Love Never Fails

I presided over a wedding this past weekend.  I saw tears, and laughter and celebration.  I saw love and joy and happiness.  My heart always goes out to the couple who are getting married, who are beginning their lives together.  And my heart goes out to their parents who see a wedding not only as a beginning, but as an end; an end that had its beginning at their own wedding; an end that had its beginning in the birth of their son or daughter; an end that began when they brought their newborn child home to live and be raised by them.

The wedding day is also the end of a year of planning and sleepless nights full of checklists and phone calls, hoping that something important has not been forgotten.  Jesus performed his first miracle at a wedding in the town of Cana in response to an important detail being neglected- the wine ran short.  At the request of his mother, Jesus turned 6 pots of water into 160 gallons of fine wine.

Unfortunately, such miracles are not a regular occurrence at most weddings.  So, weddings require courage, patience, fortitude and plenty of planning.  But weddings also require faith; faith that the weather will be good; faith that the flowers will arrive; faith that the slide presentation at the rehearsal dinner will work; faith that everyone at the rehearsal after-party will be at the wedding; faith that the wedding planner really knows what she is doing and can bring all the details together at the appointed time; faith that the minister can remember the small changes made to the ceremony at the rehearsal.

But, beyond and higher than faith, at every wedding there must be love.  In 1 Corinthians 13, Paul says that love never fails.  In a wedding, if love runs as the common thread through all of the details, neither the weather, nor the flowers, nor any of the other problems that may arise will matter much.

This past weekend, I was a witness to such love- the love between two people that transcended all of the details and problems that any wedding presents.  And when the ceremony was over and the couple kissed, I knew we were seeing something eternal; a beginning and an end united by love.

One Spring Morning

The sun was beginning to rise over the trees.  The birds were singing.  Flowers were blooming.  And I was on my way to work.  The car radio was playing and it seemed like the perfect beginning of a spring day in 1990.

Driving on Bartlett Road, I saw in the distance, a car coming toward me; a white car with tinted windows.  The approaching car slowly began to inch its way into my lane.

"What are you doing?" I asked the invisible driver.

The car came closer and inched ever farther into my lane.

"What is he doing?" I asked myself.  I pressed the steering wheel, and honked my car horn.  It was then that I knew we were going to hit.

But then, an odd thing began to happen.  As my mind began to race, the outer world slowed down.  Inwardly I was running on fast forward, but outwardly it was as if someone had hit the slow motion button.

As I watched the car approach, I remember thinking what a beautiful day it was and what a terrible thing to have happen on such a day.  I remember how the sun reflected on the trees, the color of the sky, the fence beside the road, the greenness of the pasture and the mailbox with the line of ducks on the side.

My mind was noticing the smallest details of everything as my instincts, acting on these millions of data points, took over.  I was now watching the scene and acting in it at the same time.

I watched as my hands, gripping the steering wheel with a strength I didn't know I had, cut sharply to the right toward the pasture.  The car jerked as it left the asphalt.  Data continued to pour in.  There were no cows in the pasture.  There was a ditch with a culvert just inches from my right tire.  Bushes- red tips- scratched the side of my car.  A brick mailbox was directly in my path.  The white car was now directly beside me.  I thought of my family at home.  I could see the shadow of the driver through his tinted windows. I was seeing and thinking in all directions at once.

"The timing has to be perfect," I thought, as I turned the steering wheel sharply to the left toward the road to avoid the mailbox and the white car.  My car spun wildly as I missed them both by inches.  I steered the car in the direction of the spin and at the same time looked down the road for other cars in each direction.

I came out of the spin and my car came to a stop on the opposite side of the road, facing the direction from which I had come.  In front of me, the white car drove away, never stopping or even slowing, as if nothing of any consequence had happened.

I rested my head on the steering wheel.  A strange quiet and calm filled me and surrounded me.  I rolled down my window.  The air rushed in and I took a deep breath.  The sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky as I turned the car around and drove to my office.

Revival in the Rain

During my seminary years, I re-united with a friend after he and I had taken some time off from classes for about a year.  "Were you able to rest?" I asked him?  I knew that he was a student Pastor from Tennessee and that he commuted every weekend to Charlotte, North Carolina to attend classes.

"Not really," he said, "but I did meet a person that changed the way I was living my life.  My spiritual life was stale.  I was living in the valley of dry bones, so to speak.  I was praying every day.  I was reading scripture.  But I did not hear God's voice and I wondered if he heard mine. My sermons lacked something, and my relationship with the congregation of my church was suffering.  I thought God had deserted me.  So I increased my efforts.  I worked harder and longer, but the results were the same.

One cold, rainy morning I decided to take some time for myself and go to a local coffee shop; order myself some coffee and a sausage, egg and cheese biscuit; and sit near the window, read my newspaper and watch the rain fall.  But, before I could take a bite of my biscuit I had this feeling I was being watched.  I looked around, but there were only two others besides the woman behind the counter.  I looked out the window.  Standing across the street in the cold rain was a man with an untrimmed beard, wild hair, dirty clothes, staring at me as I attempted to eat.  He looked as if he had been living in the streets for quite a while.  I could not read or eat or drink my coffee because each time I looked up, his eyes burned a hole through me.

I was about to change seats, but then I heard God speaking to me.  After all of those months of silence, I heard God's voice again.  And he said, "Go to him."  Here I was, in a warm, dry coffee shop, with food, and a newspaper to read and the last thing I wanted to do was go out into the cold rain with no umbrella.  But, God is persistent.  "Go to him."  Finally, I went outside and walked up to the man and stood in front of him.  "OK, now what?" I asked silently.  "Put your arms around him," said God.  The man was wet, and dirty and I wanted no part of him.  "Put your arms around him."  So I did.

And God spoke again.  "Tell him that I love him."  "God loves you," I said.  The man did not move or acknowledge what I had said.

"Feed this man." said God.

"But God, I don't have any more money.  I spent it on the sausage and egg biscuit and coffee."

"Feed this man."

So I took the man inside, out of the rain, sat him at my table, and gave him my biscuit and coffee.  The waitress behind the counter had been watching me through the window and when we came in she brought us some towels to dry off.  She also brought me some coffee and another biscuit.

"Who are you?" she asked.

I told her I was a student and a pastor.  "What church do you preach at?" she asked.  I told her.  "I don't go to church." she said.  "But lately I have been wanting to go.  But for some reason I have been waiting.  And now I know why.  I want to go to your church.  I want to know God the way you know God."

After that, things were different for me.  I didn't worry so much about feeling in control, or feeling God's presence.  I know now, deep down, that God is always in control and is always present, no matter how I feel or how hard I strive.  I have quit trying to meet God on my own terms and in my own strength.  I know God is with me.  All I have to do is sit quietly and listen and then obey where he leads.  You can never go wrong being where God wants you to be."

The Dogwood Tree

I planted a Chinese dogwood tree last Sunday with the help of my family and some friends.  We planted it in memory of my daughter’s dog, Heffner, who died of lymphoma on the first day of May, 2014.  After Sunday lunch, we walked into the front yard and found a good spot.  I dug the hole and sat the tree in it.  Erin, my daughter, took Heffner’s ashes from a box the Vet had given her, and carefully scooped a few of his remains into the hole and then we covered the hole with dirt.  And then I prayed that we would be given the strength to move forward and to celebrate and cherish his memory.

Erin and Heffner had been together for almost eight years.  He was just two months or so old when he went to live with her.  Through the years, he had been her constant companion, greeting her each morning when the alarm clock rang, seeing her off to work, and meeting her at the door when she came home.  They watched Lifetime movies on the couch at night, played a version of hide and seek, ate meals together, laughed together, and cried together.  She shared her secrets with him and he never told anyone.  He was a good friend.  He never let her down.

Heffner loved water.  Most dogs don’t like to be bathed but to Heffner a bath was a treat.  Erin once took Heffner to a pond that she and a few of her friends rented for an hour.  Heffner was the first dog into the pond and the last dog out of the pond. 

At the dog park, Heffner ignored the other dogs in favor of the doggie swimming pool or any water source.  He would gather or steal all loose tennis balls and sit with them in the pool of water or mud.

On my desk, I have the tennis balls that Heffner and I played with the last time he was at our house.  He was sick and taking chemo treatments and losing his hair, but he still ran after those tennis balls for all he was worth.  I suppose those tennis balls will be somewhere on my desk for as long as I have my desk. 

Heffner loved to eat and I loved watching him eat.  Erin thought that I over fed him and I suppose that I did (he gained weight each time he stayed with us).  One Christmas he took his eating too far.  We were attending the Christmas Eve service at Church, and Heffner used that opportunity to raid the trash can.  He found a large ham bone, carried it upstairs to the master bedroom, placed the ham bone on our bed, found a favorite toy, took it to our bedroom, climbed up on our bed and feasted on his ham bone for several hours.  This story is told and retold every Christmas and is now part of family legend.

There are a thousand stories that we could all tell about Heffner.  He touched all of our lives, in a good way.  And now we have his ashes and the dogwood tree to remind us of his life and the spirit with which he lived his life.

We will all miss him. 

Wildroot Days

In the late 50's and early 60's the hairstyle that men and boys preferred was a combed, slicked back, wet look.  To achieve this look, we used various hair oils (yes oils), or hair tonics as we called them.  There were tonics in bottles.  There were tonics in tubes.  And later there were tonics in spray bottles.  Some of the many brands available were Vitalis, Wildroot, VO5 and Brylcreem (a little dab will do you).  Many tonics were scented and made your hair smell like a flower garden.

Some hair tonic companies also made shampoo- such as VO5.  My sister once confused my VO5 hair tonic with her VO5 shampoo.  By the time she figured out why her shampoo would not lather she had used half a tube of my hair oil.  Her hair was flat and oily for days.

My friends Joel and Van and I discovered that if we leaned back in our chairs in Sunday School Class and balanced our heads against the sheetrock wall, an oily smudge appeared behind us.  Soon this developed into a contest to see who could make the biggest oil spot.  To win this contest, I selected the oiliest hair tonic I could fined in the house, which I thought was Wildroot.  I slathered it into my hair each Sunday morning.  Joel and Van found their favorite and did the same.  Soon there were 3 large grease spots on the walls of our Sunday School Class.

The years went by and Joel, Van and I grew up and left home. One summer, on a whim, I visited my old Sunday School Class.  The room was the same as I remembered except for a fresh coat of paint.  But, through the paint- very faintly, I could see three oil spots.  "They keep bleeding through." said the custodian. "We don't know where they come from."  So I told him.  "Man, those hair tonics must be some powerful stuff." he said.

But when I looked at those spots on the wall, it was not the hair tonic that I saw.  It was three friends whose lives had intersected for a brief moment in time.  Three friends who were trying to leave their mark in this world; to prove that they existed.  And there on the wall was the persistent proof of our existence; bleeding through the paint, struggling to be seen; their source forgotten by the passing of time.

Yes.  Some powerful stuff.

Forgetting My Brother

I did not own a car while I was living at home.  On the rare occasions that I drove, I drove one of the two family cars- a Rambler or a Buick Le Sabre.  Most of the time I walked to school, but sometimes I was allowed to drive.

One morning, my Dad asked me to drive to school and to take my little brother, Mitch, to his elementary school.  Since Mitch's school let out earlier than my high school, I parked the Rambler in a spot that was midway between the two schools.  Mitch was to walk to the car and lock himself in until I arrived 30 minutes later. Today that plan would be considered insane by all normal people and we would have been arrested for neglect by the Department of Social Services.  But it was a different time in which we lived.

The day passed slowly by as all of my high school days did.  When the final bell rang, I went to my locker, grabbed the books I needed for the night and walked straight home.  Arriving home, I turned on the T.V. and watched some of my favorite Westerns (Cheyenne, Sugar Foot, Maverick) while Mom prepared dinner for the family.

At 5:15 my Dad arrived from work and Mom called us all to the table.  I noticed Mom staring at us, looking at us one by one.  She looked at me; she looked at my sister, Wanda; she looked at my brothers Phillip and Keith.  She looked at my Dad, then back at me and asked the question that I will always remember, "Where is your brother, Mitch?"

I looked at the empty chair beside Dad and slowly it began to dawn on me what I had done.  I had forgotten that I had driven to school.  I had forgotten my brother was to meet me in the car after school.  I had been home for nearly two hours, watching T.V. while eight year old Mitch was who knows where.

I said nothing.  I simply stood up and walked to the door, then ran, like the track athlete I was, the fastest half mile in the history of the world; flying past slow moving cars and neighbors; running by the high school to the street where I parked the car.  I ran up to the car and looked inside.  And there was Mitch- sitting in the driver's seat with both hands on the steering wheel, pretending to be driving.  I unlocked the door, Mitch scooted over, and I drove him home.  Mitch ran into the house, sat down in his chair at the table while I, under the steady gaze of my Mom and Dad, tried not to laugh with my brothers and sister.

This is funny even to this day.  But this story also reminds me that our lives can become so routine, and we can become so focused on the immediate task at hand, that nothing else exists outside our narrow vision of the world.  And when this happens, we forget our brothers and sisters.  But they are there, waiting for us to remember that they exist; that they are people with lives; with hopes and dreams, just like you and me.

In Pursuit of God

Everyone wants to be happy.  Our Declaration of Independence states that one of our inalienable rights is the pursuit of happiness.  So, as Americans, we have a right (given by God) to pursue happiness.  Are we happy?  Maybe. Maybe not.  The World Happiness Report ranks America as the 17th happiest country in the world.  Granted, this is a subjective report, based on how people rate their overall happiness.  But, according to this report, as other nations' happiness rankings are rising, ours is falling.  We currently rank behind Canada, Costa Rica, and Mexico.  Only 33% of our population regard themselves as very happy, down from 35% in 2008 and 2009.  Despite our standard of living and our material wealth we are less happy.  Why is our happiness quotient falling?  The report sites greater instances of depression and anxiety as contributors to our unhappiness.  Age plays a role, with younger people being less happy than older people.

In addition, a very high percentage of people regard themselves as either religious and or spiritual (maybe as high as 90% of our population).  Should these people not be happy?  If a person truly believes in God, a God who is a God of love, a God of mercy and grace, a God who forgives and gives second chances, should this person not be ecstatically joyous?  Should spiritual people (even those who are not religious) not know peace in the midst of chaos?  Should this not be cause for great happiness?

If so, why are we not 90% happy?  Because we have been pursuing our religion and our spirituality as if they are material things.  And in this pursuit, if we are not careful, we may lose our faith in a God of love while pursuing tangible, material proof of God's love through our vision and mission statements; our goals and objectives; our budgets and expense reports; our building renovations; our progress dashboards (with green lights, yellow lights, and red lights); our committees and structures and our systems. God's presence cannot be reduced to the slogan, "if we are not growing we are dying".

It is my belief, that God wants us to be happy.  After all, we were created to be in relationship with God. The fact that we are not happy has more to do with our own failure to take God's hand and walk as a child of God.  Buddha once said, "Your work is to discover your work and then with all of your heart give yourself to it,"  We must discover ourselves as children of God, then with all of our hearts give ourselves to living as children of God.  This is the path to true happiness.