pretty sure I never told Valerie about that nipped ear until after today's cuts.

Valerie's cousin cuts hair, and she does an excellent job of it. Unfortunately she's in Canada, and the border is closed to all but essential traffic. No matter how I may feel, I'm pretty sure I don't have any chance of convincing the folks at the border that our haircuts are essential.

So there we were this morning, shaggy and desperate.  And desperate times call for desperate measures. Amid much laughter and mutual encouragement, I cut my wife's hair, and she cut mine. I'm happy to report that her ears are intact (and so are mine). The results, what we can see of them, look pretty decent, and the good news is that it will be at least another month before the barbers and beauty salons open again; there's time to grow. In fact there might even be time to practice again. And when those shops do open again, I'll be ready with an appropriately big tip when the lovely lady who usually cuts our hair wonders what happened.

A Forced Quiet

The forced quiet of these days of "stay home; stay healthy" has not stopped the trees from blossoming.  A lot of other things, however, have ground to a halt, and at least in the short term, life has changed. Like most people. I’d rather control the changes in my life than have them imposed. Some of those imposed changes are inconvenient; others are downright painful. There is little to like in losing what has been normal, whether it is work, school, church, entertainment, recreational shopping, the ability to celebrate at a wedding or mourn at a funeral, or even something as simple as buying a case of toilet paper whenever you want.  And there is even less to like in hearing of people you love who are fighting this virus.

 

We’re adjusting to a quieter season. We’ve cancelled trips (yes, that’s plural) and started attending church in the living room. It’s not historically unusual for the church to be a generation behind the rest of society in embracing the possibilities of technology and harnessing them for the kingdom of God. (Joan’s uncle devoted a major part of his life to producing Christian media at a time when many Christians viewed movies as a tool of the devil.) I remember years ago in the early days of personal computers discussions with saints who were convinced such things could only be used for evil. Now we’re using those computers to accomplish virtually what we can’t accomplish physically.

 

Church at home is not necessarily a bad thing. I look forward to physical gatherings again, but I don’t agree with some of my friends who seem to believe that the current restrictions on meetings constitute persecution. We are not being persecuted. We are not being marginalized. We are being given an opportunity to be leaders in lovingly protecting our congregations and communities.  And besides, my recliner is a whole lot more comfortable than the typical church pew!

 

I’m discovering some hidden blessings. I don’t mean to imply that COVID-19 is a blessing, but I never cease being amazed at God’s ability - and intention - to use that which we see as evil to further his kingdom. He is indeed a God who regularly fulfills Romans 8:28. I find that in these quieter days when I am less distracted by my own busyness, I am more keenly aware of the Lord’s presence and character. I’m encouraged by the grace with which so many people have embraced these necessary restrictions without a whole lot of complaining. And I’m blessed by people who are intentionally choosing to be caring.

 

This too shall pass. But I hope that the blessings discovered along the way won’t.

 

Remembering

It's been a day for remembering.  Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints. Twelve years ago today Joan arrived in heaven. One of the blessings (if I can use that word) of grief is sorting through memories, and today has been a day for the joy of remembering. In meandering through some old pictures, I came across this one.  I was struck by the fact that all of the eleven people with me in this picture are now in heaven.  That's a wife, a son, a brother, an aunt, two parents, two in-laws, and assorted cousins. It's a bit of an odd feeling to be the last man standing.

I've found that most people don't like to talk much about death. Perhaps you're one of those people, and you'd rather just skip this post - or perhaps not.  Sooner or later it's a topic that affects us all. (And as if to emphasize the point, as I was writing that last sentence, I received an email with news of another death.)

My mind has wandered through the memories of January twelve years ago. One of the nice surprises in looking at pictures from the graveside committal service, the family lunch at one of Joan's favorite restaurants, and the memorial service the following day is the number of smiling faces. In the midst of pain there were lots of smiles - and rightfully so. Death for a Christian is not an end; it's an entrance.

My brother-in-law in an email referred to the Gustafson trio - Joan and her sisters - singing "Heaven Came Down," and recalling the last time that they sang that together just a few weeks before her death prompted in me another smile. It was a good song to sing as Joan drew close to heaven.

When Joan died, the pain of loss was no surprise. What did surprise me then was the discovery that my gratitude was even deeper than my pain, and remembering that has brought a smile as well. Unavoidably death brings pain to those closest to it. Time both lessens the pain and increases the value of remembering. And as I've remembered today, I know that a death that was precious in the sight of the Lord twelve years ago is no less precious today.

Joy to the World?

Joy to the world in the midst of a political mess. 

I have developed a practice with Facebook that has a way of increasing my joy. I regularly and ruthlessly dump political posts that appear on my Facebook feed; usually I like what's left a whole lot better. So when Mark Galli's CT opinion piece calling for the removal of President Trump and Franklin Graham's response to that editorial both showed up, it was almost like hitting a home run being able to delete them both; twice the joy in half the time!

In fairness I need to say that I respect both men. And I would not deny that there is a place for godly prophetic input into the political dialog of the day. But the reminder that neither Galli nor Graham has quite found that place is a reminder that we still live in an imperfect world. Neither I nor my Facebook friends have found that place either, and the attempts can sometimes have an unintended effect. The fact, for example, that both Galli and Graham should seek to support their contrasting convictions by referring to the heritage of Billy Graham is at least mildly amusing.

Lots of my friends from every part of the political spectrum find social media an appropriate vehicle for their political views. That I choose to dump their posts does not diminish our friendship; in fact it might even protect it. I think I'd rather focus instead on that which unites us.

In this advent season I find myself glad that Jesus came as a baby and not as a politician. I have tried in vain to imagine Jesus using Facebook to try to inject his kingdom into the strange and strained political environment of his day. Perhaps you can wrap your head around that; I, however, can't.

So once again I'm collecting Christmas cards and dumping political posts, and finding joy in both disciplines. If that seems strange to you, perhaps you ought to try it. Go ahead; start with this post; I won’t be offended. You might just enjoy dumping it enough to have a merrier Christmas! 
😀

Miracles

We began the Christmas celebration a bit early this year with a trip last week to one of our favorite get-away locations.  Chemainus is a little town on Vancouver Island with murals on the sides of many of the buildings depicting various aspects of the town’s history.  It’s a fascinating collection that you can read about here.  But it wasn’t the murals that drew us there this time.

The town’s other claim to fame is an excellent live community theater, and the current offering is Miracle on 34th Street.  It was the play that drew us there this time. So there we were, eight days before Thanksgiving, sitting with a couple of hundred other people to enjoy a Christmas play. It was a well done presentation, good enough to convince us that there would be more Chemainus Theater Festival adventures in our future. And it was a play that left me thinking.

There is a line from Miracle on 34th Street that has been rolling around in my head for the past week: “Faith is believing in things when common sense tells you not to.” It’s not exactly a biblical definition of faith, but it’s not a bad one, either. And it comes close to the description in Hebrews 11: the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.

Encountering genuine faith can be a surprisingly rare thing, even, strangely enough, among people who call themselves believers. Life does not train us to believe when common sense tells us not to. And common sense, while compelling, turns out to be not all that common either. And so we end up desiring to be more sensible instead of more trusting. It is a strange trade-off in which we are the ultimate losers, and both faith and miracles get lost because we cannot see or dare not hope.

I’m glad we started Christmas before Thanksgiving this year. It seems fitting to me that one should approach both holidays thinking about both faith and miracles. I am thankful for the blessings that I have experienced and seen. But I need to be thankful as well for the miracles I have not yet seen. God invites me to hope, and this year as Thanksgiving gently leads the way towards Christmas, I choose to have faith enough to thank God for both the miracles that are and the miracles that are on the way.

The Lion

Valerie and I returned last week from a delightful trip. Twice previously we had planned a trip to celebrate the hoped-for end of what would become a two year transitional pastor journey; both of those trips, while thoroughly enjoyable, turned out to be premature. So having finally completed the interim in July, we decided it would be a good time to enjoy a repositioning cruise from Vancouver, BC, to San Diego, California. It turned out to be great timing for a west coast cruise, beautiful and very smooth, complete with near perfect weather and migrating whales.

Some cruises are all about the destination; others are all about the journey. While both the journey and destination were great, this cruise seemed to be all about the people we encountered along the way. Some of those were planned encounters - cousins in Vancouver, my brother and his wife who met us in Santa Barbara, missionary friends who met up with us in San Diego. Others were unplanned serendipitous blessings, like Lisa, QuickShuttle's only female driver, or Leocer, who just might be Holland America's most congenial server and who brightened and blessed our day every time we saw him.

Trish Hanson was one of those serendipitous encounters. Trish is an artisan and outspoken Christian that we met on the dock in Astoria. Several artisans had booths set up, ready to entice folks leaving and returning to the ship with a wide variety of things, some beautiful and others of questionable value. (Like vegan shortbread, two words that my Scottish heart firmly believes should never appear on the same label.) But it was Trish’s booth that most captivated us with her collection of laser-crafted wood images with a message. And this lion was our personal favorite.

She calls it “The Lion of Judah,” and if you get close enough, you'll discover it consists of a two word phrase repeated 365 times: Fear not. Her art, she says, is part of her healing, and clearly there was a story - or perhaps multiple stories - behind the intricate design and careful creation of this lion. The personal pain of her past had found expression not in chaos or anger but in beauty and faith.

We really hadn’t planned to buy stuff in Astoria, but the Lion of Judah now hangs on our living room wall. I sit in my chair, and like Aslan in Narnia, the Lion looks at me inviting me to trust, and reminding me every day to fear not. 

50 Years

Fifty years ago - September 12, 1969. I was in my 20s and anything was possible; after all, we’d landed a man on the moon a couple of months earlier. It was my wedding day, and Joan and I were embarking on a marvelous journey called marriage together. It was a great day, though not without its unexpected surprises (like a flat tire late at night on the way to the airport).

Over the years I’ve wondered from time to time what it would be like to celebrate my golden wedding anniversary. I’ve attended a number of celebrations of other people’s golden anniversaries; some of them have been wonderfully joyful, some deeply meaningful, and a few others were, quite frankly, utterly terrible. So I’ve occasionally pondered what my own might look like. Those wonderings, of course, didn’t include the unexpected and painful reality that one of us might not live that long.

We made it three-fourths of the way to our golden wedding anniversary before the Lord called Joan home. It was a very good marriage, and she has helped to shape the person I am today. She didn’t expect to be a pastor’s wife, but she filled that role well. She was my best friend and a superb mom to our two kids; love was deep. When she died with a rare blood cancer in our 39th year of marriage, I resigned myself to learning to be single again; I figured my marriage days were over and there would be no 50th celebration.

I was wrong. (It’s not the first time that’s happened.) God brought Valerie into my life, and once again I find myself joyfully married to my best friend. Who could have guessed that a gracious God would let me live this adventure twice?  I’m pretty sure we won’t live long enough to celebrate 50 years (Valerie says we’d better not!) so we count the months instead. This month we celebrated our 88th anniversary.

Valerie suggested - insisted? - that I celebrate this golden anniversary. I confess it seemed a bit weird to me that wife #2 would suggest celebrating marriage #1, but those of you who know are aware that God has gifted me again with a gracious wife. So we’ll be north of the border celebrating this golden wedding anniversary in ways I might not have imagined. It won’t be the kind of celebration where we share each other’s embarrassing moments from the last fifty years. And if you’re waiting for the invitation, there will be no party. But there will be a quiet and grateful awareness of the immeasurably deep grace of a loving God who has designed and given this great gift called marriage, and who for the last fifty years has blessed me beyond measure as He has been teaching me what it means.