IT'S THE LITTLE THINGS THAT GET US

 This post comes from an incident that happened to me Saturday morning.  

Oh wow, what a beautiful morning it was. Being that it was Saturday, I wasn't concerned with doing my daily 2 mile walk. BUT, it was a fantastic morning with a nice temperature, and low humidity. Perfect for some long needed pruning and timber cutting along my property line with my neighbor. My idea of fun?  NOT so much!!  But needful.  

My neighbor is a young fella, and I remember what it was like to be young, engaged, and single. Well, I sort of remember. Actually I have vague long forgotten recollections of that time, but it felt big of me to think that...thought.  Let me say that I decided I would hold off mowing the yard so that he could sleep late, so I grabbed my loppers, and my extension saw to do some much needed clean up of my property line. (Okay, that's more along the line of what I was really thinking, I think) Anyway, about an hour later my neighbor steps out to let his dog do his stuff, and we started talking about what I should leave along the property line and what I should cut down. He offered to do the work for me, but I said, NO, I could do it myself.  I figured if I couldn't do my own pruning, then I needed to be in the grave.  He put the dog in the house and took off to spend some time with his fiance. Unknown to me, while I was talking with him, I'd been standing squarely on a carpenter ant hill.  It was just a few minutes later when I began to feel them attacking my legs, my arms, and my chest.  To say the least they were all over me.  I quickly shed my shirt and began flailing at myself like a madman, hoping that no one drove by. I'm sure that the sight of me slapping my big old fat belly, and dancing around like a crazed man would have frightened anyone if they'd seen it. I could feel them biting and crawling in places that I don't like to think about, and I didn't want to be the source of unwanted laughter in the middle of my traumatic battle with the ferocious killer ants.  I also wasn't about to strip down to my skivvies out in the front yard, but dear God in heaven, I wanted to.  I began to pat and pound places that shouldn't be pounded on, while still being attacked by the ants.  I was leaping, shouting, and crying all at the same time. I finally got the garage door down and stripped down to my...well you know.  Just stripping down, I shook loose about twenty ants and stomped their bodies into the garage floor. I stomped what I'd just stomped, and then ground them into the floor, and stomped them again.  I was mad at them!!!  Then, I became mad at myself for not realizing where I'd been standing in the first place.  I'd seen them on the tree trunk and even remarked to my neighbor not to lean against the tree.  I shook out my clothes, stomped a couple of more killer ants and then went inside to get a shower. I was humiliated to say the least.

It's amazing how something as small as a carpenter ant can upset your day and bring you to a full rage in no time at all. The welts from their bites weren't as bad as being stung by wasps, or bees, but they still hurt.  After I got my shower I sat around the house in a pair of loose fitting shorts and nothing else. That ended my day in a hurry. 

As with almost everything that happens in my life, I quickly began looking for a spiritual analogy.  Then I remembered the verse that said "the little foxes that spoil the vine."  Boy, did those ants ruin my day!  

It's amazing how easy it is to mess up a scripture verse just to make it easier to remember. When I thought it, I opened up my Bible app and looked it up. Wow, I was amazed at how I'd been saying it wrong all this time.  The saying comes from Song of Solomon 2:15.  Song of Solomon????? What? That's a funny place for an oft quoted idiom. Even more amazing is how we've truncated it down to almost nothing.  The verse actually reads: "Catch us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines, for our vines have tender grapes."  I've heard the abbreviated version so many times that I skim over the depth of the full verse, and even the meat of the chapter that it is in.  

We all know the meaning of the thought that it is the little foxes that spoil the vine. It's the little things that can hurt our growth, and cause us to be unfruitful, but I was not prepared for the full revelation.  Chapter 2 is this wonderful revelation of our relationship to Christ.  Yes, I know it was written long before Jesus walked this earth, but the Song of Solomon has long been considered a love song between the Messiah and His bride.  There are so many sayings that we use today from Chapter 2, and this one is amazing.  The bride is asking her Lord to catch the little foxes that are nibbling away at the tender young fruit of the vineyard. The bride knows where her help comes from, and we see that Jesus becomes our 'love' who deals with the little things that ruin our lives. Once again we make it about what 'we' can do, but the plea is from the bride to the groom. Remove the little issues that keep us from growing fruitful.  That is exactly what Jesus did. He took the law and the traditions of men, and nailed them to the cross, and in so doing we can rest assured in His love, and grace.  

Yes, the admonition to pay attention to the little foxes is still there, but the bride knows that only her 'love' can catch them and keep them from nibbling away at their relationship. We become convinced that God only takes care of the big stuff in our lives, but we have to sweat the little things. That is the furthest thing from the truth. Jesus is invested completely in our relationship, in every minute detail, and even the big, almost impossible things.  The big question is, where are we standing?  How aware of our spiritual surroundings are we?  Are we oblivious to the little foxes, and how they destroy our relationship, or are we asking Jesus to help us catch them?  

When we become aware of the little foxes in our lives, we have to let our 'love' know we see them.  Ask Him to catch them and remove them.  Okay, let me put it in daily terms.  If you ignore, or excuse your little quirks of behavior, then you risk being fruitless. Believe me, if you see what is attacking your relationship and continue to turn a blind eye to it then it will ruin your relationship. If you are proud, and afraid of asking for help because you'd be embarrassed, then you don't have much trust in Jesus' love. He himself told us to cast our cares upon Him. He also told us He would make a way out of our transgressions. He doesn't leave us helpless.  He gave us His Holy Spirit to guide us and lead us through this life. He even warns us to stay away from or avoid the little foxes in our life so that we can enjoy a fruitful relationship.  I didn't realize it until today, but Jesus has been helping me all these years by removing the little foxes that spoiled our relationship. Without me even knowing what He was doing, He was teaching me how to place my trust in HIS ability to catch the foxes. It's one of the fringe benefits of being His love. Even more, when we fail, He is faithful, and Just to forgive us our sins.  Then, before you know it, you're walking through this life as a new creation that is a pleasing bride for Him.  Trust me, it's the little things that get us. Point out the little foxes in your life, and let Jesus catch them for you. It's a trust thing.  

LOVE SONG

 This morning I'm sitting out on my back porch wondering why I'm out here instead of sitting in my recliner under the air conditioner.  It is hot and humid this morning. I just finished walking my two miles, came home and sat down in our glider patio seat. The morning is full of sound from cars making their way along Hwy 7, and Hwy 43. Occasionally I'll hear the laughter of teenagers up the street waiting for the school bus. Mixed in with all the human sounds is the chirping of sparrows and even a few songbirds. It's peaceful out here.  

I am on a profound path of renewal that God began in me early Friday morning. It began with me trying to deal with anger issues born out of frustration with the way things are going in my life. I still feel this profound grief for my wife, and a need to do something beyond that grief. The same old daily routine I've been doing for years is wearing on me. Part of that has to do with my personal relationship to Christ, and some of it is to do with frustration with those around me and their relationship with Christ. So, God slapped me hard Thursday night and told me to get going. Which brings me to me sitting here writing this blog.  As part of MY renewal, I began listening to old Christian rock bands that changed my life. When I say old, I'm talking about bands that were part of the Jesus movement of the late sixties and early seventies. The one band that affected my life more than any other was 'Love Song'. 

In my Junior year of High School (1972) there was a group of kids who were gathering in our school's quadrangle at lunch and singing songs I'd never heard before. At that time I was going to an Assembly of God church with my parents, and all I knew were hymns. These kids were singing new songs that began to speak to a hunger and desire in me for something more than what I knew. They wore long hair, and hippie clothes, and talked about God in ways that felt young and fresh.  Soon, I began to sit with them and I quickly learned the songs they were singing. One day one of the boys asked me if I was a Christian.  I told him yes, but that I was tired of the pastor of the church I was going to always preaching about tithes week in and week out.  I paid my tithes because I had a job, and my mother had taught me the value of tithes but at the same time, when a Christmas sermon could end up being about tithes, I'd had it. He told me about a group of kids who were meeting at a small church in the middle of town on Friday nights.  They called themselves Jesus Chapel, and I later learned that Chuck Smith had helped them to get established. When I first started going there, there were about a hundred kids like me packing ourselves into a building made for 150 people.  On the platform there were five college age guys singing the same songs I'd heard at my school. The little group called themselves 'Joy Song' and their love for God was simple, and beyond anything I'd experienced. They would sing and lead worship for about an hour, then the leader of the group would sit on a stool and tell the gospel story for about fifteen minutes, always emphasizing the love of God.  Within two months, they had to find another church who would let them meet on Friday nights. We moved to St. Johns Methodist Church because it could hold 500 people. Every service would see the same results, young people would flood the altars and give their lives to Christ. The police placed 40 gallon trash cans at each end of the altars where kids, and adults could throw away their drugs or alcohol without fear of being arrested.  This went on for months until they finally had to build their own facility that could hold at least 2,000 people in a service.  One Friday night while we were still using the Methodist church facility, a new band stepped up to the stage. It was obvious that our own praise band was in awe of this group. "I'm Chuck Girard," began the leader of the band as he sat down to the piano. "This is Love Song, and we are glad you're here."  The praise set was deliciously different with the music ranging from country sound, to almost a jazzy blues. When Chuck began his testimony, you could hear teenagers in the congregation begin to cry and weep. Like our own worship leader, he didn't spend a lot of time preaching, I don't think he could have. It felt like everyone was pressing up against a gate straining to run to the altar. Without knowing how I got there, I found myself on my back under the altar crying my heart out. That's when I realized that all the tradition I'd learned was meaningless and empty. My friend, James (Jimmy) was sitting at my feet when I came to. He had huge tears in his eyes, and a big old goofy smile that only teenage boys can do. We'd both experienced more love and grace than the human body can contain this side of glory. We both stood up and stumbled to our pews, grabbed our motorcycle helmets and headed home. From that moment on, I stopped buying worldly music and went out and bought the Love Song album at our local Christian Book store. Suddenly within the space of a year (1973), there was a large group of Christian rock bands that I could listen to. Chuck Girard, and Love Song changed my life, and shaped my destiny without even knowing it.  Eventually I would be introduced to Keith Green, and a host of other Christian musicians who were translating their faith into music that felt like home to me. God was doing a new thing with the very generation that had declared Him dead. There was the Latin inspired sounds of Ron Kenoli. Maranatha leaned heavily into scripture songs, Whiteheart, Petra, all eventually took Christian music to a new place it'd never been before. I think I'd be safe in saying that they all owe their existence to Chuck Girard and Love Song.  

Well, yesterday, I was cycling through my YouTube feed and saw a tribute to Chuck Girard from his daughter Alisa Childers. I sat dumbfounded as she related his last few days on this earth. I couldn't hold back the tears, and I'm even tearing up now as I write this. I can't even begin to explain how this unassuming man with a terrible tragic past has affected my life. I am here today, still serving God, because of this man who translated the beauty of the gospel into a language I could understand. I know I'm not the only one. If you were saved because you listened to White Heart, or Keith Green, or Jesus Culture, or Maverick City, Elevation Worship, or any hundreds of other modern Christian music artists, you owe a debt of thanks to Chuck.  Not that he would receive it.  I had the pleasure of hearing him one more time when he came to Ponca City, Oklahoma one summer.  I'm not sure if it was 1974 or 1975, but I do remember it well as he sang "Little Pilgrim" at an out of tune piano. I wished there was another altar for me to lay under.  

Chuck left this earth for his reward on August 11th 2025 from stage IV cancer. Even now my heart is pounding as I try to hold back the tears. We all die, it is inevitable, and at 81 years old he'd lived a long life. I encourage anyone reading this to listen to his daughter's tribute. Chuck's music, and life shaped who I am today. His testimony and understanding of grace helped me to fold away the legalism of my youth, and put on the sincere robe of righteousness that Christ gives us. 

I'm still on my journey to renewal, but somewhat saddened at the same time. My YouTube feed is filled with the music from Chuck and Keith. As soon as I slam the "publish" button I'll go back inside to my AC with a profound sorrow for what will be missing in his children's lives, and an overwhelming joy knowing that someday I'll be able to press my hand into both of their hands and tell them how much they affected my life.  Eventually I'll gravitate back to Brandon Lake, Maverick City, Elevation, Hillsong, and the myriad of other musicians who give me hope with their music to continue on.  Right now, I'm jealous of Glenda, because she adored Chuck, and Keith's music.  She probably is bugging him right now to sing for her.  

 

WHEN THE 'WE' IS 'ME'

 Happy Anniversary, Glenda.  

As soon as I finish writing this blog, I'm going to load myself up in my little Pontiac Solstice and make a quick jaunt over to Silver Dollar City to celebrate our anniversary.  It's been four weeks since I've been there, which is in large part due to the heat wave we've been in. I used to hate going because I'm an introvert, and it takes a lot of energy for me to endure large crowds. I try to never go on a weekend because the place can be a madhouse. In a couple of more weeks they'll be going back to being open five days a week instead of seven, so I'll go back to making my weekly jaunts on Thursdays.  Glenda loved Silver Dollar City, and on the morning she died almost two years ago, that is where we were going. If you came to visit us, she would take you there. It was her preferred place to meet with our kids, and grandkids. She loved to ride the rides, and she loved to see our children having fun. So, going to 'The City' as she used to call it, is something I do to honor her memory.  In the process of doing that, I've come to enjoy it myself. I usually get me a funnel cake, and then go to a couple of shows and ride 'Fire in the Hole' about once a month.  The ache in my heart caused by her absence isn't as pronounced as it used to be, but today is different. I woke up missing her.

Forty nine years ago today, Glenda and I said our vows to one another, ran off to a cheap hotel about forty miles away and prayed to God no one had followed us there.  I took her to a very nice restaurant in Stillwater, Oklahoma of which I don't remember the name or even what I ate.  BUT, I do remember her face, and her radiant smile that warmed my heart.  Today, I don't want to point out how much I miss her, or how she made me feel, I want to simply say that she was a special person, loved by almost everyone who met her. Her laugh was ready, and hung out easily just beneath the surface of her smile. She took joy in simple things, and saw life in a clarity that made everyone happy she was there. She was a much better writer than I ever was, and everything she wrote made you feel as if you were there in her story. However, if you told her she needed to publish her stories she would brush it away and quickly change the subject. After our move from Las Vegas to Little Rock, I noticed that her binder with her stories was gone.  

She believed in hard work, following the rules, and loving those who were not easy to love. If you were destitute, or down on your luck, she was your friend. If you needed food, clothing, or just a sympathetic ear, she made sure you had it. If you were a stray, ugly, or challenged in any way, she wanted to even the playing field.  She was brilliant, but hid it behind a mask of redneck simplicity. She never thought she was enough, even when confronted with the truth of her achievements. She loved good food, and made good food.  She was an awesome baker, and worked hard to cook me out of availability. She loved comedy, and at the same time loved action adventure shows.  She was first and foremost a country music girl, and had a deep passion for the bluegrass festival at Silver Dollar City. 

If someone could give me the chance to go back to that hot Friday afternoon on August the 13th, and offer me the choice of whether to marry her again, I would, and I hope she would have, too. It wasn't easy, and I know I disappointed her many times, but that is the nature of loving someone enough to let them see you at your worst, and your best.  As I sit here writing this, I find myself wondering if I'll still be here next year to celebrate our 50th anniversary. We aren't guaranteed tomorrow, but if I am alive next year on August the 13th, I'll go buy a small cake and have them decorate it with a celebration of 50 years together.  

That's it, now it's time to head out and enjoy "The City."    

SITTING ON THE LINE

 Over the past couple of days we have had some unusually cool mornings, which I am sure have been confusing for the little sparrows in my neighborhood. Just this morning I saw a fairly big flock of them hanging out on the power line across the street from me. I'm accustomed to seeing starlings hanging out on telephone lines, especially when I worked out at Bergman School. Tyson foods has a feed mill less than a thousand feet away from the school and as you can imagine when the feed trucks leave out from the mill they will have feed fall off of their trucks onto the shoulders of the road. I know for a fact we had some of the fattest and happiest starlings in the world along the way to Bergman from Harrison.  

So, this morning I asked the Google AI why birds hang out in flocks on power lines.  The answer was pretty much what I expected except for a couple of new things I hadn't thought of. I'd already figured that it was a safe place for them to survey the world from, and Google confirmed that. From the power line, they can see predators coming from above and below.  Hanging out on the wires also gives them the ability to scout out their prey/food without obstructions like leaves or tree branches. One thing I didn't know was that they congregate to preen one another. (Is there a spiritual analogy in that?)  They also congregate to keep each other warm. Another thing that I had never thought about before was that the power lines retain residual heat from the electricity going through them. Immediately my mind went to the presence of God. We gather to feel the warmth of the presence of God. He is electric, warm, tender, and kind!  His presence allows us to see life from Heaven's view instead of from this natural view. When we gather together we experience a collective security, warmed by the invisible presence of God that we all cling to. 

The view from Heaven is a spiritual view of life where we are safe from the spiritual predators that would try to make us live in fear.  The scripture verse in Psalm 27:1 immediately comes to mind; "The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?" 

If we are seated with Christ in Heavenly places (Ephesians 2:6) we have nothing to fear in this life. Sitting on the line is my metaphor for sitting with Christ in Heavenly places. If we are seated with him, He puts us far above everything that would seek to destroy us. We don't have to fear Death, because death won't, and can't hold us. 

When we are sitting on the line, our paths and purposes are laid out far below us for us to walk in. He allows us to see His purposes so that we can have confidence in what we do. BUT, it's more than just being high and lifted up with Him, it is being united with one another that gives us even more strength.  If we don't forsake coming together, (Hebrews 10:25) we can preen one another, removing old dead practices (feathers, and parasites) that keep us from doing His well .  All of this happens while we are being warmed, and blessed by the Presence of God. 

Nuff said. 

FINDING GOOD

Well, summer has officially began here in the Ozarks.  It's been 10 days since we had measurable rain, and it was 76 degrees when I stepped outside this morning.  One part of me wants to get out and get going, but there just isn't any way to escape the heat. It's a Saturday, so I'm not going to walk around the creek like I usually do, and many of the things I like to do in the yard send me into an immediate sweat.  It's even been too hot to sit out on my back porch and take in the pleasant morning air as I usually do after my walks.  So, here I sit at the dining room table tapping away on my laptop.  All around me are reminders of Glenda's presence, and even some reminders of my parents. If you came to my house to visit me, I could show you the mileposts of my life, but it wouldn't just be my life, it would be the life that Glenda and I shared. Our past surrounds me, and sometimes seems to press in on me like the hot humid air outside. Just outside the dining room window is a small birdbath that Glenda bought to be able to watch the birds from her beloved porch.  When it isn't as muggy as it is today, you would find me out there reading or playing solitaire. It is a good place to be to find my center before the day gets underway.  It's too dang hot to be out there today. So, as I sit here at the table, I can hear a couple of sparrows mixing it up around the bath and it makes me laugh. It made me thankful that humans aren't the only ones in God's creation who mix it up over stupid stuff. I can't help but wonder if sparrows ever think about the past?  What happens to that fat old male sparrow if his mate is taken from him way too early?  Does he revisit their time together?  Does he move on and hope for another mate?  Does he sit in the old nest, surrounded by the artifacts of their life together?  

When we moved from our home on Lone Oak Dairy road, we made ourselves throw  out as much of our past as we could. Over our years of being married, my mother had given Glenda many home decorating items, which helped to fill lifeless spaces and give the house an eclectic look. To say the least, Glenda and Mom had very different tastes, except for floral displays.  Every floral decoration in our house was done by my Mom, and they still adorn tables and vases around...my... house. When my Mom died there were many floral decorations that disappeared that Glenda had wanted more than anything. Now that Glenda is gone, I don't even think about it anymore. What would I do with them?  They would just be one more thing my children would have to decide what to do with. At the time though, Glenda was furious, and threw all kinds of accusations around.  The truth is, we don't know where they went, but the consensus was that my Dad accidentally threw them away.  Every daughter-in-law grieved the loss, as they were truly spectacular. They didn't mean anything to my dad. I have vivid memories of my mother sitting in the middle of the living room floor with boxes of artificial flowers all around her as she fussed over the color and placement of each flower. Those memories are written in stone in my brain. I can also remember the irritation in my father's voice as he tried to negotiate the minefield of flowers to get into the kitchen. So, I kinda lean toward the idea that he threw them away after she died. It doesn't matter to me because she'd filled our house with plenty of arrangements.  It's funny how without Glenda to keep the issue alive, I really don't care. Sometimes the things from our past that we hold on to can become a poison to us. I know for Glenda, she groused about it even as she faced death. 

A couple of years before Glenda was diagnosed with cancer, she and my daughter decided to make our hallway into a wonderful display of our family.  It was my daughter's birthday gift to her mother, and it was one of the greatest gifts she could give.  It is a wonderful way to recount our story to visitors and for family to stop and remember what family is.  Still, it is in the past. It's like a soft blanket that you carry with you because someone gave it to you, but you can trip over it if you're not careful. The moments in those pictures mean nothing to anyone else but our family.  The memories are in me, not on the walls. There isn't a picture that can relate the love bursting in my heart when Glenda said 'I do.'  There isn't a picture that can make anyone feel the immense awe, and fear I felt when I picked up my infant children for the first time.  Each child came with a promise, and a responsibility that only the future knew. Because I was the photographer for our little family, I don't have as many pictures of me as I do of Glenda (it's a physics thing). There are no photos of me carrying two sleepy little girls through the flea market in Mountain Home, Idaho while their mother went from table to table.  There aren't any pictures of those same little girls making snow angels with me during a blizzard in Idaho. There aren't any pictures of me holding them in my arms in church and dancing with them during the song service.  There isn't any proof I loved them and worried continually about their safety. There aren't any pictures that show my pride as we went to innumerable elementary school programs where they played instruments, or sang in choirs. Those are things that are written in my heart along with a million other moments that you can't put into words. Some of those memories will die with me, and never be recounted again because they were my memories.  They are meaningless to anyone else.  There are a few, that I've never shared with my own children because they were so special that there was no way to make those memories about them, even though they are the only reason I remember them to this day. 

So, how did this little story start?  Instead of going outside this morning, I went into my office where my 'love me wall' is, and found myself staring at the accomplishments of my time in the Air Force. I am proud of my service, and thankful for the opportunity to have worked on three distinct weapons systems. When I went into the Air Force in 1980, the world was in total chaos.  We were at the height of the Cold War, and involved in minor incidents in the middle east. The end of my service was marked by Desert Storm and eventually operation Deny Flight. Those days are gone! They're in the past and time has gone on without any memory of my contribution.  This is the way of things, and isn't something to be concerned with. As I sat in my recliner trying to put together the events that were marked on my wall, I realized that none of it meant anything. I doubt seriously any of my children will want my 'shadow box' nor the flag that flew in one of the hangars at Tonopah. My achievements, held within cheap plastic frames, means nothing to anyone else but me, and even now they hold very little importance.  I find myself trying to find the good in holding on to those memories. The thought occurred to me to just take them down, place them in document protectors and place them in a binder. Yep, that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to put my past into a binder and close it up.  I'll put those memories in a plastic tote and let my children decide how they want to handle those memories.  At the same time, I'll cherish Glenda's 'love me wall' filled with the faces of friends and family, and happy times. You see, I think I've finally learned that finding the good in our past means cherishing those who will live on in the future.  

Besides, I'm not a sparrow.  

WHEN GOOD IS NOT GOOD

 When I began writing the 'Sparrow's Perch' blogs in 2012, I began it as a discussion of living in God's presence.  I'd just finished reading Psalm 84, and was overwhelmed by the heart of the Psalmist as he yearned to be as close to the presence of God as the sparrows who nested in the Holy Place of the temple. Since beginning this blog, I've seen sparrows as examples of God's tenderness, and His love of His creation. 

Since beginning of this blog, I've learned a lot about the common house sparrow. They are some of the most prolific birds throughout the earth, choosing to dwell mostly in the presence of men.  They make their nests in almost any structure we humans build, and they actually help to keep down annoying insects, as well as help clean up around our trash bins, parking lots, and restaurants. They are monogamous as far as we can tell, and they rarely live longer than 3 - 5 years.  

Yet...

Jesus chose these inconsequential animals to exhibit God's concern, and care for us human beings. In Matthew 10: 29-31 Jesus points toward the Sparrow as an example of God's care for even the tiniest, and common of animals.  "Are not two sparrows sold for a Penney?" This selling is in reference to the price of a poor person's sacrifice at the altar of God. "Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father's care. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. SO, don't be afraid, you are worth more than any sparrows."  

Our lives in this present age are much better than we can ever imagine. Most of us who live in this great country live in the comfort of air conditioned homes, own one or more cars, and have more food than we can eat. Life is good!  The average lifespan for men is 75 years, and for women it is almost 80 years. About 2% of the population in Europe and the United States provide the food for our entire populations, and even provide foodstuffs for many other nations throughout the world. The current work week is on average less than 40 hours per week.  In many developed countries the work week is 32 hours.  In other words, we have it good.  We have it so good, that obesity, heart disease, and diabetes are among the biggest killers in our modern society.  Sometimes having it good, isn't good. Depression, loneliness, and anxiety have increased exponentially within the last 60 to 70 years as our standard of living has become better. Sometimes being blessed, is not as good as it appears from the outside.  We become convinced of our ability to provide for ourselves without the provision that God has promised. 

There is a benefit to being dependent upon God for our needs, and that is captured in the words of Jesus when he tells us to "take heart" (Don't be afraid.) I've come to believe that trusting God is essential to a happy life.  So, if you find yourself being overcome with fear, or feeling that God has somehow forgot you, take a moment, and think of just being a sparrow and nesting in the Holy Place, the presence of God.  Look around you, and see that God is good, and that He will take you through whatever you are facing and be there with you through it all, and even on the other side.  

Psalm 84:

How lovely is your dwelling place, Oh Lord of Hosts! My soul longs, yes, faints for the courts of the Lord; my heart and flesh sing for joy to the living God.

Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow a nest for herself where she may lay her young at Your altars, O Lord of Hosts, my King, my God.

Blessed are those who dwell in Your house, ever singing your praise!  Selah!

Blessed are those whose strength  is in you, in whose heart are the highways to Zion. As they go through the Valley of Baca they make it a place of springs; the early rain also covers it with pools. They go from strength to strength; each one appears before God in Zion. O Lord God of Hosts, hear my prayer; give ear O God of Jacob!  Selah!

Behold our shield, O God; look on the face of your anointed! For a day in Your courts is better than a thousand elsewhere.  I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of wickedness.  For the Lord God is sun and shield; the Lord bestows favor and honor.  No good thing does He withhold from those who walk uprightly.  O Lord of Hosts, blessed is the one who trusts in you!

*The Holy Bible English Standard Version (ESV) copyright 2001, by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers.

THE NEST

 About two years before my wife Glenda passed away, she came into my office and asked to borrow my cordless drill. I did a quick double take because she had never asked to use it before.  Being a handyman by trade, I'd grown accustomed to her telling me she needed me to do something for her. My job around the house was relegated to killing bugs, fixing cars, replacing ceiling fans, and other 'handyman' stuff. Occasionally she'd ask me for my hammer or a screwdriver, but never one of my power tools. Hmmmmm! She had me wondering what she was up to, so I asked her.  She smiled, and said not to worry, she didn't require my help. Now, she had me really interested.

I said, "Okay." It was a strange request, but after being married to her for nearly 44 years, I knew better than to press. She was perfectly capable at hanging pictures, nailing boards together, and even turning an occasional wrench, or vice grips. Years back I'd made her a little plastic box filled with a few odd screws, nails, and even fencing staples, and I would keep it restocked any time I went to use it. I also bought her a cheap tool box with a hammer, screwdrivers, and a few little things I knew she'd never use. Asking to use my drill was a step beyond the usual, but I went out to my truck and brought it to her.  

"Are you sure you don't need my help?" I asked.  "Yep, I'm sure." she said as she glided out the door. 

 A little bit later I could hear my cordless drill motor just outside the window where I was sitting watching TV.  She was humming, (as she often did when she was working around the house), and about twenty minutes later she came back inside with her box of screws.  She put the drill on the table next to my recliner with a smug smile and went into the kitchen.  I calmly got up and went outside to see what she'd done and found that she'd put up some kind of funky wire type plant holders, with a funky grass like mat in them.  She'd put one on each leg of our trellis. Better yet, they were hung better than what I'd have done.

Hmmmmmmmm!

For the next two years she would change the matting until she got stung by a red wasp that had made a nest in the bowl of matting.  She went out with wasp spray and killed them...dead, I mean the mat was dripping with wasp killer.  It was like the great flood with drowned wasps falling to the ground. Hell hath no fury like a woman stung!

The next summer she didn't get a chance to change the matting because she was fighting for her life against brain cancer. Sadly, she didn't live more than eight months and during that time I didn't bother to check the condition of her planters, and she didn't ask me to.  She died in September of 2023, and I moped around through the winter doing small things around the house that I couldn't do while she was fighting cancer. She'd had a 'honey do' list before she was diagnosed with cancer, and to say the least none of it got done.  A couple of months after she died, I found it in a drawer in my office, and I stuck it to my work order board. I felt like I needed to do the things she wanted done even though she was gone. Our little 80 year old house was our nest, and I still felt the need to finish the things she'd wanted done. BUT, the wire plant baskets were not on her list.  I blindly walked past them day in and day out without giving them a thought until the other day when I was walking with my grandson around the yard. He stopped suddenly and pointed toward the basket and asked; "What's that Grandpa?" I looked closely and could see where the small hole that had once only been big enough to let wasps go in and out was now big enough for a wren or a sparrow to nest in. I got on my tip toes and could see the remains of eggs at the bottom of the nest. In my mind's eye, I could imagine two sparrows feverishly working to build a soft mattress at the bottom of the nest, while awaiting the eggs that would soon appear.  Nature goes on even through tragedy and death.

Now, I don't think Glenda had ever foreseen that her little decorative plant holders would be used for a bird nest, but I knew her well enough to know that she would have enjoyed it, and forbid me to do anything to ruin it. My love of sparrows will keep it 'as is' as long as it endures the weather. It will be a home for a new sparrow family next year.

Seeing that empty nest started me thinking about 'home' a lot. Glenda, and I put a lot of work into our remodel of this old house, and with the exception of about five projects, it was what we'd planned for it to be before she died. It was 'our' home. It has a garage that she laid claim to, and she'd been with me through the nearly 18 months of remodeling we did before work, after work, and over weekends. It was her home, her little nest, and has her stamp on it.  For me, it was a place I could finally call...Home! It was a place to hang my hat, and to know that my 'heart', Glenda was there. 

I would wager that almost everyone has heard the saying "anywhere I hang my hat is home," or "Home is where the heart is."  In my childhood, I always associated these sayings with wanderers, or vagabonds. As a child, I always thought of home as where my mom was. She was as solid as a rock, tender, kind, loving, and wise. She was a place I could run to when I faced things I didn't understand. My dad, was a truck driver during my formative years and didn't have much influence over my early development. On the other hand, my mom was the center of my universe until I graduated from school. She was the one who told my Dad that they were going to buy a house instead of living in the 12 x 60 foot trailer we lived in. So, buy a house we did!  She was the one who went to work out at White Sands Missile Range so that she could furnish her new home. Dad was forced to leave his truck driving job and become a mobile home repairman in town so that he could help provide the stuff for the nest and help her raise us boys. It was 'my' home for nearly ten years, and the memories of that small tract house in the suburbs are still with me to this day.  It's funny how "home" stays with you forever.

I have fond memories of that old house on Wilshire Street in El Paso. Later when us boys grew up and moved away, we always referred to it as the 'Wilshire house'. I saw a picture of it on Google Earth a while back, and it looks nothing like what I remember. During the 60's, and 70's it was a magical place with a lush green carpet of grass in the front yard, bicycles abandoned all through the yard, and the laughter of children everywhere. We lived in a great neighborhood, with fantastic kids for friends. Over the years the house was given a few remodels inside, and the walls covered in paneling which was the rage back then. My brothers and I were required to dust the living room every day because...we lived in the desert southwest. My mom taught us how to do the dishes, how to do laundry, how to vacuum, make beds, and as we grew older, how to cook. She made sure we could take care of ourselves, but she also liked being the kind of Mom who provided everything we needed. Mom had her little nest, and she was happy with it, until...we all began to grow up and leave home.  I was gone about ten years after they'd bought the house, and my younger brother left 3 years later.  The youngest brother had the house to himself for about 6 years before he left. As time went by, I noticed that my mom wasn't as happy as she used to be.  She'd stopped playing the beautiful organ my Dad had bought for her, and she didn't sing around the house like she used to.  The only time she was happy was when we brought the grandchildren home to visit. I'd seen the old adage come to life that a house isn't a home without people in it.  She, and Dad spent more time on the road going to see all of us kids than they'd ever traveled before. Mom definitely suffered from empty nest syndrome, while Dad was just happy for any excuse to get out on the motorcycle.  

I saw the same thing happen with Glenda and I. After our youngest left home, Glenda went into a blue funk that I couldn't fix. Then the grandchildren started coming, and she was filled with joy.  Only the grandchildren could make her smile.  Don't get me wrong, I love our grandchildren, but they were hers. She made their visits fun, and allowed them to do things their parents wouldn't let them do. Our home was filled with laughter and love once again.  Now that she's gone, I find myself sitting alone at home trying to figure out what I want to do. The grandchildren are almost all grown now, and my children have their own lives to live. I've tried not to put any demands on them for visits, or guilt them into visiting. Still, I miss the busyness, the noise, and mostly the wonder of children. It's especially bad when the weather gets extreme like this summer has been, and eventually like the winter will be, I sit inside wondering what I can do with my time.  Now, before someone jumps up and says go back to work, let me tell you that having had to 'work' since I was eight years old, the idea of going back to work isn't what I want to do. I believe every man, and woman deserve a time of rest in their life, if finances allow it. I'd hoped to go through this time with Glenda, but I guess it wasn't meant to be. I'm not depressed, and I'm not destitute.  Glenda, and my parents all died within two years of each other, which left me a good inheritance, and a small compensation. I can't afford to go crazy and spend that money on silly stupid stuff, but I have enough to last a few years thanks to my parents.  

What amazes me, is that the little 'empty' nest I made for Glenda, is not really a home without her here. I watch 'youtube' videos, play video games, and do all the necessary daily things that everyone does. When I think about home, there isn't a time that I don't think of my Mom and all that she taught me to do.  It's because of her that I can cook, I keep the 'house' clean, and do my laundry. Good job, Mom! Because of my Dad, I have to be busy, so I try to do one spruce up project a month. Sometimes when I'm busy cleaning the house, I'll find myself thinking about my mom and hearing her sweet alto voice singing hymns. It was part of my childhood and is written in deep memories that I hope never fade. Other times, I swear I can hear Glenda humming in the kitchen, or laughing in the living room.  She was the life that made our house a home for 47 years.  I'm just marking time till I join her, but still thankful for the home she left me. Don't feel bad for me, I'll get going again this fall once the weather cools down a little, and I'll do a few things in the yard that need doing. One thing I won't do is change out the planter material.  Sparrows need a home just like we do.

 

WHAT IF...YOU'RE WRONG

This will be one of a handful of Sparrow's Perch blogs that isn't born out of an experience with my little feathered friends, or my observation of them. For my brothers in Christ, this will be a head slapper, maybe even a head scratcher.  It came about as I was talking to a stranger I met while walking the other day. I was sitting down on one of the benches along the creek enjoying the nice cool morning air when a man sat down next to me and asked how I was doing.  I'd seen this individual many times before walking early in the morning and he was always cordial when I offered up salutations.  (Some people appear uncomfortable when you greet them with 'good morning,' or 'how are you doing.')  I understand being reticent about replying to a stranger asking how you are doing.  What business of it is theirs to query my well being?  I on the other hand enjoy it when someone greets me regardless of how the greeting is being offered.  My time in the Air Force made me very comfortable with saluting officers, and offering the universal 'good morning, Sir...or Ma'am as the case may be. Holding doors for strangers, addressing elders with proper respect, and assisting people if they are overwhelmed with kids or packaged items.  I call it the Edwardian ethic.  (Sorry, back to my story.)   

He remarked about seeing me often, and I replied the same.  He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties to me, which is a great time in life. I simply asked "How are you doing?" out of courtesy.  To say the least I wasn't ready for what happened next. "I'm doing good, but I could be better."  he replied.  Now I've heard that response and have used it myself so without thinking I asked him how it could be better.  He was having 'kid' problems, and was frustrated by not having an answer.  He was a Christian man like me, and like most Christian men, he wanted his children to be as faith filled as him. His oldest daughter was going to school at a big university out of state, and had come home spewing disdain for the way her father had raised her as a Christian. It was heartbreaking to him as she began to tear into the fabric of his faith, and blame him for holding her back from her full potential.  She'd come for 'Father's day' out of obligation, and he wished she'd just stayed at school.  He tried desperately to counter her arguments, but for every reply he made she had a 'learned' response.  Finally, she ended her visit with the zinger question I've been asked a hundred times by atheists and agnostics alike over my lifetime.  "What if you're wrong?"  " What if there isn't a God, and we just die?"

Actually I wish I'd have been there because that is the easiest question for me to answer.  As someone who'd grown up in the early stages of the space race, and seen aircraft go from dope and fabric to steel and aluminum, I was in awe of science.  I had a 7th grade science teacher who was openly atheist and loved challenging all the Christians in his class to prove God.  At that time in my young life, I didn't have a clue, but I knew one thing he didn't.  During the summer between 6th and 7th grade I went to church camp and got filled with Holy Spirit.  Suddenly, the doubts were gone.  There is a God, and no amount of argument could change what I'd experienced.  I never challenged him and never had to. (In his desire to prove mind over matter, he put his hand in a terrarium with a tarantula in it. He was allergic to its bite and had to be taken to the hospital that night.) When he came back a month later still swollen, he was a lot more humble.  HOWEVER, that doesn't mean I didn't think of a snappy come back to him, I just didn't unleash on him. That reply has been used countless times throughout my life as I've encountered smarter men than me asking me the same question.  "What if you're wrong?  What if there isn't a God?"  What if there's nothing when you die? 

"I won't know, I won't care, I'll be dead."  When I first started using this reply, it usually took people a few days to digest what I said.  For those who were quicker on the uptake, (maybe a handful,) the next question is usually.  "Well doesn't that make most of your life meaningless? You've spent all this time trying to please a God who doesn't exist.  Look at all you've missed."  

"What have I missed?"  I'll ask.  "What debauchery have I avoided, what hedonistic practice have I been denied because of my faith?"  I've never understood an atheists need to destroy another person's faith, let alone point out how much of life Christians miss out on because of their faith. What have I missed?  I truly believe that if more of us Christians would be content in our lives, the issue of missing anything would be moot.  Because I know Christians are going to be the only ones reading this blog, the question of 'what if' is nothing for us.  We resolved it the day we gave ourselves to the Lord Jesus Christ.  If you can be talked out of your faith in Christ, then your hope is gone.  

 Because we are Christians, we've found a life of love and goodness that makes our lives meaningful, and also helps us to be grateful to the one who gives us all we need. Yes, I feel great sorrow for those who've once known the goodness of God, to allow the enemy to steal their faith.  So, here's my answer back to the daughter who felt the need to crush her daddy's heart on Father's Day; "What if you're wrong?" 

CHOICES

I ran over a sparrow this morning.  

In my seventy years upon this earth I think I've killed less than a handful of sparrows, and almost all of them here in the Ozarks. I was driving from my house to the community center to do my morning walk. The sun wasn't out yet, and the air was heavy with a very light fog. Now, before I go any further, let me tell you that I'm always amazed at the agility of squirrels, and sparrows as they share their world with us humans. I don't know what makes birds stay in the street until you're right up on them, but usually they escape the front end of my car.  Not today.  I fully expected the little sparrow to flutter away as I got near, but was greeted with the tiny tell-tale bump beneath my floorboard that told me he'd got trapped under my car.  As I looked in my rear-view mirror I could see the hapless sparrow fluttering in a circle for a second or two then nothing. I hate it when that happens.  For whatever reason he made a bad choice.  

Like that little sparrow, some choices are life and death.  Most of us can see life and death choices before we make them. Experience, and close calls teach us that certain things are to be avoided in order to escape a life-or death scenario. One thing I've seen in my lifetime is that some people are thrill seekers and actually enjoy walking up to certain death and poking their finger in death's eye. When I was a teenager, I often did 'stupid' things that I would never do now.  Most of those things were done on a motorcycle, or vehicle of some kind of another.  I walked around with a false sense of invulnerability, fed by a great deal of divine protection.  I don't know if that poor sparrow I hit this morning was a daredevil sparrow or not, but, well, he didn't live long enough to regret his decision.  

Some people won't make decisions at all, they walk around in a perpetual state of fear that they will make a bad decision.  Everything they do is anguished over, and measured against the opinions of at least a hundred people, and then mulled over some more.  Even when they do make a choice, they live in fear and trepidation that their choice wasn't the right choice. Before they know it, the decision they couldn't make is made for them by the circumstances of life.  In other words, life happens to them, and of course they can blame it all on everyone else, or God. I guess in their minds it's better to blame others and God instead of making a choice and living with the consequences of that choice.  One thing I've noticed about these people is that they usually have a defeatist attitude about life.  "Well I guess God didn't want me to have that...'whatever."  or "I wish I knew what God wanted."  or  "I just didn't have enough information to decide." or "I would have done something else, but brother or sister 'So in So' advised me not to do anything."  These people are usually obsessed with the 'will of God' or being in His purposes. If they aren't doing something spiritually 'big' then they must have missed God somewhere.  It's as if God isn't able to overcome their abilities. Buyers remorse is their constant bedfellow, and if you allow them, they will fill your day up with sad tales of a life that could have been.  

Our choices don't limit God. I'm sure that His plans have your mistakes, and even your successes are accounted for. I don't want to make it sound like I have it together in this area of life. I used to be one of the worst about putting out fleeces before God. I have a very logical, scientific mind that measures, and evaluates everything. I'm one of those people who have to know how or why something happens. When my wife Glenda was diagnosed with Glioblastoma, (primary brain cancer) I spent the first two months looking for what causes it. You can imagine my consternation when I couldn't find a cause for it. Something clicked, and the cancer went crazy. They still don't know what triggers it. This process consumed my every waking thought. I needed to know how she got this thing that was killing her. When she got done with the initial treatments, I spent the remaining six months of her life just trying to keep her alive a little bit longer. Again, I researched everything, read everything, watched everything I could just to find something to help her live longer, instead of just being with her. To put it bluntly, other than loving her with all of my heart, I didn't make the end of her days good. I was convinced that the latest novel treatment she was on would extend her life. It didn't. Instead, she spent the last four months of her life uncomfortable, irritable, and growing increasingly weaker by the moment.  Actually, I thank God for my Sister-in-law who told me a truth I needed to hear. She told me that I was so obsessed with trying to keep her alive, that I wasn't helping her live. Boy, was she right!  In the end it wasn't the brain tumor that killed her, but a massive heart attack.  At first, I spent about six months punishing myself for the decision to put her on the experimental treatment. Then, one day as I was beating myself up for the choices I'd made, I found out that someone who'd been in our life earlier was diagnosed with the same cancer.  As I was talking to one of her relatives, they asked me about the treatment Glenda had undergone. I told them that would have to be her choice, but no matter what, go, and do whatever she wanted to do. Do a bucket list and get as much of it done as her finances, and health would allow.  That isn't a choice to die, it is a choice to live, to really live.  Most of our choices aren't always life, and death like the little sparrow. Who we marry, where we live, our jobs, our cars, our homes, whether to have kids, whether to turn left, or turn right are choices we, and millions of others make everyday. A decision to turn left or turn right nearly got me killed in 2009. At the moment it didn't seem like a big decision, but two miles later a car pulled out in front of my motorcycle and hit me.  It was just a decision to go left or right. That decision changed the trajectory, and course of my life more than any 'big' decision I ever made or will probably ever make again. Let me share another personal example from my teenage years. It was at a time when my Dad was being the biggest jerk he could be to my Mom. During her darkest hours, she would often wonder out loud to me whether she should have married him in the first place.  She told me that when she was a teenager, a very religious boy at her church was interested in her while she was dating my Dad. Now, many years later here she was doubting her decision to marry my dad, and even regretting it. The remorse, and regret in her admission threw me for a curve. Of course, there I was, the product of her and dad looking her in the eye. Without my Dad, I wouldn't be here writing this right now. That's when I realized that our twenty-twenty view of our decisions is what can make us miserable or happy.  In the process we forget that God knows our beginning from the end, and knows the decisions we've made and the ones we're going to make. Sometimes, like the little sparrow I hit this morning, we don't have a great deal of time to make an informed choice.  If we do have time, then seek God first. Ask God to speak to your heart, and trust that you are hearing His voice. Do what Holy Spirit places on your heart to do, and then rest in that decision.  For everything else, just live, be thankful you are alive to make choices, and that our God is able to make our choices, whether good or bad, into a beautiful tapestry.

Finally, if you want to reduce your anxiety about your choices, just remember that our choices on this earth rarely affect more than fifty to a hundred people at the moment. It is the height of arrogance, and even to some degree narcissism, to elevate our choice as to what restaurant to go to, to the same level as to who we should marry, or what house to buy.  Even those decisions don't have a major impact on the course of life outside of your sphere of influence.  In the end, you'll be put back in the dirt, and all those choices will be meaningless.  At least that is what King Solomon said in Ecclesiastes.  Sometimes, I think we think more highly of ourselves than we ought to. Our choices are just that, OUR choices.     

  

WARMTH

It's been a wonderful few days here in Harrison, Arkansas, but this morning was just about as perfect as it gets for walking a couple of miles around the creek.  The morning air was moist and just a little cold around the edge of the creek, and the sun hadn't come out fully yet.  

There are a couple of old picnic tables along the walkway close to our new community center.  One of the tables sits in a grassy bend in the creek where the trees have been cut down.  It's one of the first places to get sunshine in the morning, and as I walked I could see a couple of sparrows cuddling together on the table top basking in the morning sun. I approached slowly and tried to get my phone out so I could take a picture. As you can guess, no sooner had I brought the phone up to my face than both of them took flight.  Kind of broke my heart because it would have been an awesome picture. 

It was obvious that the two sparrows were cuddling in order to get warm.  Just thinking about the two sparrows made me feel warm.  Later after I got back to the house, I began to think about how the need to be warm has shaped human behavior from the dawn of time. I couldn't help but wonder how much of our history is born out of the need to be warm. However, I also don't think warmth comes from being close to someone physically. Look at what happens to most people when they see a new parent holding a newborn baby. "Doesn't that just warm your heart?" someone will say.  They'll refer to the parent as being tender, and warm.  It's funny how acts of tenderness, and kindness 'warm our hearts'. If we see pictures of puppies, kittens, anything new, or young we feel 'warm' inside. If you post a video of a puppy or kitten doing something cute, that video will go viral before you know it.  Humans love this kind of stuff. I don't know if it heralds back to our ancient past when we had to huddle around each other to keep warm, or if it is a simple extension of our appreciation of innocence.  I know for myself, there are things that move me to tears of happiness more easily than other things.  The older I've become, the more sappy I've become.  Certain songs can utterly transport me to a happy and warm place in just a couple of measures.  I love to watch people dance the tango, or large groups of people dance the Syrtaki (Think Zorba the Greek). I love to watch team sports where the team is functioning as one. All of these things elicit joy, and wonder, and warmth.  

Like the two sparrows, I also think we need one another to keep warm. The whole courting process for us as human beings is a dance of love like the tango. No matter how much we try to dismiss our need for human touch (warmth) it is what bonds us together.  Love is often portrayed as a warm feeling...well...because it is.  They've proven that when a child is deprived of physical contact, they will not survive.  I know for myself as a widower, the one thing I long for more than anything else is the tender touch of my departed wife. I'm not talking about just sexual stuff, I'm talking about the joy of putting my arm around her when we'd go out to see a movie or when we'd be at home on the sofa. I miss her reaching out for my hand when she could sense I was stressed out and needed the warmth of her delicate fingers. Ask any person who has lost a loved one what they miss the most, and I promise you that it will be the simple ability to touch them or be touched by them. The warmth of physical touch somehow speaks of the depth of love in our hearts. Infidelity is heartbreaking simply because one spouse has found warmth and tenderness in another person's embrace. 

Lately, as I go to different places to eat, or visit, I often notice older couples who are still intimate, and have a natural ease with one another. This makes me feel warm inside because I am happy to see a couple who hasn't let the struggles of this life drive a wedge between them.  I have no idea what they've gone through, or if each day was filled with love and tenderness. I know I've been surprised to learn of couples I deeply admire that nearly split the sheet, but somehow managed to stay together through their struggle.  I would like to think that somehow Glenda and I would have been one of those sappy old couples gazing into each others eyes across a table in a crowded restaurant.  I'd like to hope we'd have enjoyed the warmth of one another if she'd have lived longer.  

Finally, I'd like to point to our God. In Genesis we're told that God walked with Adam in the cool of the day. God needs the warmth of love just as much as we do.  Companionship is formed into our DNA, which is His DNA.  Relationship is His invention, and it is His heart in us that makes us desire the warmth of relationship. Without relationships, we would die of loneliness.  

Enjoy the warmth of your spouse, your children, and your God. Find your place of tenderness, and kindness with others and let it be a source of strength in your life. 

SLACK

Spring has finally sprung here in beautiful Harrison, Arkansas.  I'm finally able to do my daily walk around our beautiful creek that runs through downtown.  I've been anxiously waiting for my sparrows to return to my house, but they are in full force at the creek.  I usually make my way to the walking path around six in the morning just before the sun comes out, and I get greeted with the songs of birds as they celebrate a new day.  A couple of days ago as I was walking along a portion of the path that just had some new landscaping done I watched a robin pulling at an earthworm that must have made the mistake of being to close to the surface.  To make matters worse, a couple of sparrows caught sight of the struggle and decided to help the robin out.  Well actually I think they were trying to steal the worm from the robin.  The robin was dancing around trying to fend off the sparrows while at the same time trying to hold onto the hapless worm. It was one of the few times I was feeling sorry for the robin.  "Cut the little robin some slack!"  I thought to myself. A few seconds later the robin took to the wing wrestling about half of the worm from the sparrows as he flew away.  I guess half of a worm is better than no worm at all.  

Later on that day, I was watching the highlights of a WNBA game, and how the refs weren't calling fouls for a certain player.  The commentary went something like; 'the refs will blow the whistle against her if she even gets close to another player, but they'll let other players assault her all day long.  When are they gonna cut her some slack?'  Suddenly my mind went back to the robin and the two sparrows.  What does cutting someone some slack even mean?   

So, I looked it up.  I figured it had to be a nautical term, which it is.  It comes from when a ship is being moored to a dock. A man on the ship will usually throw a thin line tied to the mooring lines to a dock worker, who will grab the line and begin pulling the line toward himself.  Once the mooring line begins to be pulled from the ship it becomes a difficult task because the mooring lines are usually very heavy, and hard to pull.  The dock worker would yell out 'cut me some slack' which meant to play out a little bit of line as the worker pulled it toward the dock.  It simply means to make the line slack, or loose so that it is easier to pull.  Eventually, someone used the term as a call to leniency, or 'grace'.  AND, so we use it today.  

Everyone of us want to be cut some slack at some point in our lives.  We hope that we will be given grace whenever we make mistakes, or fall short of expectations. To a degree most people will be lenient, or gracious when dealing with someone who has failed. Mostly because we would want to be given grace ourselves.  It sounds kind of selfish, but it's not. It is what God expects of us.  Everything from the ten commandments, down to the sacrifice of His son is Him given us some slack. He gave us instructions how to deal with those that injure us, or those who take from us, or those who lie to us.  While God's law gets a bad rap from modern Christians, actually, it is meant to help us cool our jets before we do or say rash things that can't be undone, or unsaid.  Then when Jesus came, he tried to point out to the religious leaders of the day how hard they'd become in not giving people grace (slack) while living loose and free with the law themselves.  (It's an age old problem that has been around from the creation of man.) Enter Christianity, and the law is replaced with...law...again. Suddenly you aren't a Christian if you are doing...whatever you are doing. I remember when I was a young man attending a denomination that made it a sin to go to movies, attend football games, dance, or wear jewelry. Believe me, it was a tough pull.  It still amazes me when I point out how draconian this kind of belief system is, how people will point out that it had its good points.  No, it didn't!! Somehow we have this idea that God has no slack or leniency when dealing with us.  I'm like, excuse me!! Did I miss something in the story of Jesus?  Somebody please show me in the word of God where there is a time limit on God's grace?  How often are we allowed to fail living up to His standards before He throws us away?  This kind of rigid mindset is just as bad as the mindset that says you can do anything you want to do and still be a Christian.  A matter of fact, I tremble when I think I might be cut out of God's presence as I write this.  Because in my minds eye, I'm seeing people who I've known over the years who cut off a struggling believer because of a sin they were caught in.  It makes me angry at those arrogant, self-righteous, pontificating, prideful....oops!   

Some people never grow out of their weakness despite loving God, and believing in Christ. Think about the worst sin you can imagine, but have never done.  I guarantee you that not soon after you begin to think on it, Holy Spirit will begin to convict you of a 'lesser' sin that you still do to this day.  

Do I believe in personal Holiness?  Yes, I do.  BUT, I'm glad that God is patient with me as I walk through those things He wants to remove.  Some sins are visible and affect others. Some sins are invisible and affect God.  You may not like what I have to say, but when we announce to people what we avoid, what we are not like, we become like the Pharisee that Jesus pointed out who thanked God that he was not like that 'other' man.  

Like I said earlier, I don't know how long we have to give grace to, or cut some slack to another believer, but I'd sure hate to be the one who cut someone off before God was done. Because over my adult life, I've seen drug addicts come to church stoned time after time, and then one day they are miraculously delivered.  I've seen alcoholics stumble into church crying their eyes out for forgiveness, only to find deliverance.  I've seen sex addicts seek God Sunday after Sunday to finally break free after years of promiscuity.  Yet, as bad as all these are, I've never seen someone come up and ask God to release them from gossiping, or lying, or even stealing. 

The things that I've wrestled with over the years are the invisible sins.  In my self-righteous spirit, I've put down so many others who are fighting visible sins and wondered why they weren't delivered.  I want deliverance for myself every time Holy Spirit points out something I need to clean up. I would hope to be given slack if I confess my sins to my brothers. I would want them to pray for me and hold me up in love.  

So when do we give up on the weaker brother?  How much slack do we give someone?  How many times do we give our brother slack?  

When the ship is safely tied off at the pier, and Holy Spirit says all is tight.     

ARE YOU WILLING

 Today I went walking along the creek near where I live. I love walking there because our city has built a wonderful running/walking path along the creek, and if you follow the sidewalks you can count on walking or running two miles.  They also built a fantastic community center with a running/walking track that I use for bad weather days.  Kudos to our city for these fine facilities. I personally prefer to walk the creek whenever I can because it is never boring.  I try to vary my walks at different times of day so I can meet new people, and see new things.  This morning the robins were out in force.  I didn't see one sparrow, but there had to be over a hundred robins busily looking for whatever bugs were in the grass.  Every time I see scenes like this, I am reminded of God's tender care.  As I've often said, if He cares this much for a sparrow or robin, then how much more does he care about us.  It can be a hard thing to wrap our head around if we let it. Inversely, we can often look at our troubles and wonder what did we do wrong to deserve them? We might find ourselves scanning the heavens for the clouds to split open and pour out His favor upon us.  

Yesterday, Pastor Tony preached about having four kinds of faith.  He's bounced up against this thought before, and it is a challenging message. It is even more challenging when it seems as if the last four years have been a series of non-stop terminal illnesses, deaths, and even three deaths due to COVID.  We've been a fellowship that has seen healing after healing.  We've experienced miracles that defy explanation, and we've seen the hand of God provide when there was no obvious way for the provision to come.  We own a 27,000 sf building paid for in less than 24 years, while at the same time giving hundreds of thousands of dollars to missions, and charities. What's even more amazing is that our population has never exceeded a hundred people.  FAITH, we have it in spades, and that is not said in pride.  It is a fact.  Not one person in our fellowship is afraid to drop what they are doing and offer a prayer of faith when we learn of something needing our attention, AND God's attention. (I know He knows all things, but we are still encouraged to pray.) There are men and women in our fellowship who devote an hour (or more) every morning in prayer.  

Pastor Tony talked about faith that says: God Can do it.   He also talked about a faith that says: God is Able to do it, and he talked about a faith that just simply says; God does it.  There is another faith that sparked me to write this blog; it is a faith that says God will do it.  He had us turn to Matthew 8:1-4 and the story of the man Jesus healed of leprosy.  I'm not going to quote the passage in this blog because I believe that looking it up for yourself and reading with me will help you to remember it.  The story begins with Jesus coming down from a mountain to be greeted with large crowds of people.  He wasn't in a crowded busy town.  Along the road a leper suddenly leapt into his path and knelt down to worship him.  NOW, here comes the question I believe everyone of us has asked more than once.  "Lord if you are willing, You can make me clean."  Please, note carefully that the man made his declaration of faith and said: "You can make me clean!"  The leper was declaring the first kind of faith which is 'Jesus Can!' Personally, I think the leper had already heard about the many wondrous healings of Jesus.  The faith for healing was already there.  Many of us are right there with the leper.  We've seen the healing power of Jesus, as well as the deliverances, and the miracles without natural explanation.  I've seen all of these things in my sixty years of living for Christ, and yet there is one thing that I've found myself and others asking time after time; "Lord, if you are willing, you can..."  with the unspoken "will you?"  sitting on the edge of our declaration of faith.  

NOW would be a good time to point out the obvious.  The leper was an outcast of society.  They had to announce to everyone that they were 'unclean.'  They couldn't go to religious meetings, and they weren't allowed to participate in the daily social life of their families and friends. The question the Leper was asking was far more powerful than his declaration of faith.  Will you touch me?  Will you risk everything?  I truly believe the real question in this story is; How much do you love me?  Are you really who you say you are?  Are you willing to get your hands dirty for me?  Are you willing to touch me?   I believe he asked this question because he'd heard that Jesus often touched the people He prayed for.  He would sometimes embrace those He healed. The leper was declaring his uncleaness, while at the same time asking to be free of it.  

We're the same way, but we just don't have the social stigma that the leper had.  Worse yet, (and I've been guilty of this in the past,) we'll ask someone standing in the 'healing line'  "do you know Jesus?"  Or we'll ask "are you saved?"  I wish I could yank back every time I've uttered those words, or had those thoughts.  Jesus never asked them.  We even ask them of ourselves as we seek healing, or deliverances.  "God is there anything more I need to do?"  "Have I done anything that would make me unworthy of your healing power?"  The unspoken; "Lord are you willing?" is said often. When Jesus walked this earth, He was healing incarnate. This was born out of the Father's compassion, His tenderness, loving kindness, and love. Yet, we'll cheapen it with our own fears of not being worthy.  

Jesus gave the leper the answer he wanted when He said "I am willing."  BUT that wasn't the healing moment. The leper knew that Jesus had to touch him just as much as the woman with the issue of blood knew she had to touch the hem of Jesus' garment. Whether we realize it or not, or whether we're willing to admit it or not, everyone of us has a qualifier that we know will satisfy our faith. Sometimes Jesus responds to our qualifier, and then other times He shocks us by grinding spit mud into our eyes, or giving us a wet Willie.  Sometimes he says go jump in a muddy stream, or tells us tear a hole in the roof so we can let down our brother.  The leper knew Jesus could heal him, he just wasn't sure Jesus would. 

A quick personal example of what I'm talking about is something that happened to my mother.  She was in her early seventies and had just moved to Harrison when she was diagnosed with colon cancer.  After about two weeks of being silent about it, she asked me to come over and talk with her.  "Dave, I've always heard God before. You know that.  I believe God can and does heal, but I can't hear Him. I don't know whether I'm going to die of this or not. He isn't talking to me. I know you talk to God and you hear his voice, will you ask Him what I'm supposed to do?"  

Of course I will.  And, I did.  Every day for two weeks I asked God about Mom. She never once asked me to pray for her healing, but that was something she didn't know if I had the gift for.  So, I prayed.  It took two weeks, but it came one night while I was in the shower.  "Tell her, the cancer won't kill you, but you will have to go through it, but I will be on the other side."  It wasn't the kind of thing you want to tell your frail mother, but it was all God gave me.  It was her way of asking 'are you willing?'  Jesus was willing.  She went through a year of Chemo, and radiation therapy.  At the end of that year they removed a monstrous tumor.  She lived to be 85 years old and didn't die of cancer.  We have to know when we are asking Jesus if he is willing.  I have a good brother in the Lord who has been through hell and back with circumstances beyond his control.  He once told me that 'He'd done all he could do, and didn't know what more he could do.'  God's willingness isn't based on what we do, but on what we believe.  Even then, in the midst of the fire, you're left standing in the fire, with Jesus standing beside you. So, resolve within yourself now, before you step into the fire, that Jesus will be there, and that He is willing to be there.  

 

IT IS WELL

 The month of March will always be an emotional time for me, and today was an emotional rollercoaster.   It was 2 years ago that my wife, Glenda, had surgery to remove a walnut sized tumor from her brain.  At the same time that Glenda was recuperating in the hospital, they had to put my Dad into a rehab center to recover from a fall that had left him on the floor of his bedroom overnight. Little did I know that within twelve days, he would be gone.  It was the beginning of an eight month long journey from hope to hopelessness, joy to sorrow, and everything in between.  Over the course of the next eight months, I would lose four good friends, and loved ones.  2023 will always be my "Annus horribilis" (horrible year).  

This morning as I was getting ready for church, my google photos feed pumped about eight pictures from Glenda's hospital stay, and Dad's hospital stay. To say the least, after that, I really didn't want to go to church, because I wanted to stay home and not have to paste on a fake smile. I wanted to have my own little pity party.  I didn't want anyone to have to pat me on my back and comfort me, but I went anyway, and put on my best glad rags. At the same time, the emotions were right there at the edge of my heart, and I couldn't hide them.  So, I went, and wouldn't you know it while I was on my way to church, my Spotify feed played "It is well" by Bethel Music.  Believe me, the last thing I wanted was to hear was "It is well."  I pulled into the parking lot, slammed my car into park, and began to sob. It's funny how grief can sneak up on you and slap you without warning.  After about five minutes of debating whether to drive back home or go in, I opted for going in.  Please don't attribute anything noble to that decision.  It was a coin toss at best.  It wasn't a brave decision, nor did I behave well.  Just because it is well, doesn't mean it is great. In Horatio Spafford's hymn "When Peace, Like a River"  he wrote; "When Peace like a river attends my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll; Whatever my lot, you have taught me to know, it is well, it is well with my soul." Sorrow, and pain often break over us like giant waves as we journey on this ocean of life, and sometimes there is no way to avoid it. Sometimes our faith plunges through wave after wave driven by the storms of life. Sometimes all we can do is lash ourselves to the ship of faith and believe that in the end it is well.  We are allowed to grieve, and actually we are told to mourn with those who mourn.  Of late, our fellowship has battled an unending battle with health issues. Never mind that most of us are getting on in years and these things are to be expected.  These earthly tents get worn out and we have to discard them in order to get our new ones. It's heartbreaking to watch as the ravages of time make our bodies threadbare, and even get folded in the storms that rage around us.  Our voyage is fraught with peril no matter what we do.  While I always expected to be taken up in the rapture, living this long has also forced me to endure the loss of loved ones, and the slow decline of my own body.  

I never thought I would live longer than Glenda, and I truly miss the woman who shared my life for forty seven years, but am assured that my grief will be erased one day because I have been given a blessed assurance that I will see her again. Till the day God takes me home, I will always be moved by certain songs that spoke to my heart during her illness, and special places we went together in her last year. My heart will always be broken in the month of March as I confront the worst times in my life with the tender memories of our life together.  It's complicated, and I know it doesn't sound like I'm a very good Christian.  I should be rejoicing more about how we'll be spending eternity together, but this is now, and for some reason almost two years later it still hurts.  

As a final note, as I was looking up who wrote "When Peace, Like a River,"  I saw a meme that made me laugh and feel better.  I can't share the meme because the language is something I wouldn't say, but I did like this part of it; If fate whispers to you, "You can't withstand the storm"  Whisper back "I am the storm."   

I won't go quietly, and....I am the storm! 

 

SEVEN TO SEVENTY

 One of the things I've taken up since my wife Glenda passed away is walking.  Well, not that I've floated around without walking for seventy years, but walking for exercise.  Being only five feet tall, walking for exercise isn't something I thought I'd be doing at this stage of my life.  I used to joke that for every step a normal sized person takes, I had to take two, but that isn't true.  I've since learned that my stride is about a fourth shorter than men of normal height.  In other words, a person of average height will take about 2,000 steps to walk a mile.  I deliberately walked a mile today and it took me 2,443 steps.  Over the course (pun intended) of a lifetime, a man of average height will have taken approximately 70 million steps.  A person with a moderate level of activity will take about 7,500 steps a day.  Ten thousand steps equates to about five miles a day.  When I log in 7,500 steps I do good to clock about 3.5 miles.  I hurt just thinking about it.

As I've said before in many of my past blogs, I grew up in El Paso, Texas.  My Dad was transferred there in 1960 when I was five, and we lived about a mile from what would become my elementary school.  I didn't start school until I was seven years old, and many of my neighborhood friends had already been in school for a year before I was.  My first day of school, my Mom walked with me to the school (they didn't have busing back then.) I didn't know what a mile was back then, but I could tell you that it took me about thirty minutes to walk to the school and about twenty five minutes to get home so I could get there in time to watch Superman on TV.  Because most of my buddies were already a grade ahead of me, and taller than me, I had to walk at a brisker pace.  Before I knew it I could walk home in less than 20 minutes.  As boys will often do, I would walk backwards so that I could talk to them, and found out that I could walk just as fast backwards as they could walk forward.  Running?  NO WAY! 

All my life from the time I was seven, I've walked a much quicker pace than people who are eight to ten inches taller than me.  I also soon discovered that people who were taller than average deliberately slowed their pace down in order to allow for people like me.  They soon discovered that they didn't need to slow down for me because I could outpace them.  When I was in the third grade a stranger tried to abduct me on my way home from school and within a week my Dad had bought me a brand new bicycle.  It was entirely too tall for me, and I had to put wood blocks on the pedals just to ride it.  Now that I had a bicycle, I could be home in time to see the afternoon cartoon shows before Superman came on. From that point on, two wheels was my favorite means of getting anywhere.  I eventually went from a bicycle to a motorcycle.  Walking???  Forget that.  

Why am I going on and on about walking?  Because now that I'm 70 years old, I find myself wearing a fitness watch that keeps track of my steps, my sleep, my heartrate, and things like my cardio load, and even my pace.  I wish it would give me my oxygen level, but I didn't buy an expensive watch.  Now that I'm retired and a widower, I find it reassuring that I can even walk at all, let alone put in over three miles a day. Walking actually gives me satisfaction, which I thought I would never say.  I haven't rode a motorcycle in over ten years, and probably never will again.  Walking is fine with me now. 

Today, I was walking along Crooked Creek here in Harrison, and was thrilled to see sparrows once more bouncing along the walkway.  I suddenly started laughing at how funny they looked as they hopped along in the grass. If something spooked them, they would take to the sky in a flutter of wings and disappear into the trees lining the creek.  I wondered how many wing flaps they took to fly a mile?  I also wondered how many times they flap their wings in a day?  What made me laugh was the thought of a bird wearing a fitness watch.  I could see them sitting on a telephone wire talking with one another about how many wing flaps they accomplished that day.  It is the mundane things we do as human beings that we take for granted, yet are often times wondrous beyond description.  I wear a device on my wrist that monitors my body, sends that information without wires to another device in my pocket, and that device then sends that information to a company that wants to sell me walking shoes, and active wear. I don't doubt for a minute that somewhere there is a government listening post that collects my data, and determines that I am a seventy year old man who can't even walk a mile in under 19 minutes. Which brings me back to when I was seven years old and could barely walk a mile in under 20 minutes.  What is even more amazing to me, is that of all God's creatures, we are the only species who've figured this out, and even care.  

Scientists put tags on all kinds of animals, birds, and fishes to learn more about them.  Those same animals don't care one bit about why, and how we do what we do.  When my wife was still alive, we would take her dogs for a walk and never once did they turn around and ask me how many steps did I take that day. On the other hand, my wife would ask me with a smug smile, and then be proud that she'd walked a good thousand more steps than I had. No other creature thinks about these things, and these are the things that let me know there is a God.   As the Bible says, we are wondrously made.   

REFLECTIONS UPON A LIFE

(I found this blog as I was cleaning out my other blogs seeing if I needed to delete some.  I'd forgotten I'd written it, and it languished in my draft folder for over two years. I have come out of my grief enough that I can begin to write again, so, it's time to put this one out.  I didn't change the tenses or the tone.  I took this picture in late November of 2022 as my Dad looked down at the headstone above my mother's grave. Little did he or I know that within the short space of fifteen months we would be placing him alongside her. ) 

Dad is a complicated man, full of contradictions, yet resolute in many of his ways. Everything he told us boys not to do, he'd done.  He told us never to steal, lie, or cheat, but then would regale his peers with stories of how he'd done those very things as a young man.  He would gleefully tell about how he used to run moonshine and got busted one night.  He would often tell how he took my mom out on his motorcycle, and got in a bad wreck after promising my mom's mother that he wouldn't take her out on it. It was always told in a way to make her out as the wicked girl who disobeyed her parents. I think in a way he needed to bring her down a notch so that he didn't have to feel like she was better than he was. Like I said, he was a complicated man.  

As I watched him looking on that cold marble stone, I wondered what he was thinking.  Dad very rarely talked about love, or touchy-feely things. You got the sense that he loved you, but he could never say it.  I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he said it to me in 67 years.  More than that, I can't remember him telling Mom that he loved her.  On the other hand, Mom breathed the words with every breath, and lived them out through years of loneliness, and unspoken love.  

Actually, I felt sorry for him as he stood there in the cold November morning with the leaves of their 67 years together laying all around him. Time has a way of stripping the vibrant greens of our youth to leave us with empty branches and fallen leaves. Mom was the bright spring of his life, and without her he was just a bare and lifeless tree.  

I don't want to make this a condemnation of his life.  By and large, he was a good man, who tried to raise us boys to not be like the worst side of him. He would, and often did give those he loved anything he could give to help them.  I was often the recipient of cars, motors, motorcycles, and cash during my early years in the Air Force.  He had a huge tender spot for all of his daughter-in-laws, and all of his grandchildren. BUT, His help didn't come without harsh words for stupid actions.  If you were being rescued because of something dumb you did, you would suffer his ridicule forever.  Everybody would know how stupid you were.  Even if he didn't approve of you, he would help you...(end of original blog)

I don't remember where I was going with the thoughts I was trying to write down. As I look at the picture of him alone, and grieving I know I felt sorry for him.  The last five years of my mother's life were hell, and Dad was helpless as a caregiver. Severe dementia took away the vibrant woman who shaped my life in ways that still affect me long after her death.  Dad couldn't, and didn't handle her dementia well at all. Our weekly breakfasts at the local diner became gripe sessions for him to unload his frustrations.  It was a mistake for me to assume that once Mom was gone that he would be happy and free.  You can't just erase 67 years together.  

Now, I know what he was feeling after losing my own wife of 47 years together.  In talking to a very good friend who lost a spouse after over 50 years of being together, I realize that despite their flaws, and even despite your own flaws, the melding of two lives is a powerful, spiritual act, that transcends the physical, and sexual bonds of being married.  You become we, and us, with titles like DL and Beverly, Dave and Glenda...and on, and on, and on.  

As I stood there taking this picture, I snapped two more as he walked around her grave, being careful not to step on the bare soil above her casket.  With a somber, subdued smile he said; "She was a gooder ol' girl, wasn't she boy?"  

"Yes, she was."  I said softly as I grabbed him by his arm and walked with him to the truck... 

That's where the original blog draft ended, I think where I wanted to go with this blog is to show how short life can be, and how we love, and even who we love matters.  When we're young, love is measured in how they make us feel, what they can give us, and whether they make us look good. I cant' imagine the loss Dad  felt when Mom passed away, because he really never expressed whether she was important to him or not.  He always couched his attachment to her in terms of the years they'd been together, or the things they did together.  To say the least, I wasn't always happy about the things my dad did to my mom, or most of the things he said to her. Not too long ago I figured out he was just a great big kid still stuck in his teens. It didn't matter how old he was, the memories that brought a smile to his face were from his teenage years. 

I never got to mourn him when he died because Glenda had just had brain surgery, and I was facing the bitter reality of losing my own wife, and Like Dad, I am left to grieve the loss of the person who shaped me more than I'll ever know.  That's often the course of our lives, especially for those of us who have the misfortune to outlive our wives. It's like a book that's half written, you know what the ending should be, but you'll never really know for sure. 

So, there you have it, our lives don't really play out much different no matter how we wish they would.  Actually, I kinda wish someone could have taken a picture of Dad and I standing together.  That would have really been a reflection upon a life.