Take What's Given

It's one of those days.  I read a few stories about how others got started in this screenwriting business. How they wrote a blockbuster and grabbed the big brass ring.  Now they enjoy fame, fortune, and those people who actually want to read their stories.

     I find myself looking in the mirror and muttering “So, you hack, what's wrong with YOU?". This is followed by a few more non-edifying thoughts and comments.

      When I finally stop my pity party, my heart hears a familiar small, quiet Voice.

      "Is the thing the brass ring?  Or is it something else?"

      I wander into the kitchen and refill my cup with The Elixir of Knowledge as I contemplate this difference.  Contemplation that allows the dark roast to take a familiar parable and give it a contemporary twist.

      It's now a cooking show.  Like that one that has the kitchens stacked one over the other, the higher kitchens having the better equipment, utensils, and foodstuffs.  And the show begins...

      The Master Chef gives three cooks their equipment and supplies.  The Master walks the first cook into the top-level with its commercial state-of-the-art kitchen.  It contains the latest high-tech utensils and appliances and a walk-in refrigerator and freezer full of exotic and expensive fare.  There's even a fully-stocked wine vault.

      The Master walks the second cook down a floor and opens the door.  It's a normal apartment kitchen with a normal oven and refrigerator with a freezer.  The kitchen cabinets are scantily stocked with things for a family with kids.  Little kids.

      The Master walks the third cook down to the lobby, hands him a coat and a tin cup, and ushers him outside into the wind and snow.  The Master nods, closes the door, and walks away.

      Two hours pass.  The Master enters the top-floor kitchen where the first cook stands next to a sumptuous five-course meal served on gleaming china with sparkling crystal glasses of wine and shining silverware.

      The Master sits down and dines.  He stands with a smile and puts His arm around the cook.

      "Delicious!  Great job."

      The Master goes down a floor and enters.  The second cook stands next to a round, sturdy table.  The Master sits down in front of an ordinary place setting.  The stainless steel silverware surrounds a white plate holding a grilled peanut-butter-and-honey sandwich. It’s toasted golden brown and cut into small triangles sprinkled with the slightest glimmer of cinnamon and sugar.  The plain white cup by the plate holds hot herbal tea, its fragrant steam filling the room.

      The Master eats in silence then stands.  He puts his arm around the cook and smiles.

      "Delicious!  Great job."

      The Master goes down to the lobby and looks out the glass doors.  The third cook is huddled behind the trunk of a large tree, the wind causing the snow to drift across the walkway.

      The Master walks outside to the shivering cook who has his hands deep inside his coat.  The Master stands next to the cook. Not making eye contact, the cook carefully removes the tin cup from inside his coat.  He offers it to The Master.

      "I walked out to the deepest drift to get the purest snow.  Then I held the cup next to my shirt to melt it."

      The Master takes a deep draught from the offered cup.  He steps close, wrapping the shivering cook in a tight hug as He whispers in his ear.

      "Delicious!  Great job."

  Yeah.  It's not what I do with what I don't have.  It's what I do with what I got.  And the brass ring's not the thing.  It's the thrill we'll get when we hear:

      "Well done, good and faithful servant...enter into the joy of your Master."

"Why, Ducky, "Y"?"

The biweekly trip to the Big City, (a relative term used by small-town people going anywhere with three times the population), yielded the five pound bag of Shredded Fiesta Cheese lying on the kitchen table.

The sticker tells me it's five different kinds of cheese. It's also the cheapest cheese when bought in “pillow case” size.  The first morning sip of the Elixir of Knowledge has me hearing a "Walter Mitty" conversation between custodians at the cheese factory.

"Look at this mess. You think they could make a shredder that gets it all in the bags."

"It's like a pinata factory blew up."

"Juan, you're a genius!  Sweep everything into the corner.  I'll get some bags.  And we’ll need a catchy name for the suits upstairs."

Three steps later I stare into the refrigerator like Joseph, Mary, and the donkey looking for room.  A Jello cup might make it through the maze to nest on top of the eggs. Maybe.

My second sip of The Elixir brings up “The Law of Refrigerators: Price equals Cubic Feet".

And "Cheap equals Cubic Inches".

My eyes flip from table to fridge, table to fridge, giving me something to do as I sip the Elixir of Knowledge. The seventh sip births an idea.

I grab of fistful of sandwich bags, a measuring cup, and the kitchen scissors.  I hover over the sandbag of cheese.  How do I do this?

Without a second thought, I cut the top corners in at an angle to the middle line then straight down to the other end. Huh. Why did I do that?

Then it hits me.

That's the "Y-Cut" Ducky uses on "NCIS".

Ducky, (Dr. Mallard, ME/Coroner) uses that cut to examine the victims, always to determine a murder that is relayed, (after a dramatic pause), to a scowling Gibbs.

I take a long pull of The Elixir.  Huh.  That's true, I guess.  Another law.  This one's for those of us who follow His direction, wanting to make a difference but wondering if our work - our gifts - matter.

There's a quote pinned to the wall in my office, (okay-okay, "spare bedroom/storage room"…it’s a little house), which I've used before.  It's by Longfellow.

"Give what you have; to someone it may be better than you dare to think."

Like five loaves and two fishes.

Or a cup of cool water.

What we do makes a difference.  A difference we probably won't know until we're home and He shows us.

So.  I'll keep on trusting Him, throwing my work, my gift, out into the world because He's telling me to.

And I think that’s true for you and your gift. So keep flinging, you called and gifted one.

"Y"?

You never know what'll stick.

A '60s Christmas Eve

I meant to have this out last night for Christmas Eve, but life, as it sometimes does, had other plans. So I’m here with The Elixir of Knowledge watching a Christmas sunrise. And remembering a Christmas Eve that did not go as planned but was oh-so memorable.

We three kids were kindergarten to 4th. I remember Mom answering the phone then herding us into the living room and onto the couch. Where we sat. And sat. And sat. Mom just smiled.

Headlights turned into the driveway. We saw Dad walk past the window. He came in the front door, smiled at Mom, and turned to us.

Then he yipped. But his lips didn’t move.

His jacket started to move as something crawled across his chest. Thank goodness I wouldn’t see that Alien movie for another thirty years or I would have been terrified as a small head popped out.

Dad reached in and gently pulled out a tiny baby Chihuahua. The couch exploded with squeals of delight as we launched off across the living room to see this wondrous thing.

Mom had a cardboard box ready for it, complete with a cloth-covered hot water bottle and an old wind-up alarm clock. To save it from a petting-pummeling, she put it in the box. We could only look at it.

It was a fawn-colored female Chihuahua with an active tongue and a propeller tail. Due to its diminutive size, she was immediately christened “Tinkerbell”.

We sat around the box, the little dog standing on the clock to look over the edge - and whining pitifully. We pleaded for its release - while whining pitifully. Mom and Dad finally caved.

Tink, (she received a prompt nickname) staggered through the shag carpeting, her nose twitching. She picked up speed, her tail reaching maximum RPMs. We three were on our hands and knees, playing the part of wingmen as Tink made to the other end of the living room. Suddenly, she stopped and began to look side-to-side. Her tail stopped spinning, pointing straight up as her hips dropped, back legs splayed

That’s when Christmas Eve took a more exciting turn. Things happened quickly, so here’s my best recollection. First, Mom made an astute observation.

“Robert-Robert-it’s-peeing-Robert!”

Dad, moving with impressive speed, palms Tink like a basketball and heads for the cardboard box . 

“It's peeing on the carpet! Robert!”

Dad acknowledged this fact with pretty colorful job-site language. Looking back, we were fortunate Tink wasn’t peeing on Church carpet. During a sermon. While we’re sitting up front.

We kids screamed like Godzilla was looking in the window. Mom kept up here encouragement. Dad kept answering her with colloquialisms. The leaking pup flew above the carpet like a plane trying to put out a forest fire, running dry just as she got to the box. That’s when Mom made the call.

“It stays in the box!”

It sounded more like a life sentence than a temporary restraining order.

Dad and Mom got paper towels and a spray bottle, working to remove the experience from the carpet. We were again banished to the couch. Five minutes passed, the living room filled with whimpers coming from the box and the couch.

“C'mon, Mom, Dad.” “It's empty now!” “Awww…it's scared.” “Pleeeeeeeeease?”

Deep parental sighes found Tink staggering through damp carpet, her tail back to high RPMs., here wing-kids crawling beside her.

The little tail stopped in an upright position. She started to tip-toe in circles as she humped her back.

Mom was on it.

“Robert-Robert-it’s-pooping-Robert!”!

Godzilla made a second appearance. Kids dove onto the couch, screaming.  Dad grabbed a wad of paper towel, dropped to all fours, and followed the little straining bottom around the living room, his bellow loud enough to be heard over the cacophony on the couch.

 “YOU’VE NEVER HAD SERVICE LIKE THIS, DOG!”

(The visual of Dad crawling around the floor, collecting those fresh-pressed little brown cylinders, would haunt us for years.  We didn’t eat Tootsie-Rolls until we hit high school,)

“In the box, Robert.  Put it in the box!”

Dad put the now completely-emptied Tink in the box. He looked down at her like I assumed God did to Adam and Eve in the Garden.

“We've only had you five minutes, dog, and you've done two things you're never supposed to do in the house!”

This generated an eruption of concern from the couch-bound.

“Pleeeeease, can't we keep it? “ “We gotta keep it!” “Don’t throw it away!.”

We need not have worried. Tink was the first of two dozen Chihuahuas to wander the living room carpet and, yes, some left their mark - but all were loved and enjoyed.

Sometimes life doesn’t go as planned. Sometimes it’s better.

May you and yours enjoy the best of this Christmas. God bless.

The Community Nativity

Each year, the Lutheran Church puts on a Living Nativity.  We have three Lutheran Churches in town.  I don't remember their proper names, but this church, like Malcolm, is the one in the middle.  And it has its own elementary school, the Nativity being performed on its playground. Outside. In December. In Northern Wisconsin.

I sat on hay bales laid out like ancient Greek stone seats.  I was in the back row by the scaffolding, where a group of teenagers stood around the spotlights.  They weren’t in costume so their "cool" is still intact.  The other members of the youth group were standing around the hay bales like Sunday morning ushers, their cool completely extinguished by the mandatory bathrobes and burlap bag headgear.

There was a loud click as the playground went dark.  The Nativity had begun.

The pastor's articulate voice boomed out of the darkness, giving me a small taste of what it was like at Creation.

"And it came to pass in those days..."

A spotlight snapped on.  Mary, a teller at my bank, and Joseph, a local electrician with a full beard, walked around from behind the solid back wall of the stable.  Mary had a "nine-month baby-bumper" plumping out her robe as Joseph led a scruffy grey donkey.  It had a colorful entry rug thrown over its back.

The blacked-out speaker on the stable roof thundered as The Voice read Luke 1.

"Caesar Augustus...all the world...taxed..."

The donkey wasn't fond of the spotlight's glare.  It moved back behind Joseph.  Then a surprised Joseph started to hop as the donkey buried its head in Joseph's backside.

Mary floated on with serene reverence thru the large opening of the stable whose front three walls were posts with a double-line of long two by fours that made for see-thru walls around to the back. She sat on the hay bales surrounding the small, hay-filled deer-feeder.

Joseph skip-hopped up to the entrance, the donkey's face stuck in his...robe.  He managed to get the donkey tied to the fence railing then sat across from Mary, the deer-feeder between them.

The donkey, to escape the spotlight, did a quarter-turn and effectively mooned the audience.

Tethered on the inside of the railing, near the opening and across from the mooning donkey, was a young goat.  It munched hay as its curious face swung between the audience and the Holy Couple.

The Voice stopped for either dramatic pacing or to re-inflate the lungs before it thundered again.

"And she brought forth her firstborn son... wrapped him... in a manger..."

The seated Mary turned to face the back wall of the stable, hesitated, and reached down.  Then, in a miracle that rivaled the Virgin Birth itself, she turned and placed the newborn Baby Jesus in the deer-feeder, her "nine-month baby-bumper" completely gone.

The Voice was replaced by a loud recording of "Away In The Manger". Mary and Joseph reached into the manger to touch the Baby Jesus.  This caused their robes to move and we saw that both Mary and Joseph wore wool pants, thick socks, and felt-pack boots.  A very practical and wise Holy Couple.

All this reaching into the deer-feeder had drawn the goat's attention.  Suddenly it jumped up on the hay bale in front of the deer-feeder and thrust its head into the "manger".  I don't know if this was an act of worship or consumption.  The excited goat began to lift out the Baby by its swaddling.

Joseph, showing great reflexes for a new father, grabbed the goat and stopped The Baby's premature ascension.   He wrestled the goat back to the railing and retied it, shortening the tether.

The Carnivorous Goat stared at the deer-feeder then turned back to the hay it shared with the donkey.

The music stopped.  All was silent.  And that's when I heard it.  Like the soft blast of a trombone.  But it wasn't metallic.  It emanated from the audience-facing tail of the donkey.

The Carnivorous Goat cocked its head and stepped back.  The silhouettes of front-row children pointed and laughed.  A ripple of laughter moved back through the hay bales, soon followed by the organic smell riding the faint cold breeze.  As it says somewhere in Psalms, “I was glad when they said to me, come -let us sit in the back row.” I was glad.

It was then that the pharmaceutical wonders of my water pill kicked in with a vengeance. As I hustled back to the car, The Voice escorted me out.

"And there were in the same country, shepherds..."

Watching TV later that night, I heard the small, confident voice of Linus tell Charlie Brown the true meaning of Christmas.  It was the same as the one The Voice told me on the playground. And it’s all about “The Reason for The Season”.

"...a Savior, which is Christ the Lord..."

Wise Men & Bow Ties

I’m wrapped up in The Chair, the fogging of my glasses synchronized with each sip of the steaming Elixir of Knowledge. On the other side of the window is the dark, pre-dawn morning of the Winter Solstice. All is calm and not so bright on this crisp winter’s night.

The faintly lit window thermometer shows its age, the faded disc standing out from the window frame. The effects of two decades of outdoor living has turned white to a pale yellow and the red needle to pink. A needle that points to 12. Which means 8. Always subtract 4 until it hits -10 below. Then start adding back 2.

We could get a new thermometer, I suppose, but once you know the math it’s no big deal. And it keeps the mind nimble.

There are still a few stars clinging to the sky above the tree tops. Stars. Another hot sip of Elixir brings up The Story of The Magi. A two-year star trek to see a baby. A baby they knew would become The King. Wise men who, even today, would make the effort to see this infant monarch instead of googling the stable cam.

My mind wanders to another wise man from a Christmas Past. Charles Osgood, then the moderator for the CBS show, “Sunday Morning”. A mellow, thoughtful guy with a bow tie. Only saw him when I was either sick or playing hokey from church. I liked the laid-back way he did the news stories. Especially during The Holidays.

Mr. Osgood once stated that Christmas is about remembering and reunions.

I think he has something there. And to prove it, let’s play a game. Here’s some Christmas songs. Go ahead and shout out whether it's remembering or reunions or both.

And if you’re the only one up, please forgo the shouting part.

“O Come All Ye Faithful”

“White Christmas”

“Silent Night”

“I'll Be Home for Christmas”

"Mama Got Run Over by a Reindeer”

It fits, doesn’t it? The family traditions, the hugs, and the gifts would verify that. And it confirms that first grand Reason for the Season.

Remembering God's Gift that allows our Reunion with Him.

All we need to do is accept it. Which makes us family. Which makes each Christmas, and each day, incredibly special.

Mr. Osgood is a wise man.  And he wears a bowtie. It seems all the smart guys do. I have yet to see The Wise Men so adorned but we might be missing something there.

I think I’ll get one. If I keep my mouth shut, I could pull it off. Maybe.

The Pilgrimage of The Tree

I was chatting with the Sisters about the traditions of Christmases Past, those things that didn’t mean much then but mean so much now.

And one of the best was the annual Pilgrimage of The Tree.

We kids are basically two years apart.  I'm the oldest, then Sister One, and then Sister Two.  It was around 4th or 5th grade (my time) when we began The Pilgrimage. When Mom thought we could cross Merle Hay Road on our own without becoming roadkill. And a tradition was born.

The day of The Pilgrimage would find us being shrink-wrapped by Mom with multiple layers of shirts, coats, scarves, and hats.  It was usually a cold, windy day in Iowa with more ice than snow on the ground.

We’d take my sled since it was the longest and off we'd waddle toward an adrenaline-laced game of Reality Frogger on Merle Hay Road to get to the perfect tree waiting at the HyVee grocery store.

The long line of Christmas trees leaned patiently against the side of the store in a long, forest-like double layer, all suffering from a bad case of bed-head due to being stuffed into a semi trailer. So each tree had to be fluffed, primped, and thoroughly inspected at least once. And since one tree looks pretty much like the other, there was some redundancy in our inspection process.

We didn't realize it at the time, but the same thing happened every year.  There was the inspection, that dragging/holding/dropping of the trees, and then we’d find - The One.  Usually Sister Two, the youngest, would find it.  She had an eye for such things.

If the tree had been a dog, it would’ve been the runt of the litter - with no tail,  a case of the mange, and missing an ear.  That was The One.

And then came The Blessing that made it official, administered by each of us in turn.

“It looks lonely." "No one will take this one home.  It'll be left by itself !" "Don't worry, little tree, we love you."

Onto the sled it would go, towed back home by happy hearts and joyous anticipation.

Chattering excitedly as the layers were peeled away, we’d tell Mom about the cutest, most loveable tree in the whole world.  She’d smile sadly and sigh, “Another one of those, huh?"

By the third year, she wouldn't even go outside to look at it.  She'd just get the tools ready and have a fresh pot of coffee ready for Dad when he got home. He’d cut and drill and wire branches until it looked like the one in the Christmas ads on TV…as long as you left that one side facing the corner.

It was years later before we realized all the work Mom and Dad did to make those trees look good. Years before we realized the gift they gave us by letting us pick out the trees. A gift that is now a treasured Christmas memory shared with our kids.

And about the time Mom stopped coming out to see the tree, an American Holiday tradition was born. Coca-Cola decided to sponsor a show called "A Charlie Brown Christmas". And guess what kind of tree ol' Chuck brought back?

Yep.  He found The One.

We kids were geniuses. But Dad had a different way of phrasing it.

I don't think Dad liked Charlie Brown.

It's Christmas, So I Wonder Where It Is...

I'm sitting at the "dining room" table since it's roughly in that part of the Dining/Living/Family/Computer Room, a couple of hours before dawn. It's just me, a steaming cup of The Elixir of Knowledge, and the Christmas Tree huddled in the corner just four feet away.

Nice tree. Not all that memorable, but nice. Get's the job done. Like that kid at McDonald's who is fairly articulate, can count change without moving lips, and gets the order right. A pleasant event but not memorable.

A swig of The Elixir articulates the thought. Christmas no longer packs that wallop of giddy anticipation. Not like those Christmases spent with the Sears Toy Catalogue that tethered the three of us kids to the floor all morning. Long hours turning pages, ohhhhing and awwwwwing at the brilliant pictures, and never fixating on the small, black print of the prices.

Since two out of the three kids were sisters, we'd linger FOREVER on the doll pages, the doll house pages, and the Easy-Bake "light bulb" ovens.  Then we'd absolutely ZIP through the toy guns, the toy tools, and all the really good stuff. But there were bikes, sleds, and toy horses we'd study and dream on together, so it all worked out.

Another deep pull of the Elixir - and another epiphany.

I wonder where the wonder went? That amazing awe. Where’s all that barely suppressed excitement that was finally unleashed with squeals of joy as flying shreds of wrapping paper revealed  - The GIFT!.

When did I start fixating on the small black print and ignoring all those brilliant pictures?

I stand up and stretch. My eyes sweep across the top of the piano where the Nativity Set resides. And in the center of the Set, huddled between a kneeling Mary and Joseph, is The Gift.

For years I've read and memorized all of those small black words.  Words I read with the joyless determination of a junior accountant doing an annual audit. Words that are important, words that frame what I seem to be missing. What I’ve forgotten.

I forgot the big beautiful picture of The One that bursts open every day with sunrise and tucks me in with the starlit night. I want to see Christmas through "kids-eyes" again.  I need to sit cross-legged on the floor, next to The Most Precious Gift as He turns the pages of Life, and laugh in amazement as He smiles and points to a special gift, then another, and another...

Wow.

I head for the kitchen for a refill of The Elixir when it hits me.

Wait 'til we all get to His place and start unwrapping THOSE gifts - now that'll be a Christmas, eh?

Whoopi-Ti-Yi-OhVay… Get Along, Little Woolies

Late last night I went outside which is unusual for me. Not the outside. The late part. I'm a Ben Franklin type of guy.

"Early to bed and early to rise gives a man a chance for an afternoon nap."

The nighttime sky was fairly clear, more stars than clouds. The Big Storm had yet to arrive.

Standing outside turned into a brief encounter as the siren call of The Chair and the woodstove tugged me inside. And since I was dressed in a t-shirt, shorts, and barefoot in zero degree weather, it was preordained to be a “brief encounter”.

Once inside I settled into The Chair and promptly fell asleep.

Now it’s morning. I'm brewing The Elixir Of Knowledge and making breakfast. The Elixir begins to dribble from the Kuerig as my thoughts flow to last night.

Wide open windy skies versus a cozy chair by the fire.

I ponder the part of the shepherds in The Nativity story. They were the first to know something special was going on. Other than Mary and Joseph. And the donkey.

Shepherds must be the Eastern version of cowboys. “Wide open sky”-type of people. Somewhat wild and unruly. I can't see shepherds breaking up a saloon after a sheep drive, but I bet they had some kind of reputation at bar mitzvahs.

Like cowboys, they weren't that concerned with social standing, protocol, and prestige. They chose to live out under the open sky. I imagine them out there on the hillside, softly singing to the sleeping flock.

"Whoopi-ti-yi-ohvey, get along, little woolies."

And that's why they saw the angel choir and were the first to know about God’s Greatest Gift. Their venue of choice allowed room for a multitude of the Heavenly Host.

Bethlehem had a lot of full homes and occupied hotel rooms that night. Nice little rooms with sturdy walls protecting stuff and things, nicely placed and arranged. Rooms where there wasn't enough space for an angelic duet, let alone a choir.

No room for a mighty work of God.

I take a sip and The Elixir floats up a question. A question I don't want to hear or think about but when you're the only one around, you get the job.

"Will I stay safe in my little neat-and-secure room or will I walk out under the wide open sky and see what incredible thing God will do?"

Nuts. Why am I the only one here?

It’ll take a leap of faith, this living under an open sky. Trusting Him for everything. Living a life of wild abandon.

To do that, things are gonna hafta change. Like letting go and letting God.

And I’ll hafta learn how to yodel like Roy, Dale, and Trigger…in a kosher kind of way.

“Whoopee-ti-yi-ohvey - get along, little woolies."

Carol of the Shells

I love Christmas songs. Within the first 5 notes, Christmas memories flood my mind, pour over into my heart and, sometimes, leak out my eyes in cherished rememberance.

The Carol of the Bells brings up a Holiday memory that I scribbled down eight years ago. A true story. Well, most of it.

Here it is…

TechnoBoy and I are attempting to make hardboiled eggs. The boiling part we got. I take the eggs off the stove, dumping the hot water into the sink, receiving only first degree burns. TechnoBoy takes over and baptizes the eggs in cold water. Full immersion..

We know we need to let them sit. We have no clue how long. After two minutes our ADD kicks in and we wander into the Dining/Living/Computer/Family Room. of the Little-House-On-The-Corner. TechnoBoy plops down in front of his computer as I plop down into The Chair.

An hour later one of us remembers the eggs on the way to The Reading Room.

”Hey!”, I bellow, "Get in here and help me peel."

"Dad, you got this. You can grasp the technology,  I know you can."

"Nice.  Get in here."

We start cracking shells, shells that have now melded with the egg to form a singularity. Eggs that should be smooth and white turn out as pockmarked as the lunar surface. Chunks of egg glued to shells litter the table.

There's probably an obscure state law prohibiting what we were doing to those eggs. If not, there should be..

"I'll get the blender," says TechnoBoy, "it'll be quicker and more humane."

"Don't be silly”, I bark as I set a cratered egg on the plate.

"Gimme a screwdriver."

I grab the last egg. The shell is already cracked with multiple fissures. I begin to peel and one big piece comes off to reveal a perfectly smooth, bald, white egg..

Like I walked out into a cornfield and lifted the ball cap off an old Iowa farmer..

I put the eggs in the fridge, get a cup of The Elixir of Knowledge, and plop down in The Chair. Technoboy is back on his computer, earphones and mic lock and loaded for a multi-player game.

I stare out the window. An uneasy thought forms as the cracked egg sits on my mental toboggan, The Elixir of Knowledge pushing it towards the edge.

Do I hold onto my shell, my world, so tightly that the change He wants is - agonizing? Or do I let Him crack my shell, letting go, letting Him peel where He wants to reveal what He wants?

The mental toboggan noses downward. And off we go. A Christmas song morphs into different words.

"The Carol of the Bells" is now changed forever.

“Please break my shell,
So they can tell,
You're changing me,
Let the world see…

Please break my shell.

Please break my shell.

Please ... break ... my ... shell.”

Yeah. I suppose it's time to get crackin'.

Wiggling Fingers & Puffing Cheeks

Father's Day is this Sunday.  The church usually gives the men a little something. It usually has a Scripture on it.   A pen.  A bookmark.

Personally, I'd kinda like a coupon for a big burger, .but the thought is nice.

One Father's Day, during "empty nesting", we got back from church and the Wife went down for a nap.  It was just me and The Chair.  And the best thing on TV was a Public Television show called "Great Performances".

I watched this big orchestra and a huge choir being admonished by a bald-headed guy in a Nehru jacket slashing away with a stick.

I settled back deeper, my mind quietly riding the mellow stream of music flowing from the TV.   My thoughts turned over the memories of being a Dad.

Bringing babies home.  Playing.  Teaching 'em stuff.  Reading.  Cuddling.  All the good stuff.

Then the Nehru jacket-guy began to air-whip the group into a growing, thundering anthem.  Suddenly a filing cabinet in my mind slid open and all the regrets of fatherhood started to spill out.

And there, peeking out of a file, was the face of...Merle.

Merle.  Now WHY would I remember Merle on Father's Day while watching Public Television?

Oh.  Yeah.  Okay.

Merle was this really tall skinny kid a year behind me in high school.  Good guy.  We both played clarinet in the school band.

My senior year, the Band Director slapped together a clarinet quartet for District Competitions.

There was Cindy, who could actually play because she would actually practice, some other kid I don't remember, Merle, and me.

Not exactly what you'd call a "Dream Team".

The Band Director gave us the music two months before.

"OK.  Practice this every day.  You can do it!"

A command that ranked right up there with "clean your room" and "eat your vegetables".

I took the music home.  And I did look at it.  It was like some madman with a brush full of ink kept sneezing.

Dots.

Lotsa dots.

And over the next two months, I would practice for 15 minutes, lose heart, and retreat to something I was good at.

(It should be noted that shooting baskets has no transfer of skill to the clarinet.)

The day of reckoning arrived.  The four of us sat in a small room in front of a judge who's body language stated he was in the third year of a ten year sentence - with no chance of parole.

I sat next to Cindy, across from Merle, his face easily clearing the music stand.  Off to the left, I saw the judge bracing for the onslaught.

Cindy gave a soft chant, "1...2...3" and made a downward motion with her clarinet.

And we're off.

I mean, really, we were off.

Cindy was in hot pursuit of the stampede of notes, the other kid doing a decent job of staying with her.

I spun out on the first page as the quartet started to sound a bit thin.

My eyes flew around the pages.

Oh, momma...where are we?

I puffed my cheeks and wiggled my fingers, my instrument silent, searching for a landmark to get back on track.

I glanced over the top of the music stand.  Merle's squinting face was hunched forward, his cheeks puffed, his fingers wiggling.

He wasn't playing either.

We made eye contact.  He suddenly stopped, screwed a half-smile around the mouthpiece, shrugged, then dove back into it, trying to find that landmark.

A couple of minutes later, we found the current note, got on the same page, and staggered over the finish line together.

So, on this Father's Day, I'm taking Merle's lesson to heart.  And it might be the most important lesson about Fatherhood.

"Don't give up."

When I don't know what I'm doing and the music has gotten away from me, I need to keep wiggling my fingers and puffin' those cheeks.

Frantically watching, and praying, and loving.

And never giving up.

I have a Father who always watches over me.  He knows the tune and He never gives up. 

So, He'll help me play The Dad's Tune.  And He reminds me, "don't ever give up."

And, now, if I may ask a favor of you, dear reader...

Would you mind turning the page for me?

I'm kinda busy wiggling here.

Thanks.

Of Trees and Storms

I stare out the window on a overcast winter morning.  So.  There's a new sheriff in town.  And like those old Western movies, it can go either way. 

     I voted for the old Sheriff.  Others voted for the new.  I was ready to get my undies in a bundle when the proof of the allegations came in...and were ignored.

     I take a deep pull of The Elixir of Knowledge.  Now we stand on the cusp of a new Administration with the backing of both Houses.  The Elixir pulls out a 33 1/3 memory from an old black & white TV show the family used to watch:

     "...and AWAAAAAY we go!"

     But I don't think this will be a comedy.

     Another swig washes the memory away, only to replace it with something i read early this morning.  The image of a tree. And it’s not growing in Brooklyn..

     Huh.  From Sitcoms to Dendrology.  That's a different kinda leap.

     But this was not just any tree.  It was a special tree, planted in a special place.  It’s the tree found three verses into the Book of Psalms.

     Quite the tree.  And the reason it's flourishing is the fertilizer that is liberally applied in verses one and two.

     A tree firmly planted.  Bearing fruit.  Weathering the storm.  Keepin' on keepin' on.

     Another draught brings up a bit of the eulogy at the funeral of Peggy Carter in the movie, "Captain America: Civil War":

     ”Compromise where you can. And where you can’t, don’t. Even if everyone is telling you that something wrong is something right, even if the whole world is telling you to move. It is your duty to plant yourself like a tree, look them in the eye and say, no. You move.”

     Huh. A tree. Like Cap. Like Antipas of Pergamum.

     Okay.  I get it. 

     My job isn't to rail at the weather.  Or scream at the storm.  My job is to be that tree.  Bearing fruit.  Firmly planted.  And unmoving from the place and grace it's planted in. Weathering the storm.

     I drain the last of The Elixir then turn back to my life.

‘Nuff said.

Yodeling with the Christmas Shepherds

I stand among the freshly-shining stars and the nip of a faint breeze as it glides over the snow.  It's just a few steps from the backdoor to the kitchen window where the two plastic birdfeeders hang.

Birdfeeders that must by brought inside every night to stop the pillaging of midnight deer.  Deer that tap the feeders against the window like Poe's raven against the window lattice.  That kinda stuff is creepy at two in the morning.

And since my trip is only a few steps long, I'm in t-shirt and shorts with bare feet jammed into old slippers.  I am reminded of this by the aforementioned breeze.

Back inside, I set the birdfeeders on top of the dryer, kick off the snow-covered slippers, and navigate toward The Chair by the woodburner.  On the way through the kitchen, I'm joined by a hot cup of the Elixir of Knowledge.

I sit, sip, and thaw, watching the fire dance and tumble behind glass doors.  But it’s like the night sky calls me.  I walk over to the window to stand, sip, and stare at the stars as they dance and sparkle between Dan and Loni's garage and Brad and Micki's Christmas decorations.

Huh.   My head swivels between The Chair and the fire then back to the night sky and the stars.  The Elixir of Knowledge brings to mind shepherds huddled around a small ring of stones and an even smaller fire that dances with the wind, all under a star-encrusted sky.

Those guys were the first to know that something incredible had happened.  Well, other than Mary and Joseph.   And the donkey.

Shepherds are like the Middle Eastern version of cowboys.  A "wide open sky"-type of folk.  Kinda wild and unruly.   I can't see a trio of shepherds winning a bar fight in a saloon but I bet they could hold their own if a bar mitzvah got outta hand.

And can't you just hear 'em out on that hillside:

"Whoopy-ti-yi-oh-VEY, herd it up, little woolies..."

People of the Open Sky.  Not overly concerned with social standing, big bucks, or protocol.  Just wanting, or perhaps needing, wide open spaces and skies.

And that's why they saw the Angel Choir and were the first to know of The King's Arrival.   Their venue of choice allowed room for a multitude of the Heavenly Host.

There were a lotta homes and buildings down in the town of Bethlehem.  Proper buildings.  Sturdy houses.  Nice little rooms.  Comfortable furnishings.  Safe.  Secure.

But places lacking enough room for an angelic duet, let alone a choir.

No room for a mighty work of God.

I take a long pull of the Elixir which promptly floats up a question that stops in front of my mind's eye.

"Am I gonna stay safe in my little, controlled room of a world or walk out under the wild and  open sky to see what incredible thing God can do?"

I look around.  There's no one else to answer the question.

Huh.  I turn back to the window.  If I make that decision, some things have gotta change.  I'll need to change my lifestyle.  I'll need to prepare and plan to live an outdoor life...and then move out where God is.

And I s'pose I'll need to learn how to yodel like Roy and Dale, Gene Autry, and the rest of the Cowboy Elite...but in a kosher kind of way.

"Whoopy-ti-yi-oh-VEY..."

"Santa Finds Christmas"

1) He crept to the window while everyone slept.

His white hair and beard, uncombed and unkempt.

2) Santa sighed as he whispered to the dark, frozen night.

"I feel sad about something. There's something not right."

3) "I love that the elves make those wonderful toys,

that brighten the smiles of the world's girls and boys."

4) "But something is missing...and it bothers me so.

There is something else...but just what, I don't know."

5) He turned from the window, still shaking his head,

and saw his suit lying on the chair by the bed.

6) He tugged on his pants, his shirt, and his cap,

Then yawned to himself, "Maybe just a quick nap".

7) His weary eyes closed as he fell back to sleep.

His snoring began with a snort and a peep.

8) He smiled as he dreamed that an Angel stood near,

who bent down to whisper so near to his ear.

9) "Go hitch up your reindeer to that magical sleigh,

And follow this Star. It will show you the way."

10) And so, in his dream, Santa followed the Star,

whose golden bright light led him away and afar.

11) It stopped and stood still over a small little town.

Then a lone ray of light beamed down to the ground.

12) Santa parked his red sleigh in the street by a door

as two shepherds ran up, soon joined by four more.

13) They rushed into the stable but soon they came out,

laughing and shouting and running about.

14) Santa knocked on the door. "Please, come in", someone said.

Santa opened the door and ducked down his head.

15) Inside the dark stable there was just enough light

So Santa could see a most wonderful sight.

16) There stood a white lamb, a brown cow, and black goat

who gazed at a Baby, asleep on a coat.

17) Someone walked up beside him and stood very near.

It was the bright Angel, who spoke soft and clear.

18) "This is the "something" you wanted to find.

God's gift of salvation for all of mankind."

19) Santa knelt as he took the hat off his head.

"This is what's missing. It's Jesus.", he said.

20) Santa woke from his dream, then knelt by the chair.

He bowed his white head as he whispered a prayer.

21) "Thank you, dear God! I will always remember

to keep Christ in my Christmas each and every December."

Merry Christmas to All...and God Bless!

Grace in a Time of Outhouses

I'm parked in the chair on The Veranda, my cup of The Elixir Of Knowledge steaming into a spring morning that still frosts car windows.

          I stare at slow-coloring clouds and think of...outhouses?!  Huh.  My mind's eye sees one particular outhouse.  An outhouse from which legends were made. 

          Dad grew up during The Great Depression.  But that's not how 9-year-old kids knew it.  To them, it was just life.   A life of friends and adventures and all that it entailed. Adventures ranged from "Wow, this is so cool!" to "I'll never listen to you again!" to "Mommy!!!".   The end is what makes an adventure memorable The greater the adventure, the greater the ending.   Good or bad. Here’s an example.

          If you popped a Mentos into your mouth and took a swig of Coke you'd have a foamy adventure reminiscent of the mad cows in "Hud".

          Pop a six-pack of Mentos, chug a Coke, and you blast right up the Adventure Scale.  A blast that comes out your nose.  And all over your shirt, pants, and anyone nearby.  It's a stupid thing to do, right? But I do miss that shirt…and the party was kinda boring anyways.

          And that brings us to a key ingredient of any adventure.  Stupidity.  Youth and peer pressure allow for the maximum dose of stupidity, exponentially increasing the odds of a disastrous ending.   An adventure more or less doomed from the start - but, ohhhh so memorable.

          Dad's adventure was on an Iowan Halloween night in a small town.  But it was birthed and incubated over a week earlier by a conversation at the barber shop.

          "Them durn kids ain't knockin' over my outhouse this year."

          "Whaddaya mean, Earl Brown?"    (Author's choice...Dad forgot his name.)

          "They ain't knockin' it over.  I made special mod-ee-fa-kations.  Can't be done."

          The gauntlet was thrown.  An adventure was born.

          Word spread through town faster than salmonella at a church picnic.   Wherever two or more adults gathered to gossip, the challenge was echoed.

      "Old Brown said they ain't knockin' over his outhouse this year."

          On that moonlit Halloween night, Earl Brown's back porch was full of adults and beverages, awaiting the culmination of the challenge.

          Three homes away, under the muted glow of a street light, a herd of kids congregated in the alley.  This distance, according to one of the ring leaders, should let them reach maximum velocity before impact.  Or as the ring leader put it, "We'll hit that sucker like a tonna bricks!".  That’s the kind of eloquence that lets kids be ring leaders and gets politicians re-elected.

          The horde sprinted off with a fervor that would've made Attila the Hun proud.  They thundered down the alley and swooped up into the yard.  Dad’s heart was in the deed but his inseam didn't allow the speed.   He was toward the back of the pack as they turned into the yard.  A blessing in disguise.

          There was a loud noise on impact, followed by cries, wails, and the kicking of feet.

          The outhouse was still upright.  The modifications had allowed it to slide over four feet.  Just far enough to expose the hole.   And at the bottom of this hole were four of the fastest kids in town, up to their waist in...waste.

          The uproar of laughter from the porch rolled over the befuddled youngsters.   Dad crept up to the abyss and peeked over the edge.  His best friend looked up at him, crying, covered in the Browns' brown.

          Someone brought a ladder over and stuck it in the hole.  The few, the cowed, the humiliated, climbed out.  The laughter washing over them did nothing to remove the clinging poo.

          Dad walked his friend back home.   Social distancing was not a problem.  His mother was waiting on the front porch.  Back then, the local switchboard and gossip circles were the internet of a small town.  And it was faster than dial-up.

          "No way, mister.  Go-sit-in-the-ri-ver-un-til-you-are-clean.  Then get to the back door for a hosin'."

          The two boys turned away with that Christmas Eve feeling Mary and Joseph must've had.  They walked the few blocks to the river.  Dad sat on the bank as his friend sat neck-deep in the muddy water.  They talked and waited until his friend, like Naaman, could exit the river with his problem washed away.

          I lean back, staring at nothing.  I've had a few adventures like that.   Adventures that didn't end well.  A pull of the Elixir brings it into focus.   Stupidity.   Yeah.   That's what the Book calls "sin". 

          I've been down in that outhouse hole. Had no clue how to get outta the poo.   And no one offered a ladder.  Or even a hand.

          Just backbiting laughter.  Polite ridicule.  Quiet condemnation.

          Then He walked past the onlookers and jumped in, wading over to me as he hooked his fingers.  He put his back to the wall and smiled.

          "Let's get you outta here."

          He boosted me out of that hole then walked with me down to a River that was crimson red.  He smiled and nodded.  I waded in and went under, coming up clean.

          "Here, put these on.  Gimme your old stuff."

          He handed me a new set of clothes that matched His.   The smell of waste and death was gone, replaced with the incredible smell of clean.   It had the aroma of life and hope.   Of forgiveness and purpose

          I blink at the clouds with misty eyes and sigh, almost overcome with the realization.   Whatta Friend, eh?   I am soooo glad that stupidity can never erase Grace.

Because He promises it won't.

And that's more than good enough for me.

The Green Monkey Solution

Art Linkletter was right when he said, "Kids say the darndest things".  He made a living off a TV show of the same name.  It all began when he sat down to talk to his oldest son, Jack, who had just returned from the first day of Kindergarten.

From that conversation sprang the TV show that ran from 1952 to 1970 as well as several best-selling books.  All were about letting kids give their unrehearsed and candid views on life.

Out of the mouths of babes, eh?

I had a Linkletter experience just a few weeks back.  We have three grandkids: Girl Sr., Girl Jr., and Solo Son.  Girl Sr. is going to be 5 soon, Girl Jr. just turned 3, and Solo Son has rounded his first year and crawling full-bore to his second.

Girl Jr. was celebrating her birthday with a ”Blue Party". Everything was blue.  The cupcakes, the decorations, even the sweet potatoes and mac'n'cheese (her two favorites) had the disturbing pallor of something found dead on the tundra just south of Barrows, Alaska.

Girl Jr. loved monkeys.  And unicorns.  And princess stuff.  All of which MUST be blue - hence the party theme.

I found a blue monkey on sale.  It was a squishy simian which came with two of its buddies, a red monkey and a green monkey.  Together they made up the visual story of "See/Speak/Hear-No-Evil".

Thinking like a grandpa, I figured that Girl Jr. could have the blue monkey and Girl Sr. and Solo Son could duke it out for the other two.  There was no duking.  Girl Sr. took the red one and handed the green one to Solo Son.  He promptly stuck it in his mouth and crawled off like a Marine private under the barbed wire of a live-fire experience.

Friends and family were gathered for the Blue Party.  Within an hour from the first tear of wrapping paper, Girl Jr. was in a state of blue numbness.  Blue toys, blue dresses, and stacks of coloring books lay piled around the living room. The sweet potatoes, mac'n'cheese, and cupcakes had come and gone.  Adults lounged around, downing coffee and sparkling waters as Girl Jr., Girl Sr., and Solo Son moved from pile to pile.

Our daughter, mother of The Three, tried to bring an educational moment to the aftermath.  She held up the blue monkey who had its hands over its mouth.

"Do you know what this means, honey?"

Girl Jr. gave it a quick look/shrug and went back to her current toy fixation.  The Daughter did not give up.

"See the hands over the monkey's mouth?  That means "speak no evil"."

She got up and corralled the other two monkeys.  Holding up the red one with its eyes covered, she tried again.

"And what is the red monkey telling us?"

Girl Jr. did a half-hearted glance-and-shrug.  The Daughter plowed on.

"See.  He has his hands over his eyes.  That means "see no evil"."

She reached for the final monkey, the green one, who had its hands over its ears.

"Look, honey.  What is this one saying?"

Girl Jr. looked at the monkey then stared at her mother.  She carefully put down her toy and stood up.  Then, in a blur of motion, she slapped her hands over her ears and yelled -

"OHMYGOD!"

She dropped her hands, stooped down to get her toy, and wandered out of the living room.

Startled silence exploded into the snorts, barks, and wheezes of uncontrolled laughter.  Yep.  One of those moments that would've gone viral if we would've been ready.  A "million-hits" video that only lived a second.

On the three-hour drive home, I chuckled each time it replayed in my head. An hour from home, I drained the last of the Elixir of Knowledge from the convenience store cup - and that's when it hit me.

Girl Jr. had it right.  When my hands slap my head in abject despair and confusion, I should follow her lead and call out to the One who knows.

The One who cares.

"O my God!”

David, a man after God's own heart, shouted it in the dark times, in those fearful, "I-dunno-what-to-do" times.  Nehemiah did, too.

Maybe that's why He tells us to be like children.  Children who cry out and run to their Abba, unashamed and trusting.

Truth - out of the mouths of babes.

I think Mr. Linkletter would've enjoyed that.

A Knock At The Door

A knock at the door. 

Great.  Just what I need.  Another vacuum or brush.  Or tract.  Or magazine subscription. 

I open the door.  A sigh of annoyance escapes as my cherubic demeanor takes wing. 

"It's You." 

"Hi, again.  You really need to sell me Your home.  It's falling apart." 

Okay.  This is starting to frost my cookies. 

"Whaddaya mean "falling apart"?!  I have the nicest lawn on the block.  This house gets painted on a regular basis - that particular shade of white is expensive, too.   "Marble Sepulcher".  And the application process is very labor-intensive.”  

"May I come in?" 

"Not right now.  I'm pretty - "

"What's that smell?" 

I step back and do a "turn'n'sniff". 

"I don't smell anyth - " 

He's standing beside me. 

"You raising livestock in here?" 

"Hey, I find that statement, uh, olfactionally discriminating.  What a person does in the - " 

"Why are there holes in the wall?" 

"That's - that's an anger management technique that -  " 

"And the trash and garbage stacked in all these piles.  A new recycling technique?" 

"Listen, You need to lea - " 

He turns to me.  There's a sadness in His eyes as He points. 

"What's that oozing from under the door over there?" 

"What - what door would..." 

I follow His finger.  That door.  To that room.  A room I've been trying to clean out for years.  And it keeps getting worse.  No matter what I do.

His voice is gentle. 

"I can clean that room. And the entire house.  It'll be place where you can live unafraid.  A place where you can invite others in.  But you must give it, all of it, to Me." 

"Give?!  My house?!  Listen, I worked hard for it...and...okay, okay, it needs a bit of cleaning.  On the inside.  But You saw the outside, right?   Marble Sepulcher.  And those rhododendrons.  They're very pricey. 

He looks at me.  There's something in His gaze.   Not condemnation.   Not pity.   More like - love.   A direct, intense love.   Pure and bright as the sun. 

I start to crumble. 

"Why don't we do this?  I'll let You do some cleanup and in exchange I can...uh, do something for You.  Kind of a quid pro quo deal?   One hand, you know, washes the other." 

The love in His eyes grows more intense. 

"No.  You must give it all to Me.  Everything.  Even that room.  The trash, the garbage, the rhododendrons.  Everything." 

The idea of bargaining is gone.  I hear myself pleading. 

"But can't we share it?  You and me, we - " 

"No.  It can be your house, or it can be My house.  It cannot be our house." 

He holds out a small business card.  It's blood red. 

"When you decide to sell, let Me know." 

I take the card.  There's nothing on it.  He steps outside.

"Hey, how do I - " 

He smiles back as He waves. 

"I'm never far away.  Just stand in the doorway, hold up that card….and I'll be here."

Cotton Candy Expectations

I like sunrises so here I am, on the Veranda, sitting in the dark with a hot cup of the Elixir of Knowledge.  It's a half-hour before sunrise according to the Weather Channel.

The Little-House-On-The-Corner is parked at N 46 Degrees latitude, (technically 45.917 and change), so the summer sunrise shows up early.  Today, it's 5:07.  That's in Daylight Savings Time.  Real Time is 4:07.  Which means it's getting light around 3:30 AM - in Real Time.

I always want a "cotton candy" sunrise.  Shining pink balls of fluff.  Bright pink swipes.  A horizon glowing pink with the promise of a new day. Yeah. Cotton candy. Orange, gold, and yellow sunrises are OK.  But I really like "cotton candy" sunrises.

I listen to the drone of mosquitoes and the fast-food call of chickadees, ("cheeez-bur-gur"), but my expectations are low.  The sky is a worn blanket of grey flannel, thread-bare in some spots, bunched and puckered in others.  Nuts.  Might as well write this morning off.  Out comes the iPhone to check emails and texts.  My head is down, my attention bent earthward by the gravitational pull of the Apple in my hand.

I glance up while taking a swig of the Elixir.   The northeast horizon has a faint line of reddish-pink that weaves through the pines.  But with this much grey?  No display today.  Nothing to see here. Move along. I go back to the iPhone.

Another swig brings my eyes up.   I stop in mid-sip.   The Eeyore-grey blanket has small bumps and lumps of glowing Piglet-pink.  The iPhone is forgotten.

Un - be - liev - a - ble.

Cotton candy spreads as clouds ignite.  Gossamer pink tendrils and clumps of pink cotton balls begin to dapple the greyness.

Wow.

A nagging thought snags my mind. I was disappointed this morning and its funk still clings to me like wet grass clippings.  There's boatloads of "cotton candy" now, but it didn’t seem possible just minutes ago..

My expectations of what was needed for a "cotton candy" sunrise labeled this morning a bust - even before the sun had a chance to shine.

I’ve missed something.  Something important.  A quick quaff of the remaining Elixir sparks a caffeinated epiphany. Oh.

My expectations of God requires Him to do the things I want in a way I would understand and approve.  But God is not a "God-In-The-Box", tied to my Checklist of Approved Methods.

No.  The Lion of Judah is not a tame lion. He is God.

So there's a difference between "expectations" and "expectancy". One I should always remember.

From now on, I'll watch the sunrise with the expectancy that it'll be perfect.  It might be pink or grey, wet or dry, clear or cloudy...but it will be exactly the way He wants it.  It's the morning He wants to give me today because it’s perfect for me.

Because He loves me.  Perfectly.

Expectation only allows God to send a ferry boat across the Red Sea. And I pace the length of the dock, anxious, fretting, and listening hard for approaching chariots.

Expectancy says it's OK. He's got this. And I rest in that thought as I feel the breeze pick up and hear the roaring birth of a miracle.

So.

I'll be back here tomorrow, sitting in the dark, sipping hot Elixir.

Waiting.

Expectantly.

And it’s gonna be perfect.

When the Captain is no longer the Captain....

Read an article this morning. Chris Evans is wrapping up his role as Captain America aka Steve Rogers. It looks like the next Marvel film, the last half of “Infinity War”, will be Cap’s swan song.

In the first film, aptly named “The First Avenger”, Cap took on Hitler’s Evil Empire. At the end of the movie, there’s a kid leading a pack of street rats, brandishing a trash can lid with a white star in the middle of it. I had the same thing, leading our merry band of idiots into dirt clod fights against the unwashed horde of dirty, sweating neighbor kids. Epic battles of dirt clods and dust under a hot Iowa sun.

Captain America. Someone who embodied what America was all about. Heroic. Brave. Taking the lead. Doing the right thing. Never giving up.

“I can do this all day”-type of guy.

And now - he’s a guy named Steve Rogers in a unobtrusive, unexceptional dark outfit. A citizen of the world, a good fighter but no longer representing something bigger than himself. Still a nice guy with a good moral compass. Still a more-than-adequate fanny-kicker, blending seamlessly into the montage of heroic good guys. Nice beard.

But something has been lost

I took three years of first year French, two in high school and one in college, (didn’t really take to it very well), but I do remember a phrase that’s stuck with me all these decades.

Raison d’etre. “Reason to be”. The dictionaries define it as “reason or justification for existence”. “The most important reason for someone or something’s existence “.

If we lose our “reason to be”, we become - what? Or as I’ve read a few times, “If the salt loses its saltiness…it’s no longer good for anything”.

My pseudointellectual pursuit should have stopped there. I could have smugly walked away, “tsk-tsk”ing Stan Lee and crew like an armchair quarterback on a Monday morning.

If only I had left well-enough alone.

I turned to get up and saw my reflection in the window. A guy who tries to be good. A good citizen, a good employee, a good husband and dad. But I’ve been ordered to put on the armor and helmet, to take up the sword and the shield so others can see I am one of the Kings’s warriors, representing something so much bigger than myself. Him living in me. His heroism flowing past my cowardice.

Most of the time, we won’t be aware that others notice the King’s emblem on our lives. A few years back, the Wife went to a local CPA to check our tax returns. The Wife teaches little key-bangers how to crank out “Mary Had A Lamb”. She loves teaching the piano but it’s a small, part-time money maker. The CPA shot her a quizzical look.

“Why are you even reporting this?”

Before the Wife could respond, the CPA noticed the W-3 for her job as church secretary.

“Oh,” she said, “You go to that church.”

Yeah. Armor doesn’t blend in. And it may not be the most fashionable thing to wear. There will be looks and comments. Sometimes outright hatred. But there will be no doubting whose we are and who our King is - but only if we wear the helmet and shield. Just like Cap used to do.

Yeah.

So…to quote another great line from the Marvel Universe -

‘Nuff said.

Broccoli and Alligator Arms

The Elixir of Knowledge sits hot and steaming next to the laptop as I come in for a landing on the desk chair.   Nailed it.   Not bad considering I was maneuvering through a dense mental fog.

The autopilot is on as my fingers stumble across the keys to bring up the morning manna from the Book.

I'm following a reading plan to get through the Book in a year.   It disciplines me to read each line...for, lo. I am inherently a "grazer".  Pick at this.  Munch on that.  "Oh, look - fruits of the Spirit!"  I have an affinity toward the fast-food, burgers'n'fries Book reading.  The easily-read-and-consumed-comfort-food-stuff.

Sometimes this every-line reading can get...well, it becomes more a matter of the will than a matter of enjoyment.  Reading through in a year is like Mom's homecookin' as I was growing up.  Lotsa different things can cross your plate in a year's time.  Mom would look at me from across the table, doing that slow-wave fork-thing moms do, the forerunner of the Jedi hand wave.

"Don't make that face.  They're brussel sprouts.  They're good for you."

I just waded through 27 chapters of brussel sprouts.   And now I'm shuffling through broccoli.

Yeah. 

I take a pull of the Elixir to refocus.  OK.  Hey, wait.  Something's happening.  The people are complaining about the manna.  (Buncha whiners.)  And Moses takes their complaint straight to God.

"They want meat, Lord.  They're tired of manna.  And they want leeks, onions, and garlic, too."

"They want meat instead of My provision?  OK.  I'll give them meat.  Meat for a whole month.  So much they'll get sick of it."

I lean in towards the laptop as Moses says something that I can totally relate to.

"There are over 600,000 warriors alone.  And meat for a month?  We don't have enough livestock to pull that off.  That's impossible!"

A swig of the Elixir brings a flashback of Andrew saying the same thing about five biscuits and two bluegills at The Picnic for 5,000.

And then God says a very God-like thing.

"Have My hands become too short and inadequate to make this happen?  You'll see whether or not I can keep My Word."

I sink back into the chair.   Huh.   That's really the crux of it, eh?

Does God.......have alligator arms? 

Can He do what He says He will do...or not?

That, my fellow hikers on The Walk, is the $64,000 question.

Hey, I'll loudly thump my Bible with the best of 'em, exclaiming He's all-powerful and that nothing is impossible for Him.

But when I feel called by Him to do something  extraordinary, what do I really do?

In my head?  And in my heart?

I inventory my assets.   And I'm lacking - severely lacking - in what is needed to pull it off.

The god in my mirror - that god has alligator arms.

The God of the Book does not.  There is nothing His arms cannot reach and no promise He cannot keep.  God doesn't brag or boast.  He merely states fact.

I need to get my head around this IF I'm going to follow Him completely - to risk everything on what He says to do.  Otherwise I will never let go of the boat.  I'll never answer His call to step out onto the waves.  But if I do, oh baby, the places I'll go and the things I'll see.  All because of one particular eternal truth.

"God doesn't have alligator arms."

Oswald Chambers called it "a life of reckless abandon".  A free fall into Grace.  No bungee cord.  No parachute.  Just complete faith in Him.

Huh.

I shake my head as I take another swig.  Who would've thought that broccoli could be this good.

Biscuits & Bluegills

The Reading Plan this morning has me reclining in the thick grass of a Judean hillside.  I'm within earshot of the Rabbi and his followers so I'm hearing the whole thing.  OK.  The Elixir of Knowledge has me embellishing the story a bit with a kinda "You Are There" flair.

But it's a great story 'bout  little things that become big things when they are given to Him...and broken.

10,000+ hungry people and He gives the Boys an impossible task.

"Feed 'em."

Sounds like another mandate from Upper Managemen, doesn't it?.  "Do the impossible...and do it now!"

But that's the great thing about having Him as my boss.  He only asks of me things that He knows He can do.  He never asks the impossible.  Whatever He asks is possible because He is the I AM, the ultimate possibility.   (And I am NOT.)

So in this Elixir-saturated story, I hear one of the Boys share a discovery.

"Hey, I gotta kid here with some biscuits and a cuppala bluegill.  If that'd help."

And that is all He needs.  He breaks and blesses the kid's Happy Meal and soon there are thousands of full tummies and enough leftovers to give the Boys a nice brunch tomorrow.

Nice story.  Happy ending.

Uhh!  The Elixir gives me a gentle nudge with a cattle prod.

I have this dream.  A dream so small and frail compared to the  reality of life and the world.  But I know the dream is from Him...and I'm supposed to do something with it.  So I give it to Him and trust Him to do the impossible.

And what does He do?

He breaks it.  Seemingly beyond repair.  And then says, "Trust Me."  And I have one of two choices.

I'm in or I'm out.

I believe or I leave.

It happened to the Boys.  He took a dream they had and broke it in front of them, throwing their dream up against the beliefs and rules of the world they knew...and they watched the dream shatter.  A lot of folks left Him that day but the Boys stayed.  Why?

The most Type-A of the bunch said it best.

"Where else we gonna go?  There's nowhere else to go.  We're in."

And the Boys are the ones who saw their dream come true...but not before it was broken beyond any hope of repair - for three days.

Biscuits and bluegills.  Not much of a dream, but it's enough when given to Him to do what He wants.

Even if He breaks it and makes it less.

The last gulp of the Elixir reminds me of a happy consequence.  In His hands, less is definitely more...eventually...so let's see what's gonna happen.  One thing I know for sure...

It's gonna be a hoot.