Things we take for granted

Within the past week, as I made my usual brisk trek from train car to the waiting shuttle van, I saw a group of people gathered around a man who had obviously fallen while stepping out of the train.  I recognized the man because I pass him nearly every day.  He is almost certainly younger than I am, walks with a slow limp favoring one leg, assisted by a stylish wooden cane.  He is also taller and heavier than I, so I am sure the fall was painful.  Yet, in his determined struggle to regain his footing, I recognized the same instinct I would have had -- the desire to quickly show my self-reliance, to distance myself from the embarrassment.  And by the time I had made the few more steps to draw even with the group, he had risen grimly to his feet.  I don't know what affliction has left him in need of his cane, but I was reminded again of the simple blessing of being able to get up any morning of the week I desire to jog several miles.

The other source of gratitude came from a more earthy circumstance, the failure of a toilet to flush.  Now, this is not unheard of in our house full of girls.  We have implemented a night-time policy to limit flushing because in the close quarters of our smallish home, a flushing toilet in the quiet of the night reminds one of Niagara Falls.  So, we generally abide by this rule: If it is yellow, let it mellow.  If it is brown, flush it down.  Occasionally, there is just a bit too much mellowness and accompanying paper product to make it down without an assist.  For sixteen years in this house, the faithful, simple plunger had always been enough.  Until Sunday.  After uncounted failed attempts at plunging, and later equally fruitless efforts using a borrowed snake, the plumber was called in.  Some combination of recent trauma and decades of calcification has rendered the toilet unusable and it will need to be replaced.  How quickly our home would be uninhabitable if not for simple sanitation.  And I remembered my Mom grew up with an outhouse…

To walk without a limp and flush without worrying are reasons to be grateful.

KINDERGARTEN

Starting school was an adventure.  I was in a class full of strangers, mostly bigger and older than I.  That I was shy and small for my age was compounded by school district policy.  A child who turned five before December 1st of the school year qualified for kindergarten.  My late October birthday meant I was in, but also meant that only those rare individuals born in November were younger than I.  Meanwhile kids with birthdays in December or January were almost a year older.  If I had been in a district where you had to be five to start kindergarten, my pre-adult life may have been vastly different.  Rather than one of the youngest kids throughout my school years, I would have been one of the oldest.  I can say from personal experience that school bullying, so prominent in the chattering media today, existed in schools nearly 50 years ago in essentially the same form.  Not often in kindergarten, but still there.  By temperament, I was inclined towards avoidance rather than confrontation.  There are those rare small people who thrive on taking on the big, bad guys in any context.  Not me.  My skill was to avoid, hide, look small.  I survived.

MY TEACHER

There was one guiding star in that kindergarten world: my teacher, Miss Stoner.  For the first few days of class, we picked our own spots on the big, square rug that filled the center of the room.  Once I discovered how nice my cute, blond-bobbed teacher was, I wanted to be front and center.  So, I plopped myself as near to her as possible when I sat to start the day.  However, class administration took precedence over student enthusiasm.  Towards the end of that first week, we were arranged alphabetically by last name, which placed me near the back of the class.  By the following Monday, I had forgotten.  A not-yet-five-year-old has more important things to think about over the weekend.  When the bell rang, I dashed in to claim my spot in the front, only to be gently reminded of my assigned seating.  Disconsolately, I trudged to the back row, far away from the reassuring smile.

WHAT I LEARNED

The typical day was simple.  I would usually arrive early enough to catch some swing time on the playground.  At the sound of the bell, 25 or so kids would file into the room and find their name-designated locations on the carpet.  Our teacher would take role.  Then we would do something all morning until nap time.  I don't remember specifics.  Clearly, the intellectual stimulation of kindergarten was not vital to my future scholastic achievement.  Or perhaps I just don't quite understand something the early education experts know.  I vaguely recall sitting in a circle on the rug to listen to a story read by the teacher.  That was nice because once in awhile I would get to sit closer to her than the new standard seating arrangement allowed.  We did a lot with large pieces of paper and crayons, sitting at the tables on our little wood and metal chairs.  Two art projects that year established a trend for my educational experience.  One, a picture of a red-winged blackbird, won first prize at the school exhibit for our grade level.  The other, a picture of my Dad, caused some embarrassment when the teacher pointed out that I had drawn him in a long skirt instead of long pants.  My school years were marked by this combination of scholastic achievement and social awkwardness. 

NAP TIME

I wonder if kindergarten students still nap at school.  That is, as part of the planned curriculum.  Naps were no longer a part of my routine when I started school, so I was perplexed to learn I needed to take a large towel to kindergarten.  The towel was marked so I could identify it and stored in the classroom.  In the early afternoon (after lunch) each child would fetch their towel and jockey for spots on the rug, roll out our towels, and lay down on them.   Two things would happen after I laid my little head to rest.  First, I would watch the legs and feet of my teacher as they moved in and out of my peripheral vision while she patrolled the rug to make sure we were all quiet and still.  The key was to have my eyes closed if she happened to look my way.  Otherwise, I would be subject to a quiet reprimand.  The second event was being roused out of contented slumber by Miss Stoner telling me it was time to go home.

MILK

Another ritual of the kindergarten day was buying a half-pint of milk at lunch.  Part of my daily preparation for school was to make sure I had the requisite nickel in my pocket.  Those milk purchases were important to me.  Days when I didn’t have that nickel threw off my equilibrium as I watched the other kids line up to select their ice-cold wax carton out of the crate.  There was something reassuring about popping the little circular lid off the top of the tall, narrow carton and taking a swig of milk.  It was probably some government dairy subsidy that made the milk available, but my kindergarten mind wasn't bothered with such considerations.

SWINGS

Flying in a swing is one of the great sensations of childhood: a taste of freedom and adventure, within closely defined boundaries.  School provided daily swinging time.  Of course, depending on how you left the swing, it wasn’t always safe.  Once you learned how to swing, the next skill to learn was the flying exit, where instead of dragging your feet and slowing to a stop, you timed your leap from the saddle at some midpoint in your forward swing.  Too early and you are just propelled forward in a staggering walk at ground level with the swing tagging you in the back or head.  Too late and you end up with a vertical exit and hard landing.  If you do it right, you make a nice flying arc and land with your feet moving to the applause of your imaginary audience.  Additionally, I discovered how to swing standing up and ‘bumper battles’ where you and the person in the swing next to you grab onto the support poles on either side and then let fly at each other.

That was the sum of my kindergarten experience: a cute teacher, crayons and paper, story time, milk, and swings.  Though I searched the campus diligently for her the next school year, I never saw Miss Stoner again.  Mom later informed me that she was no longer Miss Stoner, but Mrs. Somebody and had left me to my own devices.  In looking back on my class photo, I was struck by how much my teacher resembled my wife.  In addition to being cute, my wife is also extraordinarily nice, has a great smile, and occasionally sends me to the back row when I get out of line.  Some men marry their mothers, one could say I married my kindergarten teacher. 

31

On July 18, 1981, a young couple blissfully certain of their love and faith made a pledge before God and a crowd of witnesses to be wed until death would separate them.  31 years later, we have learned that love and faith mean so much more when tested by time and trial and trust.  When contemplating marriage, I thought 60 years was an awesome achievement.  A lot of people make it to the golden 50th.  And here we are, already over half way to the diamond.

To commemorate 31 years with deepest affection for my cherished bride, selections from Proverbs 31:
10 A wife of noble character who can find?
    She is worth far more than rubies.
11 Her husband has full confidence in her
    and lacks nothing of value.
12 She brings him good, not harm,
    all the days of her life...
15 She gets up while it is still night;
    she provides food for her family...
20 She opens her arms to the poor
    and extends her hands to the needy...
25 She is clothed with strength and dignity;
    she can laugh at the days to come.
26 She speaks with wisdom,
    and faithful instruction is on her tongue.
27 She watches over the affairs of her household
    and does not eat the bread of idleness.
28 Her children arise and call her blessed;
    her husband also, and he praises her:
29 “Many women do noble things,
    but you surpass them all.”
30 Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting;
    but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

[Coincidently, I just noticed that this is my 31st blog posting.]

Holy Rollers

There is much to be said about my early years in church.  Mostly about dear people who poured their lives into mine and I hope to share more of their influence later.  One thing I soon learned was that the Assemblies of God prized one doctrine above all else: Pentecostalism.  Being baptized in the Holy Spirit and speaking in tongues was considered essential for every believer.  This emphasis was felt keenly during worship services.  The greatest hope of many in attendance was that the Holy Spirit would ‘take over’, much like the glory of God that invaded the ancient temple at the dedication by King Solomon.  

People who observe a Pentecostal service from the ‘outside’ must marvel at the strangeness of it all.  From my position as an insider, at least in the sense of one who accepted it as gospel, it was soul-stirring.  Hymns would be sung vigorously, old standards like ‘Victory in Jesus’ and ‘Power in the Blood’ expressed a hope of both present and eternal redemption.  After the singing reached a fine pitch and emotions were running strong, the congregation would be exhorted to worship -- to audibly speak words of praise and adoration, particularly in a heavenly language -- speaking in tongues.  As the voices of the congregation lifted, so did a sense of expectation.  Slowly, the voices would quiet.  But this was not the end.  In that still moment, there was the opportunity for the Holy Spirit to respond.  Often a member of the congregation would burst out with a message in tongues.  Again, the waiting.  For a message in tongues spoken without interpretation is awkward, at best.  Then, another voice -- this time in English -- translating the message spoken.  God had come to our church again.  He had spoken.  And the sermon had not even been preached yet.

On many occasions, I saw and heard things that were, well, startling.  I was honestly thankful none of my friends from school were there.  Worshippers would weep, fall prostrate, shout, shake, groan, roll on the floor.  Hence the name 'Holy Rollers'.  In America, we think little of people "worshipping" at a sports or music event, but it is considered odd for church.  If there were no God, of course it would make no sense.  But, experiencing the presence of the living God might make you jump, or fall, or shout, or who knows what. 

So, have I ever spoken in tongues?  No, though it wasn't for lack of trying.  Lord knows how many times I was at the alter to be prayed for.  In the years since, I have learned to accept that God gives what is needed to build up the community of faith, not necessarily what an individual or denomination thinks is best.  I still hold a wistful admiration for those so blessed.


Though I have long since left my childhood church, I did experience something similar to speaking in tongues a few years ago in an ancient Anglican church in Wales.  The small choir  of less than a dozen filled the medieval structure with the soaring lyrics of the Kyrie Eleison (Lord, Have Mercy in Greek).  Kyrie Eleison has become a favorite prayer of mine, one that I can pray quietly anytime and any place.  But, I usually do so in English, so I still am not quite speaking in tongues.

Small Graces

It was 8:30 in the evening after a long, full Independence Day.  We had taken the family to see 'Brave', the latest Pixar movie, in the morning, then spent all afternoon and evening with our eldest daughter and family helping them get settled into a new home.  By virtue of habit, I had gotten up at my usual pre-dawn hour and run 4 miles in the morning.  That, combined with lugging grandkids and boxes of stuff around all afternoon had sapped me.  Fireworks were scheduled to start at 9, but I was fading fast.  So, much to the dismay of a couple of our younger offspring, we piled into the van and left, passing numerous cars jostling for parking spaces in view of the upcoming display.

I was doing well to keep alert while driving the 17 miles home, so the rumble of discussion in the back of the van mostly went un-noticed.  But I did catch this:

Aubrey: "I still don't understand why we aren't we going to see the fireworks."

Mercy: "Dad is tired and grumpy.  But it's for the best."

Children of course are quick to pick up on the emotional state of their parents.  That Mercy would perceive I was out of sorts was not surprising.  But what struck me was the juxtaposition of "tired and grumpy" with "for the best".  In spite of my weariness, I shot a glance at Karen and we both smiled.  More than anything "But, it's for the best." was a statement of faith that in spite of a weary Dad making what was essentially a selfish decision to go home before the fireworks, Mercy believed there was a reason for it.

As we crested a hill a mile or two from home, a burst of red and green caught my eye in the direction of the coast.  Fireworks were still in progress a few miles away.  Here was an opportunity.  In years past, we have watched the fireworks display, at a bit of a distance, from the top of the hill near our house.  Happily, Karen was willing to drive up the hill with the girls.  So I pulled over to the curb as we come up to our driveway, got out and headed in to bed.  The girls got their fireworks and I got my rest.

And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.  Romans 8:28

Grace shown to me through my children, once again.

Half-Read

Right now, I am in the middle of A Severe Mercy, one of those books that has touched on the edges of my radar over the years, but I never picked up until a friend loaned it to me.  Poignant, elegant autobiographical story of love and coming to faith from the far end of intellectual skepticism, then having that faith tried in a severe way.  Having C.S. Lewis thrown into the actual mix -- the author and his wife spent time with him at Oxford -- makes it all the more compelling.  I will share more later, but I can already say I would recommend it as a bracing tonic for a tired faith.

Growing up in church

The quiet compassion of Jimmy and Jeanine tilled the soil where the seed of God's Word could be planted.  As mentioned earlier, they invited their pastor and his wife to come visit our home.  They shared with Mom how God’s love was expressed in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus.  Not long after our move to the trailer, Mom found saving faith.  We began attending church religiously in the best sense.  

It was a lot of change in a short period of time.  One day I’m in a real house, most of my time spent at home with Mom and my siblings, living a care-free pre-school existence.  Next thing, I’m living in a trailer, headed off to kindergarten on weekdays, going to church Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night (more on that later).  For the trailer park years, home, school, and church were my world.  Aside from Mom, school teachers and Sunday school teachers were my mentors.  

If a few hours a week in church is just a form of brain-washing, it is not nearly as effective as five days a week in public school.  My siblings responded differently to that early immersion in church.  None are in a church today, though they may hold to a belief in the Divine.  I spent those years fighting a battle between the person I knew God wanted me to be and the person I was most of the time: a chameleon who adapted to the surroundings of school as easily as church.  I cannot explain the mystery of why I responded to the call of God the way I did, any more than I can explain why my siblings responded differently.  

I need to say this right out: I believe in God.  But, most people I know do.  More accurately, I am a Credal Christian, a Christ-follower.  At my first ever Vacation Bible School the summer after we moved, I came to an understanding of my need for a Savior.  As a child, I keenly recognized right and wrong, truth and deceit, love and the lack of it.  I knew I could not be good, truthful and loving on my own.   At an early age I encountered a transcendent reality in that little church that I have never escaped.  That Life in me continues in spite of my doubts, fears, and failings.  Just when I have rationalized all my experiences into a logical, tangible, non-spiritual reality, something happens outside the boundaries, some trivial or not-so-trivial event that stirs the embers of faith anew, that reminds me there is One who knows my path and cares for each step.  My younger children probably wonder why I would even bring this up.  My wife, older daughters and a few others know that in spite of an early start and all the markers since, faith is a struggle for me.  And now you know, too.  But, I suppose that is why it is called 'faith' instead of 'certainty'. 

But Jesus said, "Let the children come unto me, and forbid them not, for such is the kingdom of heaven."  Matthew 19:14