Consequences of Kindness

Wanted to share two poignant reminders I have encountered recently of the truth that kindness begets kindness and our actions, no matter how small, can have unimaginable consequences.

The first is from The French Revolution blog -- which is on my blog list and a regular source of inspiration.
http://www.patheos.com/blogs/frenchrevolution/2013/09/14/most-moving-commercial-ever/


The second was on the ATT/Yahoo portal where I access one of my e-mail accounts.  99.9% of the time the content on that page is tasteless.  So, I was presently surprised by the prominence given this story:


http://shine.yahoo.com/ellen-good-news/parents-pay-forward-pumpkin-spice-lattes-221300973.html

Pay it forward...

I Went To Find The Moon

Crescent Moon and Venus - Jim Crotty
http://calmphotos.com

Out the window
the stars shown bright in the still pre-dawn.
The silhouette of the old pine
loomed black against an inky blue sky
and the hill turned gray in lunar light,
clear enough that I knew
a summer moon lurked,
somewhere out of sight.
"Go find it," she whispered.
So, I got up
and went to find the moon.

Stepping onto the patio,
and into the cool freshness,
I caught the faint strains of a cricket chorus.
And there was Moon,
straight overhead,
his full strength only half visible, yet bright indeed,
facing East to greet the dawn.
And following His gaze,
I saw the reason for His radiance.
Lower on the horizon,
fiercely outshining the distance stars,
with her reflected glory,
Venus boldly returned Moon's strong attention.

Slowly, the vanguard of Sunrise
began to lighten the sky,
till each star winked its goodbye,
and only Venus and I were left
to keep Moon company.
Then, the first song-bird trilled
the fanfare of Sunrise.
Realizing my imposition,
I bid Moon and Venus 'good day',
leaving the two companions of the night
a few more moments to themselves.

Jesus Songs - 1970

It was 1970.  I was a mere lad of 11, at that irritating age that comes to all children, a teenager wannabe.  'Teenager' was a relatively new concept in those days, and pre-teen had yet to be invented, but teenagers were cool and I wanted to be one.  See, both my sisters were teenagers and they got to do groovy things like go on outings with the church youth group.

1970 was also the heyday of the Jesus People movement.  Lots of cool and groovy things were happening, especially concerts where people sang songs about Jesus that weren't hymns in strict 4-4 time.  Musicians even used guitars and drums and had long hair and wore Levis.

Somehow, I finagled my way into being allowed to go with my sisters to one of these events.  What is stuck in my mind is not the event, but the ride home.  See, in the high-spirited aftermath of the concert, everyone was in the mood for singing.  So, numerous songs of the Jesus Movement were belted out by the bus load of energetic teens (and pre-teens in my case).   Keep in mind that in parallel with the Jesus People movement, which was viewed with an awed mix of joy and concern by the adults in church, I and my sisters had discovered AM radio and rock-and-roll.

In the dark of that bus that night, these two cultural phenomenon neatly dovetailed as the unlikely hit song "Put Your Hand In the Hand" was started by someone and everyone joined in.

That same year, another song with vague spiritual overtones performed by the folk duo "Brewer and Shipley" would climb nearly as high in the charts.  Now, in my unsophisticated mind, this song was just another example of the Jesus Movement seeping into the popular music scene.  After all, it mentioned 'Sweet Jesus' and 'Mary'.  Maybe the song was Catholic in origin?  I knew Catholics were big on Mary.

So, after the last line of "Put Your Hand in The Hand" faded away, I started to belt out, "One Toke Over The Line, Sweet Jesus".  After all, I felt I loved singing and Jesus as much as anyone else in the bus.  However, my attempt at spiritual leadership was abruptly terminated by a hissing negative comment by my oldest sister.  I cannot recall exactly what she said, but her sharp brevity combined with the stern look on her face made me realize that in no uncertain terms: I had committed a SERIOUS SOCIAL MISTAKE!

There is no place to disappear on a church bus.  I couldn't very well crawl under the seat, though I considered it briefly.  Somehow, the moment passed.  Whether there was any more singing, I don't remember.  Nor do I remember anything else about the ride home other than an overwhelming sense of mortification at my own ignorance.

Exactly when I discovered the meaning of "toke" and learned that "Mary" was shorthand for MARIjuana I cannot say.  What I can say is that I was really excited to hear the Doobie Brothers version of "Jesus Is Just Alright" a couple of years later, that is, until someone explained to me what a 'doobie' was...

Be Still

For decades of my adult life, I have tried to do the right things that I thought would please God.  Now, I am simply tired.  Tired of trying to please God by aligning my church involvement to fit a  denominational (or better yet 'non-denominational') flavor of Christianity.

You'll be a better Christian if you speak in tongues.  No can do.  Tried real hard and even faked it once to get out of an extended edition altar call.

You'll be a better Christian if you are a small group bible study leader.  Have done this and was thankful for the experience.  But I did find that most people, including me, just need honest friends, not another Bible study.

You'll be a better Christian if you go door-to-door witnessing.  Hated it.

You'll be a better Christian if you help us perform our slick, seeker-sensitive Sunday service.  Almost as galling as the slick business presentations at work.  Style over substance.

You'll be a better Christian if you are the patriarch of your family and a leader of a house church.  Way beyond my capabilities, but still gave it a shot.  So funny -- in retrospect.

You'll be a better Christian if you go on a international missions trip.  My trips outside the U.S. have been to Mexico and China and Wales.  Only one of those was explicitly a 'mission' and it was the one with the least relational impact.

I am not saying these actions of faith are not right for some believers some of the time or even right for many believers most of the time.  But I can say they were often not right for me.  At this point, I need a break from doing.  I just want to be.  To "be still and know" God.  To just sit in church and listen.  I want to be able to hear from GOD, not the din of well-intentioned people who need me to behave a certain way to affirm that their local program is the right one.

Christianity is about denying yourself and taking up your cross and following Christ.  And I have done the denying part for decades -- putting time and money into activities I only marginally wanted to participate in because I thought that was the right thing to do.  But, was I really following Jesus?  Maybe.

My most 'Christian' moments have been when God has dropped someone in my path who saw something of God in me (nothing less than a miracle) and asked a question.  And I responded.  A tiny seed was sown.  Only eternity will tell if it mattered.  But I experienced a sense of discipleship.

I have seen church leaders who waste the money that people have given, who spiritualize poor decisions as 'God working all things together for good', who are terribly nasty to each other at home, then paste on a smile for Sunday, who agree to do one thing then do another, who maliciously impugn the reputation of those who don't agree with them.  Where is truth and confession and forgiveness and grace and discipleship in all this?  I don't have the answer.

Conversely, I have blessed friendships with fellow believers that are immeasurably valuable to me.  Friends who I know would literally give me anything they had if they thought I needed it.  Who show Christ to me.  They are a treasure.

But, I intend to stop trying to impress God and his followers with my visible works and just be faithful to serve in the places I know I am called: my job and my home.  And let the Father who sees the secret things of the heart handle the rest.

Hoots and Coons

I run in the dark.  Mostly alone until the summer nights bring out wild things not seen during cooler months: owls and raccoons.

I am not fond of raccoons.  My first jogging encounter with a coon was just a few strides from my front door.  The large raccoon was ambling across the intersection when we saw each other.  Used to the response of coyotes which, once spotted, lope off into the brush, I simply kept going in the coon's direction.  Rather than retreat, it fluffed out its fur, bared its teeth, and hissed at me.  I picked up my pace and got past the raccoon red zone, not wanting to find out just how aggressive a dog-sized raccoon would be.  As I glanced over my shoulder, to my relief and surprise I saw it head down the storm drain opening in the curb.  The raccoons I have seen since are smaller (cat-sized), running in clans of three or four and not nearly as aggressive, but often use the storm drains as an escape route.  I wonder just how many live below our street.

Sometime last summer, an enterprising group of raccoons found the cat door to our garage.  The first time or two we saw the cat food bag torn open, we assumed the cats were getting a little impatient in the morning.  Then, my eldest daughter happened to be up late one night when the raccoons paid a visit.  She heard odd noises in the garage and went to investigate.  Seeing the little bandits, she  grabbed her air-soft pistol and chased them out with an unending volley of plastic pellets.  After that, we resorted to storing the cat food in an industrial 3-gallon plastic bucket with a threaded lid.  This worked well as long as the cat-feeding crew put the lid on correctly.  After a few incidents of the bin being tipped and cat food strewn across the garage floor, we finally got all hands trained on proper bucket sealing.  Still, the coons had formed a habit and had to be chased off a time or two more that summer.  We thought we were done with them, but they apparently were just on a seasonal hiatus.  At least twice in the past month, the cats' water dish has been fouled with cat food.  And we know which nocturnal creature loves to wash food before eating it...

While raccoons are bold pests that I could do without, owl sightings are a welcome, rare treat.  Typically, as I stride along, a silent shadow will swoop into my peripheral vision and alight on a street light.  If I shield my eyes just right, I can see the owl perched on top.  Their comfort zone, however, is less than the distance from the lamp to the ground.  Invariably as I pass underneath, the owl will fly off.  It is eery to experience the total silence of an owl in flight.  The wings of the ubiquitous black ravens that are about the same size can be heard some distance off as they beat the air.

In our area, there are barn owls and great horned owls.  Only once have I seen a great horned owl.  I was able to get close enough to see the trademark tufts on its head.  It was larger and darker than the barn owls and just as silent when it majestically soared away.

My most recent encounter was remarkable.  I was jogging down the last hill before home.  As I approached the intersection,  I caught a flicker of movement and saw the silhouette of a small animal near the curb on the far side of the street.  In reminded me of a rabbit.  But, as I drew closer, wings came out and it flew just a few feet up to a split-rail fence where it remained as I drew closer.  I stopped on the opposite side of the street.  Not wanting to spook the bird I circled out across the street until I was past the intersection.  There was something on the ground the owl did not want to abandon.  I moved closer.  Once within about 30 feet, I stopped.  The owl would look at me, then back at the ground, then all around again.  A step or two closer.  Then we stood looking at each other in the monochromatic light of the sodium lamp for a few more timeless seconds, his eyes dark in a white face.    Of course, there is no way to know what is going through a bird's mind at a time like that.  Though owls are linked with wisdom, they do have bird-sized brains.  Still, I can imagine this barn owl's train of thought:
"Oh bother.  I suppose that fellow across the street is just going to stand there gawking as long as I am here.  Doesn't have the good manners to leave me to eat my breakfast in private.  Just have to return to it later, I suppose."
 Then he spread his gray and white wings and lifted off into the dark.

Family Reunion

The Lore Family reunion is not a grand celebration of a brilliantly famous and successful clan.  It is a gritty gathering of survivors and over-comers.

It is a story of small-town life in rural America with most of its pitfalls and a good number of its charms.  It is a story of some who have left to find their way in more promising places, to escape the burdensome intimacy of knowing nearly every face you see in the store, the gas station, the doctor's office.  It is a story of others who stayed and planted roots deep in their home town.

It is a gathering made possible by the determination of a husband and wife, Floyd and Julia, to wrest a living out of the rugged Wyoming prairie using little more than their own two hands.  Who had eight children in the depression-era 1920's and 1930's.  Who worked hard and lived with quiet dignity until a tragic accident abruptly and prematurely ended Floyd's life in 1946.

It is a gathering of those who remain of the eight children to reminisce, to be thankful, to simply be.

It is a gathering of the next generation, who knew little of Grandpa Lore, but much of Grandma Lore.

I am of that third generation.  As I spent time this year with cousins and aunts and uncles, I realized how little I know about them and, for the first time, how important it was to me to learn more.