Matthew 5:8 (New Living Translation)

8 God blesses those whose hearts are pure,
for they will see God.

Lord . . .

It’s me . . . one of those people you’ve been waiting for.

Open my eyes to see you in the sights of my day.

Open my ears to hear you in the sounds of my life.

Open my feelings to feel your touch in others.

Draw my thoughts to you when the sights and sounds are unmistakably you.

And give me wisdom to see your touch on everything I once called common.

I am looking for you everywhere.

I am on a mission to experience the presence of God.

My purpose is to know what it means to call you Father.

I want to explore what it means to be your child.

I am hungry for less.

Less of what I can manipulate for my good.

Less of what I depend upon for success.

Less of everything that clouds my fellowship with you.

I am hungry for more.

More of what it means to live an authentic life.

More of what it means to love my life and world.

More of what it means to be unafraid and full of hope.

Grant me a pure heart . . . I wish to see you.

Norm

Isaiah 61:1,2

Good News for the Oppressed

1 The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is upon me,

for the Lord has anointed me

to bring good news to the poor.

He has sent me to comfort the brokenhearted

and to proclaim that captives will be released

and prisoners will be freed.

Elton Trueblood wrote these words:  ” . . . in his determination to seek out sinners, rather than to avoid them.  His interest was in the welfare of broken and needy men, not in the trivial determination to keep his own shirts clean.”

Max Lucado describes more about this when he writes:  “Majesty in the midst of the mundane.  Holiness in the filth of sheep manure and sweat.  Divinity entering the world on the floor of a stable, through the womb of a teenager and in the presence of a carpenter.”

Both writers chronicle the shocking departure from the expected.  They see the irony of God becoming flesh, of the Creator slipping into the creation.

And today, that’s where we may have to go to touch the Christ . . . among the awful to come face to face with the Awesome One.

Matthew 19:13-14 (New Living Translation)

Jesus Blesses the Children

13 One day some parents brought their children to Jesus so he could lay his hands on them and pray for them. But the disciples scolded the parents for bothering him

 14 But Jesus said, “Let the children come to me. Don’t stop them! For the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to those who are like these children.”

Children have a way of seeing that I don’t.  I’d never be tempted to bake a birthday cake for Jesus on December 25, but my grandkids would.  They think it’s the natural thing to do; that Jesus deserves a cake just like they get on their birthday.

• See, I worry about the real birthdate of Jesus.
• I wonder what neighbors would think if they knew we baked a cake for Jesus.
• I consider how ridiculous it all sounds.
• I ponder how many candles we need to put on the cake.
• I wonder who will make a wish and blow them out.

Children see it differently.  Jesus is so real and his presence is so touchable they consider the birthday cake for Jesus a natural thing to do.  If he walked in the front door they’d expect Him to wrestle on the floor with them.  He’d laugh at their “food jokes” at the dinner table.  He’d shoot hoops with the boys and have “tea” with the girls.  And he’d offer a lap in the Lazy Boy at the end of the day.

There’s a message or two here for us grown-ups.  Jesus is a lot more approachable than we give him credit.  So . . . let him come to his party on December 25.  And don’t forget the cake . .

Like a cattle call for beef or on-screen beauties, they line the walls of the huge tent.  They snake on out past the billets and into the Hummer compound.  Some leaning, some smoking, some itching through the calamine of war to search for the genesis of the aromas that fill the compound.  A bawdy tale here, a beach ball sent back and forth along the line, they spend the interminable wait to enter the wooden gate of home memories among uneasy laughter circulating in the breeze.  All stumble slightly as they cross the threshold and see the empty seat there near the door.

Packed in, like columns of Warrior hordes unearthed two continents and several centuries away, they sit as one covered with desert camouflage.  Shoulder to shoulder and brushing elbows with each mouthful and sip, they speak in boisterous cacophony of the November meal and some, and some, speak of home and pumpkin pie, oyster stuffing, giblet gravy and the joy of succulent fruit.  From time to time, all, yes all, peer ever so quickly, to the empty seat over near the door.

Missing, oh, they’re missing.  Hearth and home a million miles away.  Missing in piles of autumn leaves, gone to Aunties house this day of celebration; out of sight across the sea, continents between; a full day of travel in and out of 3 airports and 1 bus station they would go to see it all again.  Missing somewhere between boot camp and the butchery of homemade, suicidal treachery wrapped in the innocent robes of a child.  It is then all, everyone, peers ever so slightly, to the empty seat over near the door.

A day ago they stood in the same line, about the same time, as they moved in a malingering, bored fashion to the smothered chicken, green beans and mounds of potatoes. They watched six well-known jocks battle it out on a sandy, poorly formed basketball court alongside the mess tent.  No referees, no fouls, no clock.  Here time stood still.  Here watching and waiting, neither of which was noticed or considered.  Across the threshold and into the tent, no one noticed there was no empty seat over near the door.

Gone now, this Thanksgiving Day.  Stomachs full of much more than a holiday feast; they meander to work, to rest, to anything that will erase the emptiness of soul that comes with carnage and coffins covered in flags.  Not so much conversation now.  The blister on the hearts, put there by the empty seat over near the door.

To one, an English-major Lieutenant, comes the words of Kipling of long ago:

“God of our fathers, known of old,

Lord of our far-flung battle-line,

Beneath whose awful Hand we hold

Dominion over palm and pine

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget – lest we forget!”

Unease, dis-ease, all from an empty space over by the door.

I carried a styrofoam cross, filled with roses, into a church today.  That reminded me of an ol’ buddy of mine.

He was a part-time employee of our funeral home.  We worked many services together as I was in my “learning” phase years ago.  Virgil was from Tennosee, at least that’s how he pronounced it.

A true Son of the South, he loved sweet tea, good Bar B Q and practiced an indulgence for collecting things.  He built two or three garages on his back acreage to hold all the cars and other automotive paraphenalia.  His home was filled with guns held to the walls by nails.  I never did get a full count because I was only ever in three or four of the rooms and they had guns in place of wallpaper.  He never met a Southerner he didn’t like and was somewhat suspect of Northerners until his death.  How he felt beyond that, I do not know.

He grew up in an area where you couldn’t swing a cat and not hit a Church of Christ.  These are the “non-instrumental” folks who don’t allow musical instruments in their church buildings.  And they’re as likely to split and start a new church next week as they are to have a Sunday night a capella hymn sing.  I suspect he was baptized in a cold Tennosee crick at an early age.  He’d often turn a religious conversation into a wrestling match.   If you’ve ever seen any films of those old matches back in the fifties with Gorgeous George and the like, you’d recognize Virgil, he’d be the guy who always went for the steel folding chair first.  That’s the way he discussed the doctrines of the Church of Christ too.

Virgil retired from the United States Air Force as a Chief Master Sergeant after 30 years of service.  He was extremely patriotic and had a lot to say about the course of our country.  If you ever needed a shot of patriotism he was your man.  If you needed a shot of full-blown pessimism on the future of Hippies, Gov’ment and Politicians, he was also your man.  He was the most conservative Democrat I ever met.

Well, I suppose I oughtta saunter on back to what got this whole thing goin’.  The styrofoam, floral cross.  Virgil hated them.  He also hated styrofoam hearts filled with flowers too.  Together we carried many of them as we moved flowers for funerals and gravesites.  Why did he hate them?  I figure it was because he never met a styrofoam heart or cross he couldn’t break,

After all, they are quite sensitive to bending, dropping and moving.  In fact, I was looking at a styrofoam cross once and the three pieces fell apart right in front of my eyes.  Virgil remarked, “Hey, I didn’t touch it!”

I don’t know how many times I’ve had to repair broken hearts and crosses after Virgil carried them to the van or graveside.  They can be repaired with pencils, florist sticks, plastic flower card holders and prayer.  I take that back.  I’ve tried it many times, prayer doesn’t help.  You need to stick with the other stuff.

I don’t know how many times, on a blustery day, I’ve prayed for the priest or pastor to hurry along with his comments, fearing the demise of a recently repaired cross or heart.  You don’t know what stress is until you’re standing on pins and needles hoping the flower arrangement doesn’t fall over.

Well, Virgil, here’s to you.  Son of the South, Son of a Gun and a man who never met a floral heart he couldn’t break!

I pretty much worshipped him.  We’d go to Kansas City once a year when the Yankees were in town to play the A’s.  My brother met him once at his Holiday Inn in Joplin, Missouri.  He brought me an autographed postcard with his photo.  Later in life I learned he was, for many years, a hopeless alcoholic and womanizer.  Mickey.

I watched him play several times, he was so fluid, so coordinated for a big man.  Such passion and happiness when he was on the court.  Then, just ten years ago, he stood in a hastily arranged hotel ballroom and told the press he had to stop playing NBA basketball because he had aids from a multitude of dalliances.  Magic.

He was the kind of guy you wanted your dad to be.  Honor.  Humility.  Work Ethic.  Doing Things The Right Way.  No one ever thought he’d retire; he’d just leave it all out there on the sideline one day.  Plain white helmets would gather ’round and look down on the man with more wins, done right, than another other man who ever coached in the NCAA.  Then we were told he didn’t help the child.  Papa . . . Papa Joe.

Yeah, I feel today like I did those other two times.  Like one of the old Percheron’s hauled-off and kicked me in the gut.  Will I ever get my breath back?  Tears aren’t enough.

I was late to work today.  It’s really cold; only in the 40′s as of 9:00 a.m.  It will get up to the low 60′s, or so says the professional, licensed meteorologist who got Sunday duty.   Not many homeless out on the street this morning.  They’re probably huddled in a corner out of the drift of a 10 mph breeze waiting the onslaught of a tedious day full of rain.  I did see one guy; jeans, v-neck T-shirt, hands thrust down into his pockets, walking Highland Avenue over near Del Rosa.  We had a “Magnificent Obsession” moment and I made it in about 10 minutes late.

Here in Southern California there were three football games on TV last night at the same time; maybe more, I simply didn’t look for them.  #14 Kansas State was taking on #3, Oklahoma State.  UCLA was playing #24 Arizona State.  And, of course, there was the “magnificent testosterone-fest” between #1 LSU and #2 Alabama.  In a perfect world, K-State and UCLA would have won and I would have actually cared who won the “other” game.  I flipped back and forth among the three games all evening, but gave most of my interest to the KSU/OSU game.  One could go the entire season and not see three games any more competitive or exciting than these three.  Final tally?  KSU loses to OSU in the final second.  UCLA stays with ASU and wins by 1.  Not a touchdown is scored in the “marquis” match-up.  LSU wins 9 to 6.  I don’t believe I’ll see any better football this year . . . at least not at the same time.

Before this year I had not noticed the out-sized number of commercials for medical insurance for Seniors during October, November and December.  Of course, I’ve been sensitized to all these blathering spokespersons because it is my first year in the clutches of Medicare.  It seems the entire population over 65 get’s a “do-over” every year between October 15 to December 7 (this year).  If you want to change a multitude of coverages and right a mass of “wrongs”, now’s the time to do it.  I wonder how I’ll feel about all this a year from now?

I think I miss Kansas most in the Fall.  There are certainly other places in our world with more Autumn color, but I miss good ol’ Junction City.  There were places you can see rimrock along the hills.  The river land and creek bottoms were aflame with turning leaves.  You knew the winds would come one day soon and cannonize them across the land.  When the Fall rains came the vacant trees were turned black against a gray, bulbous sky.  The aroma of the moisture on the trees, stubble in cornfields and hay fields were a once a year event.  All of this was a portent to the coming cold, often windy, Winter.  We lived in an area where Winter was a cruel Mistress.  Always promising, rarely delivering the anticipated “Winter Wonderland” we so desired.  Dull, dreary, windy, gray and cold were adjectives we used often to describe the interminable days of Winter.  Fall was the last dance before  the merriment closed down for a season.

Gorgeous is making a Turkey today with all the trimmings.  I don’t know why.  I’ve always viewed such an event as a dress rehearsal for Thanksgiving.  She says that’s not it.  She mentions something about the cost of turkeys at this time of year and how it would be a shame not to take advantage of it.  Everything considered, I’ll suffer in silence.

 

 

 

 

For anyone who is interested in the times, life and writings of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, I have a book published this year that I am happy to recommend to you:  Bonhoeffer – Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy, by Eric Metaxas.

The history of Europe from WWI to WWII is on display in intricate ways.  Bonhoeffer was a humble theologian who had the courage to go up against Hitler.

I have a copy and will send it to anyone who wants it if you promise to read it and pass it on.  You can contact me in the comment space below.

Gorgeous and I serpentined our way up the mountains and into the Big Bear Valley and to it’s aforementioned lake.  The hills caught fire with boisterous yellows and piquant reds to entertain us around every curve.  The temperature hovered in the mid-sixty range and our sweaters were never taken out of the back seat.

After a leisurely lunch at our favorite Mexican restaurant on Knickerbocker Street, she assured me she had a new novel she wanted to break into and I assured her if we did go fishing, we would only do so for an hour or two.  I knew we had the Honda with the two collapsible chairs in the trunk, so we were full-tummied and ready for a relaxing few hours in shade or sun, it didn’t matter.  I had just put new 4 pound test line on my reels last month, so I was anxious to get started.

My inner Sergeant Major ordered me into a local tackle shop for bait.  I call it the bait of champions.  What they have done is taken fat, juicy night crawlers and somehow escounced them in the taste (I’m told) and aroma of “come-and-get-me” garlic.  Trout line up for this kind of chow.

Making my way down the aisle that looked like a fisherman’s wedding with all lenghts of fishing rods aimed to form the pitch of a tent, I wondered if the Wedding March would soon break forth.  But there stood before me the glass encased refrigerator filled with an assortment of live temptations for trout.

A thought struck me, as they often do, right upside the head:  “Which car did we bring; the one with the fishing tackle or the one with nothing in the trunk?”  Not two more steps were taken when I did a reverse on the marital path and made my way out to the car.

On opening the trunk, I noticed my tackle box and breathed a sigh of relief.  I lifted the trunk lid higher and peered deeper into the chasm and noticed the tubes that usually hold my rods were not where they belonged.  Nuts!  Rabafrabitz&%^#@&*%itch!!  Dang!  I uttered.

Did I mention we made it home Friday about two hours earlier than I had planned?

Well, Norm, here we are 65 years past birth; 50 years past our first contribution to our “so-called ‘social security’;” 45 years past marriage to the most exquisite woman on earth and moments past being declared “inconsequential” by our government and any generation under 50 years of age.

I never really thought it would come to this.  I mean, I never really thought.  We are now elders, you and I.  Patted on the head like an old hound dog who’s slow of gate, barely hears and the family no longer notices because it’s too painful to watch a living thing change.

I thought I’d let you know, we passed our written exams and sat for our “orals” (with great stress) and finally earned our Doctorate in Medicare last month, thereby sending us out into the world of those 65 and older with that marvelous sense of confidence known only to a drunken Cossack on a cross-eyed horse.  If we’d known there was going to be such a confusing, mind-blowing series of tests to qualify for 65, I think we’d have studied more in our 40′s.

How on earth did we get here, Dude?  We grew up in the greatest time in America as the first tick-tock of the Baby Boom.  American Graffiti told our high school story and Animal House bore no relation to the college we knew.  The Eisenhower Generation imploded during those years.  We had Camelot on one extreme and Kent State on the other.  We found ourselves smack-dab in the middle wondering what to think because both held a view of life totally foreign to us.

Confusion remained the drug of choice for decades, but we lowered our head and dove into the line of scrimmage.  For many who prided themselves, their work and their homes, the ensuing years were a cloud of dust.  We knew what we wanted, where we were going and what it would look like when we got there.  We’ve gotten most of what we wanted, the journey has had more interesting moments than we anticipated, but  it doesn’t much look like what we thought it would.  We found ourselves somewhere in those years when everyone was telling us to live for today, but we kept packing it away for tomorrow, just like our parents.

Our faith was met with challenges unknown by any previous generation.  Centuries before our forefathers in the faith knew persecution, death and martyrdom.  We had the Holocaust as a recent example of where faith can lead during the reign of despots and the criminally cruel.  But our challenges were of a different sort entirely.  Our generation knew the lavish aggrandizement of people of faith who were becoming more and more in control, richer and richer compared to the rest of the world.  We went to bed with our bellies full and our minds filled with the sure “knowledge” that God was good to the good.  Apathy toward our blessings made us feel deserving of them.

Our fellow journey-makers tripped-up, tripped-out and smoldered in the cauldron of “badness” and with each failure, each catastrophe, each shortened life, we knew we were the good people.  The sixties and seventies left brothers and sisters broken and disheartened, but we were so self-reliant and successful, we couldn’t feel their pain, understand their frustration or anger.  They chose all the wrong ways to tell their story.  Some thirty years later we have a bit more understanding and realize we were all in this together.  For years we’ve made friends with the radicals down the street who broker insurance, real estate and green initiatives.

Our brothers went off to war and came home broken, exhausted and bent.  We had no idea how to hail them or thank them because confusion reigned from the Oval Office all the way down to boot camp.  Some four decades later we are just beginning to welcome them home.  Late in life we’ve discovered their sacrifices for us and their loyalty to their country.

It’s been a trip and a rip, hasn’t it, kid?  Who knew we’d enjoy and succeed in three different occupations in 45 years?  Who knew we’d escape almost all of the heartbreaking events that can visit a home?  Who knew we’d have four kids instead of two?  Who knew they’d bring us our highest heights and our lowest lows?  Who knew they’d grow up so fast, so good and so worthwhile?  Who knew family would become the crown jewel of our lives when, in the beginning, so many of our goals had to do with so many other things?  All we knew, or hoped we knew, is we’d be together with Gorgeous until the end.  So far, so good.

Standing here on the backside of the journey, we can only cast our eyes backward in amazement at what a good life it’s been.  To see it all is to wish to live it again, but with the proviso that it be just like it was then.  It’s not that we fear worse things could happen or better things might come along.  No, it is the comforting truth of knowing it’s been good, so very, very good.  We’d change nothing.  Nothing.