Let It Go! Hold It Close!

My friend Ann Smith, a wise and insightful mentor, once gave me this observation from her years of working with people:

MOST PEOPLE GET INTO TROUBLE BECAUSE THEY HANG ON TO WHAT THEY SHOULD LET GO OF AND LET GO OF WHAT THEY SHOULD HANG ON TO.

Now, as I look back on our experience with artists, students, friends, and audiences from all walks of life, I have found this statement to be true.  And in my own life I would have to admit that my failures and successes, my growth spurts and set-backs can be traced to my own choices of what to hang on to and what to let go of.

Great wisdom of the ages should not be disregarded lightly.  The book of Proverbs is full of warnings and encouragements focused on what to hang on to and what to let go of.  And Jesus was wisdom, walking—so much so that many biblical scholars suggest that we could substitute the name of Jesus for the word “wisdom” as we read through the Proverbs. In the gospels we see Him living out the “cling to” and “relinquish” tension with every breath.

The great saints, the prophets, and many deep seekers who have gone to the desert or the seashore to step back from the politic of life and current skewed public opinion to gain perspective, have given us stories and poetry, songs and principles for living in the hopes we, who have come after them, could steer a clearer course and avoid some of the “shipwrecks” they had in trying to find their way.

I love the children’s movie FROZEN.  Nearly every three-year-old in American (and, I would venture, their parents and grandparents, too!) can sing every word of the theme song, “Let It Go!”  If anyone had brought us the lyrics to this song, suggesting it would be perfect for a kids’ movie, we would have undoubtedly rejected it for being too complicated and profound for a child.  But never underestimate the mind of a child.  The kids “get” this song!

“Let it go! Let it go!” the children sing, spinning around with their hands in the air just like the ice princess.  And, indeed, even children are experiencing in our culture the discovery that there are hurtful things, things out of their control, that they must “let go” of if they want to survive and move on unencumbered.

I guess I am hoping for a sequel hit that says, “Hold it close!  Hold it close! Never let this treasure go!”  Because as important as it is to let go of grudges, pain, betrayals, hurtful memories, damaging habits, and untrue beliefs, there are some things we must hold on to.

For a short list, the words of Paul is a good place to start:

Finally, whatever is true,
Whatever is noble,
Whatever is right,
Whatever is pure,
Whatever is lovely,
Whatever is admirable--
If anything is excellent or praise worthy—think about such things.   (Phil.4:8-9)

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America on Purpose

These are the times that call us to live our lives on purpose as individuals; and if we believe in the right to make our own choices as individuals, the times also demand that we live on purpose as citizens of our local and national communities.  In this year’s election process it is imperative that we as citizens seriously explore our nation’s purpose and our personal role in it.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

This is our nation’s 244th birthday.  How young we are! And the jury is still out, as Abraham Lincoln said, as to whether “this nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure”.  The Republic that has sustained our country is still testing and probably will always be testing whether such a democracy can endure, because, as many of our forefathers wrote, this kind of experiment depends on the moral character of its people.  There can never be enough laws enacted or enforcers trained to make a country good.

As we celebrate what we tend to take for granted—our more firmly established nation and its government of the people, by the people, and for the people--we must be aware that freedom is always a fragile thing, balanced on the generous and voluntary agreement of all the free to abandon personal inclinations to selfishness and care for the well-being of others.  In so doing we must trust the audacious expectation that others will be caretakers of our basic rights in return.  Making the putting of others and the common good ahead of self-interests is a biblical principle.  The question is, have we come to value freedom enough that we dare on regular days to risk that freedom to live in this reciprocity, alert to any internal (inside our own hearts) or exterior efforts to threaten it.

The future of freedom as we know and love it depends on our personal and persistent living out in practical ways our commitment to this ideal.  It calls us to tell our children the story of how freedom was won as well as discussing our best and worst efforts at living it out in the past, and challenging them to love better and take seriously their responsibility to chisel out their generation’s call to this precious and unique vision. 

Photo by Angela Kellogg

My favorite verse of “America the Beautiful” is this:

Oh, beautiful for patriot dreams
That see beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam,
Undimmed by human tears.

There must always be visionaries who, when in even moments of our most disappointing behavior, can see and hold us to a better purpose.  When our cities are smoking with disillusioning failure, someone has to still see the potential of precious stone sparkling in the sun.  When the wails of despair are rising to the ears of heaven, and tears of the disheartened are flowing, someone has to still believe that there is model to which we can aspire of a city “undimmed by human tears.”

That dream city will not come about by human perfection.  It will only be an outgrowth of grace, the awareness that in our worst moments, “God shed his grace on me.” That amazing mercy gives us the right to hope, and demands that we be gracious and merciful to each other in spite of glaring imperfections.

In the next few days many of us will celebrate our free country by roasting hot dogs and wearing our patriotic tee shirts; the community band will play “The Star Spangled Banner”.  We will listen to our children’s children sing along, but they will not know unless we tell them that this national anthem is about a wounded and embattled remnant of soldiers, straining to see through the fog and gun smoke whether the tattered remains of the American flag could still be seen flying from the mast of a riddled ship in the harbor.  It did!  And still flies nearly two and a half centuries later over battlefields and harbors and battered cities where men and women have given their lives and blood so that the rest of us could go on taking care of each other’s right to be.

But there is a deeper, more important foundation for this freedom we protect and enjoy.  It is the deep belief that God created every living person with an eternal soul and therefore with infinite and eternal value.  It is that eternal value that gives each person essential rights. Our founders believed that these rights were not ours to give, but were “endowed by the Creator” as a gift from God.  The right to “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” is only ours to protect and honor.

In spite of our shortcomings and failures, we can celebrate progress made. Our nation has learned and grown in the trust in its people to do the right thing; when that trust is strained almost to the breaking point, those who follow the Master of love must not abandon that trust but renew our commitment to it.

The belief in basic human value has driven us to fight for justice, not only here, but in places where human rights have been grossly violated.  This belief has caused us to use our power to defend the weak and the downtrodden and to preserve the rights of those with whom we disagree.  We yet have a long way to go, but we have made progress, and must always work to do so.

In the end, if we lose our belief in God and the eternity of the soul, if we degrade and disregard the sanctity of life itself, not just commercially viable life, but all life, and cease to protect the powerless, we ourselves and our nation will be swallowed up in greed and overtaken from within, disintegrating into an anarchy where only the ones with the biggest weapons survive.  We will go the way of ruthless dictatorships of the world, each eventually betrayed and mutinied by an uprising of the disenfranchised.

So in kindness, decency, patience and gentle grace, let freedom ring.  May we believe in the value of all and use our powers only and always to protect the weak, the powerless, and those who have yet to enjoy the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.  May we never abandon our own personal responsibility to live out our commitment to these ideals by scraping onto the plate of institutions and government the total load of pursuing “liberty and justice for all”.  And may God bless not only America, but all peoples who choose right over evil.

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Wonderful Words

I love words and symbols. Actually, words are symbols, symbols of objects, realities, and abstract ideas.  I cannot resist wallpaper with words, fabric with words and symbols, or words molded or carved into sculptures or wood.  All the more, then, I love words that have specific meaning to the family that lives in rooms decorated with them.

Over the doorway of our country kitchen there is a carved wooden piece that says “Psalm 100”, because this is the Psalm our kids learned when they were a part of the cast of the children’s musical Kids Under Construction.  Other word art pieces hang on the walls of our bedroom and workout room.

The two gateways to our driveway hold wooden signs suspended from chains.  One says SHALOM and the other says Willowmere, the name our daughter Amy chose to name our home place when she was in junior high school and reading the Anne of Green Gables books.

When we decided to create a place in our home town for people to visit and experience community, it seemed perfect to cover the walls in the restaurant with scripture about community and unity.  Because I had taught French in those years when Bill and I started our life together, we thought it would be fun to put those scriptures in French.  Later when we added a smaller room for meetings and small gatherings, an artist friend came to paint scriptures about loving each other in several languages so that everyone from around the world would be greeted in their own native tongue.

Deuteronomy 6:7-8 instructs us to teach the ways of the Lord God to our children and talk about them “when you sit at home and walk on the road, when you lie down and when you get up.  Write them down and tie them on your hands as a sign.  Tie them on your forehead to remind you and write them on your doors and gates.”

In the book of fun things for families to do together that Shirley Dobson and I wrote several years ago called Let’s Hide the Word, we thought it would be fun to suggest some theme décor room ideas for children’s bedrooms, playrooms, or family gathering places.  Here are a few:

• The Garden of Eden enclosed patio

• Daniel and the Lion’s Den room for boys

• Paul’s Sailing Adventures room

• Fruits of the Spirit breakfast nook

• A Dorcas room (painted in shades of purple or using purple-toned fabrics)

• The Tent-dweller’s room

• A Desert hideaway

• The Red Sea room

• David’s hillside room (with a constellation ceiling and a shepherd theme)

I loved a room I saw that had an artist’s painting of words of a favorite poem by e. e. comings painted around the room at the top of the wall.  Another family painted a scripture in their entry hallway. 

The power of words and story keep the timeless principles of life “before our eyes” and echoing in our ears as we navigate the uncharted waters of our future.  As the old Philip Bliss gospel song says:

Sing them over again to me, wonderful words of Life;
Let me more of their beauty see--wonderful words of Life.
Words of life and beauty teach me faith and duty,
Beautiful words, wonderful words, wonderful words of Life.

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Conflict Resolution

For graduates researching possible interesting and in-demand courses of study, a degree in Conflict Resolution might be one to consider.  Lord knows we have plenty of conflict in our world to resolve!  Majors in this field are listed by several titles:  Mediation, Negotiation, Community Conflict, and Arbitration, to name a few.

Neither Bill nor I majored in this field of psychology, but I know for sure that if you were to ask Bill who was his best teacher in this area of learning, he’d say George Gaither.  Bill’s dad was a quiet and patient man.  His style of teaching was way more by example than instruction.  But as peaceful and steady as he was, there was a memorable issue he once had with a neighbor.

George had cows on his property and a huge garden.  He kept his fences in good repair to keep his cattle in the pastures and out of his garden.  There was a neighbor who didn’t have transportation at the time, so he took a shortcut into town. He walked diagonally from his house, across the railroad tracks, then, climbing the fences, crossed George’s fields and on to the main road into town.

A time or two Bill heard his dad say, “I’m afraid that if he keeps climbing the fences, it will break them down.”  So Bill asked him, “Well, why don’t you just tell him to stop?”

His dad would say something like, “Yeah, I need to talk to him about it.”

Time went by, and one day Bill noticed that there were wooden stiles (small ladders) in three places on the farm fences.  He mentioned this to his dad and asked him if he ever talked to the neighbor about climbing the fence.

“Nah,” answered his dad,  “I thought this might be a better solution.”

Ah, blessed are the peacemakers.  With a few boards and some nails, a situation was defused before it ever developed and a relationship was salvaged in the process.”  Win. Win.

Robert Frost in his poem “Mending Wall” says his neighbor kept quoting his father’s axiom, “Good fences make good neighbors.”  The poet says he is wont to ask what he is “walling in or walling out.”

George said it this way:  “He wasn’t hurting anything walking across the pasture into town.”  So instead of forbidding the trespass, he made it easier.  These sixty years later, the stiles are still speaking a silently powerful lesson to our kids and grandkids.

If the certified negotiators of the world could have just one course in George Gaither 101, the world might just call them “children of God.”  And, anyway, what are a couple of stiles, more or less?

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My Life in Book Bags

Because of Covid-19, students this year are missing graduation as we know it—no processional, no ceremony, no challenging commencement address, no bestowing of diplomas to the cheers of family and friends, no changing of the tassels and tossing of mortar boards into the air, and no emotional hugs and good-byes on the grassy hillsides and parking lots of high schools and colleges across the country. Online salutes and zoom gatherings are just not the same as the traditional pomp and circumstance of other graduation classes.

Thousands of backpacks and book/laptop bags lean against the entry hallway walls in the homes of aspiring students across America.  Will colleges actually open?  Will master’s programs begin on location?  Will internships materialize? 

But this isn’t the end of learning, even if the setting and method of the next chapter of education is uncertain. Take it from me, formal graduation won’t mean that you need to hang up your backpack or that this will be the last bookbag to punctuate your journey.

For years I have carried my life around in bookbags. I suppose that started in high school and college when bookbags were almost a part of my anatomy.  Then my life was split between traveling on week-ends and managing my at-home life.  My reading and writing had to be portable, so I just got new bookbags—one for reading, and one for yellow legal pads for writing prose and song lyrics along with rhyming dictionaries and thesauruses.

 When we had babies, I added a “diaper bag.”  That, of course, is a misnomer.  That bag had much more than diapers in it:  emergency baby food, formula, toys to keep a baby occupied in the car seat, an extra change of clothes, board books....

I can’t remember not carrying my life in bookbags. And I will confess that my purse alone carries enough to survive in a foreign country should I have an extended layover.  Only when purses started being the object of security screening did I reluctantly eliminate by small jackknife, nail clippers (Do they really think I am going to snip through the skin of the airplane with nail clippers?), sewing kit (with dangerous weapons like my grandmother’s thimble, spare needles, and a threader), and my tiny hammer/screwdriver that I could have used to build a survival hut in the woods, if I had to.

Because we traveled with children all those years, I was never without our craft bag.  Every parent knows you can’t be on the bus for a week-end or in a vacation cottage or hotel room for a week without this survival kit.  My craft bag was stuffed with water paints, chalk, construction paper, clay, scissors, tape, a stapler, markers, glue, color books, travel games, marbles, jacks, and books to read.  I could set up shop in arena dressing rooms, airport gates, or any space with a table. Poolside, we could invite newly made friends to join the fun. Once I was detained at an airport in England because I had brought six boxes of sparklers to celebrate our American Fourth of July, not dreaming they would be classified as firearms.

I have always had bookbags lined up in our coat closet, each containing an unfinished writing project on which I was currently working.  Magazine articles in process, unfinished song lyrics, chapters of a book, boxes of note cards I needed to write to thank or keep in touch with friends—there was a book bag for whichever project needed the most immediate attention.  No matter what was on the calendar, I was ready. I could just add the books I was currently reading and those to “prime the pump” for writing. (Does that sound like a Biden metaphor?)

One day I realized that my book bags were spending weeks in the closet waiting to be chosen.  Like a snowball rolling down a winter hillside, my life had gathered other lives.  I had said too many yeses and not enough nos.  Did I think I could contribute my time to every cause, take on too many responsibilities, solve the problems of too many worthy projects?  My writing had opened doors to too many other opportunities, all good things, helpful things, but they were crowding out my central purpose. My book bags were reminding me to refocus on the central priorities, and to remember that family, friends and writing were my main calling. I wanted to be a woman with a portable mission again.

Like the Israelites, waiting to be freed from bondage, I wanted to be ready to listen when God said go.  I wanted to be able to grab my craft bag for a new generation of children.  I wanted to choose my note card bag so as not to lose old friends or miss saying “thank you” for kindnesses shown to me. I wanted most of all to pick up my writing essentials and go.  I wanted to connect the dots of the life I’ve been given, now that I have gained the perspective of hindsight.  I wanted to be open to new things like this blog, celebrating and sharing this “love song to my life.”

So these days I am listening even more to my book bags, excited to pick up the one for today.  When the promised land is calling, I want to be ready to cross any sea to get to it.  May no manna fall or any rock gush cool, clear water and find me distracted by some golden calf and miss it!

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It's Okay to Laugh

It had been a happy day, climaxed by a fun evening, especially for a little three-year-old girl who had managed to cajole her daddy into chasing her around the house playing hide-and-seek and then to crawl under the big dining room table with a blanket to “play tent.”  Now it was bedtime, a bounce-up-and-down, giggly bedtime.  I finally managed to stuff two wiggly legs and two flying arms into a pair of pajamas and to complete the routine, including reading from her favorite bedtime book, Jokes for Children.  When it was time to pray, the giggling was only muffled.  When her prayer finished, I began an adult type lecture on reverence.  Her tiny voice, serious now, finally interrupted, “Why, Mother? Doesn’t God allow laughing?”

Good question, especially in this time of sobering news and legitimate fears of a viral enemy we can’t see.  Worry about the future gnaws away at our joy like a rat that’s taken up residence in the pantry.

I’m not sure where the notion came from that if it is fun, it can’t be Christian.  It certainly didn’t come from Jesus, who, though He was a “man of sorrows and acquainted with grief,” also taught that joy was the earmark of the forgiven, and ultimately drank the cup so that our “joy might be full.”

Jesus hung out with his friends, avoided arguments, and used story to impart eternal truths.  He was criticized for having too much fun and for refusing to keep his distance from people of questionable reputation.  People loved so much to hear him speak that they walked miles in sandaled feet, climbed mountains, and caused crowding problems in the marketplace just to be where he was. He had a great sense of humor--painting word pictures of cramming camels through the eye of needles and digging two-by-fours out of the eyes of those who quibbled over specks of dust.

He started his public ministry at a wedding party, loved topping a great fish story, talked to babies when his disciples jockeyed for position, and threw the biggest lakeside picnic in history.

Yet now, more than 2000 years later, there are still folks who wonder if it’s all right with God if we turn off the paralyzing news long enough (or entirely) to sing or laugh or tell jokes that don’t always end in an altar call.  Judging by the number of people we’ve met over the years who have turned their back on church because of harsh and heavy-handed religion, maybe it’s time we lightened up and actually enjoyed and shared some of the joy our Lord paid so dearly to buy us. Didn’t He say that His “yoke was easy”?

I remember two great stories from the earlier days of gospel music. Once there was a couple of singers who were critical of the fun one of the newer quartets was having in the concerts and announced that if they got into the group they would quit all of that entertaining and just minister. Jake Hess was sitting in the audience listening to this newly organized group. After about 30 minutes, he turned to a friend and said, “Well, they must be ministering; they sure aren’t entertaining.”

When the Statesman were at their prime and appearing on nationally sponsored television shows, reporters would often ask Hovie Lister if he considered what they were doing ministry or entertainment. He would answer, “Yes. Yes. Next question.”

The truth is we live in an intense world plagued by monumental problems that bombard us all day long. Most of us face financial crises, physical challenges, family issues, national fears, and spiritual setbacks. As Wordsworth said, “The world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending we lay waste our powers…”

The pandemic must not totally eclipse our gratitude and hope. We need a break. We need to stop down, take a deep breath and two steps back from it all to get some perspective. We need to laugh. We need to run and play. We need a tension-free conversation over a slowly consumed meal. We need a joyful on-line concert, a thought-provoking movie, or good joke around the table.

Then, maybe we can start tomorrow with our minds cleared, our spirits lifted, and our energy restored. For me it helps to read a great book or walk by the creek or dig in the garden.  Bill and I like an evening by ourselves or by the firepit or in the woods or watching a great DVD.

One night we had what seemed to be and especially spiritually and artistically satisfying Homecoming Concert.  Afterwards, an attractive middle-aged lady stopped me and began to tell me how she loved the evening and how much it meant to her. I thought maybe she would mention the depth of one of my lyrics to a song, or the impact of some deep concept one of the other artists had shared. But no. Instead, she said, “I have not laughed this hard in years. I’d almost forgotten I could. And you have no idea how much I needed to laugh. Thank you all for tonight.” Now I ask you: was what we were doing ministry? Was it entertainment? Yes. Yes. Next question.

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Margaret Effie Boster

I thought my grandmother (my mother’s mother) was the wisest person on earth.  She seemed to know everything:  the names of the trees, the herbs to use for poultices or making teas that could cure fever and sore throat and nausea and cramps, and the names of the heavenly constellations.  She knew the best way to catch a catfish or set the broken leg of a goose.  She could make a designer dress with lining, lace, and covered buttons, but she could also saw sheets of dry walling into manageable pieces, nail them to the studs, strip the seams, plaster the unfinished wall, and then paint it when the plaster was dry.

She taught me to never tell a lie, believe a braggart, trust a man who would kick his dog, or to argue with a fool. Because of her and her daughter (my mother), I learned a that a job is never finished until it is done, that garden tools should not be put away until they are hosed off and oiled, and that you weren’t done fishing until the worms were stripped from the hook and the line was rolled tightly and secured.  She taught me to notice weeds and tears and silence.  She showed me how to pay attention to the color of the clouds, the way leaves turn silver-side-up before a storm, and the sound of the wind when it gets still before a tornado.

She was suspicious of people who always had to affix blame or who needed to take credit.  She paid her tithe, mowed her own lawn, and took the tulip and iris bulbs with her when she moved.  She had her own definition of “clean”, and it was way beyond not being able to see dirt.

Her faith seemed to be tied to her faithfulness; she seldom asked God for special favors until she’d done what she knew to do.  She believed a person best showed love by doing the right thing, putting oneself out for someone else, and not being indulgent to make up for the guilt of not doing what you should have done in the first place.

I loved her stories because they were real, not made up.  My favorites were the stories about how she sewed the muslin cover to slip over the bones of a wagon that she and Johnny then hooked up to a team of horses to go from Missouri to Wyoming to lay claim to a homestead.  Along the way, she told me, they would stop at night and join other covered wagons to build a fire, cook their supper, and share reports about the safety and dangers of the trail over which they had just come.

When Margaret Effie and Johnny got to Wyoming, they built a sod house to protect the family from the elements and began the backbreaking job of coaxing a farm out of the thick thatch of the prairie.  Maybe this life-experience and the many more about which she told me, shaped the grandmother I knew.  She was not a warm, fuzzy person.  I don’t remember her hugging me a lot or very often telling me she loved me. I was in awe of her.  But the skills and personal disciplines she modeled every day of her life helped to shape the way I come at life to this day.  For her, God was never the “great sugar-daddy in the sky’’ or the genie in the jug. He was the One with whom she was yoked in the great work of life, tilling fields, sowing seeds, expecting—then being good stewards of—the harvest.  He was the one who helped her find her needle, the neighbor who helped her locate the “pearl of great price,” or the friend who searched with her all day, if need be, to find the lost coin.

Because of her I know that God is my co-worker, my wise advisor, my strength when the task is beyond me, and the healer of broken bones, broken tools, and broken hearts.  Because of her, Margaret Effie Boster, I know that whatever I can bring to the task is enough, because God my co-worker, is more than enough.

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See You at the House

If you were to ask me about the passing of Gary McSpadden, I could give you some printable facts.  He had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and spent his last days at the Tulsa Cancer Center in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  Before the actual specific kind of cancer could be pinpointed, a series of strokes prevented the treatment for the cancer from ever beginning.  He died on April 15, 2020. 

I could tell you he was born on January 26, 1943, to Helen and Boyd McSpadden and grew up as a “preacher’s kid” in Lubbock, Texas, himself eventually becoming a pastor. He married Carol Cornett from Dallas, Texas, at the Quartet Convention on October 14, 1962, with the ceremony performed by Hovie Lister.   I could tell you that he and Carol had two children, Shawn and Michelle, whom Gary adored, and that he currently pastored with Carol the Faith and Wisdom Church in Branson, Missouri. But the Gary Bill and I knew, the husband Carol walked beside for 57 years, the dad their children loved, well, that Gary eludes the items in an obituary.

Growing up literally in church, as we pastors’ kids know, brings some great advantages, like being exposed to the Gospel from our first breath.  The great hymns and gospel songs were our lullabies; our first memories were the moments when the breathing community around us was corporately moved by the breath of the Holy Spirit.  But there were a few disadvantages.  The expectations we felt made big demands on us, sometimes before we had the maturity to live up to them.

Gary with the Statesman

Gary grew up in a singing family, so singing was like breathing to him and his sister Cheryl.  They were also beautiful children that got attention by just walking into the room.  Ready or not, at 18 years old, Gary got a call from one of the best known groups ever to sing gospel music, the Statesmen Quartet, to fill in for the iconic lead singer Jake Hess.  That early exposure got the attention of another group, the Oak Ridge Quartet, with whom Gary then made three label albums.

Fast on the heels of that mind-boggling success came the call that Jake Hess was forming a new group that would be called the Imperials.  This was the first group in gospel music that got my attention.  The harmonies, the rhythm feels, the songs they chose were fresh and new.  The sound was professional and polished.

Gary with the new Imperials

The Imperials on stage

Gary with the Imperials

Gary with the Oak Ridge Boys

About this time, Bill had drafted me to sing with him and his brother Danny when their sister went to college.  I wasn’t a professional singer by any means—just a kid who had grown up in church singing a bit, as most PKs do, but much more comfortable writing and speaking.  But Bill insisted he could “make it work”, so for ten years, we sang as the Gaither Trio.  When Danny left the Trio, it was Gary who came to sing with us.  He was like the brother I never had.  He was kind, protective, and always gracious about my insecurity as a singer.

Trio live

Bill Gaither Trio

Bill Gaither Trio

Bill Gaither Trio

Bill Gaither Trio

Trio singing for Rex Humbard Easter special in Israel

Press conference about Israel preformances in Israel that Polly Grimes (on right) promoted.

Rehearsing with Amy in Gary's lap

Rehearsing fro concert and musical “He Started the Whole World Singing” in Jerusalem.

Crowd shot Trio at Praise Gathering

Beautiful Carol became like a sister to me, too, and the four of us traveled every week-end for another ten years.  Bill’s dad had retired by then, and he and Carol handled our product on the road.  How George loved Carol!  Our children and the McSpadden kids were together often and formed easy relationships that last to this day.

Our families around the picnic table at the gazebo

It was the gentle spirit and the kindness of Gary and Carol that so often kept me going when we had three kids in their pre-teen years of our own.  When the Trio gradually moved from auditoriums to arena-sized venues, we added four back-up singers and some brass to our stage.  Bill had always loved the male quartet sound; one night during intermission Bill and Gary and the two men from the vocal group, Steve Green and Lee Young, gathered around a backstage piano and started singing Stuart Hamblen’s great song “My First Day in Heaven”.  Bill said, “Let’s try this on the second half!”

The first Vocal Band with Lee Young and Steve Green

VB with Larnelle and John Moore

VB with Larnelle and Michael English

Gaither Vocal Band induction in to the Hall of Fame

The people loved it, and the four of them had a ball singing it.  The song and the 4-part harmony feature stayed, gradually adding another song or two.  What came to be known as the Gaither Vocal Band was born, with Gary as the original lead.

Years and experiences have bound Gary and Carol and their family to our family in a beautiful long-term relationship.  When I asked their son Shawn to describe his dad in one quality, he said, “Consistent.  Consistent in faith, consistent in love, consistent in guidance.  My whole life he was a consistent father.” 

I couldn’t agree more.  For Bill and me, Gary was a consistent friend.  Just a few weeks ago Bill and Gary were planning the upcoming Vocal Band Reunion that was to have taken place at the Maybe Center in Tulsa; they were discussing what songs might feature Gary on that night. 

“Let’s go in early and just you and I and Gloria and Carol go get some Mexican food before rehearsal,” Bill had suggested.

“Great plan!  We’d love to!” was one of the last things Gary ever said to Bill until we talked by phone to him at the Cancer Center at the end. But there isn’t an end to the conversation, is there?  It’s just, as Bob Benson used to say, “See you at the House!”

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It's Okay to Cry

Go ahead. Wail away!  God can take it, and it’s okay to cry on His shoulder. These are hard times. Losses and set-backs are the rule and not the exception; every family is touched by shortages, job losses or reductions, and illnesses with no certain diagnosis.  Family relationships are amplified in times like these, both strong ones and the dysfunctional. Income and food insecurity, payments due, and uncertainty about the future are the topics of social media, newscasts, and conversations.

Somehow we have come to think there is something wrong with our faith if we find ourselves screaming at God or silenced by doubt—or both by turns.  But there is as long a history of tears as triumphs in our spiritual archives.  And in spite of our present emphasis on “praise” in our worship, a third of the Psalms are cries of distress.  We just tend to leave those verses out and skip right to the victory phrases.

I still strongly believe that the marks of the true believer are joy and rest.  But I am learning, too, that there is a big difference between happiness and joy, and that rest is what we settle into when, as Annie Johnson Flynt wrote, “we reach the end of our hoarded resources,” and find strong arms holding us still.

And joy is not at the mercy of circumstances, but comes as a result of a security bought and tested in the crucible of pain and suffering. The things we pray for God to remove from our lives are often the very shovels He uses to enlarge our capacity for joy and for holding what is eternal.  It is almost always the things we go through that write our greatest songs of praise.

Maybe Annie Lamott is right.  Maybe there are only three essential prayers:  Help! Thanks! Wow!  One thing for sure, tears really are a language God understands, and His ear is as tuned to our “groanings that cannot be uttered” as it is to our loudest Hosannas!  And just maybe the groanings are the valuable currency with which we purchase any hallelujahs that ring true.  One thing you can take to the bank is that the operative word in any crisis is “through.”  Our God will take us through.

There was a time, Lord, When I was happy,
but pain had not plumbed my happiness deep enough
to be truthfully be called joy.
There was a time when I knew and celebrated
true things,
but experience had not yet sent me
over perilous pilgrimages
in pursuit of a Holy Grail.
There was a time when I made eager plans
for a future,
but had not yet learned
to embrace eternity in the moments I had.
Thank you, Lord, for the road I’ve traveled.
Only now I am discovering
that it is beautiful to praise God in all things.
Today, at least, I do.
Praise You.
Amen.

Prayer 40 from A Book of Simple Prayers by Gloria Gaither, © Gloria Gaither. 2008 Gaither Music Group, Alexandria, Indiana

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The Easter Grinch

“What day is this?” my friend asked as she popped in to drop off some supplies and mail.  I thought for a minute.  “Wednesday, I think...does it matter?”

Since we have all been sheltering in place and social distancing due to closures and cancellations with no schedule to section off our day, no appointments to keep, no meetings to attend, the days are seeming to run together.  Or maybe I should say the days have a new rhythm and, certainly, a new set of priorities.

In the mail were eight spring catalogs of new party dresses, sandals, bathing suits, and jewelry.  There were also flyers about vacation spots and resort deals.   My cell phone kept dinging with notifications of reduced rates on airline tickets and rental cars.  “Does it matter?” I thought as I shuffled through the mail. I found myself looking for actual letters and birthday cards for Bill.  The tone for text-waiting from our kids, relatives, and friends checking on us and sending funny posts to make us laugh, forwards of meaningful reads, and pictures of the grandkids took precedence over everything else.

One friend sent a recommendation of a great must-read book; another sent a link to good new song he thought I’d enjoy.  Somehow in these weeks of staying home for the common good a new set of priorities have moved into the place of “important” meetings, check-up appointments, and spring shopping sales.

Our little daughter-in-law (who is a great organizer) sent the schedule she made out for their family.

One young mom posted a comment from her little child whose school and activities had been cancelled or taken on line: “I LIKE CORONAVIRUS”.  The mom went on to say that their family had gotten closer since the quarantine had made homeschooling a family project, and they’d actually been cooking and enjoying meals together around the family table.

Some of the phone conversations I’ve received were discussions about how neighborhoods had gotten creative about helping each other, like a sharing gazebo of DVDs, puzzles, games, great books for adults and children, and extra packets of garden seeds. The outpost eventually turned into a place to leave extra canned goods, cake mixes, and basic supplies for those who had run out. The teachers in one of our schools here organized a drive-by through the neighborhoods where most of their young students live, because they were missing the kids so. The kids stood on the sidewalks outside their houses with love notes to their teachers written on posters with big magic markers.

So, as serious as this pandemic is and as important as it is that we obey the health officials to protect each other, wouldn’t it be great if relationships could deepen?  What if neighbors faithfully checked on each other and shared what they have on hand?  What if actual board games and puzzles came out of the craft closet and became a lot more fun than video games. because we are playing with actual people with actual laughter and actual conversations?

I began thinking about the Grinch who stole Christmas, and about the coronavirus, and about what it can steal and what it can’t. And I’m wondering, if it even took our old schedules and our meetings and our frantic lives and even our jobs and our I-Step scores and our promotions, might it bring some new fresh sprouts of creativity and life?

Bill and I are in the “most vulnerable” age group for being endangered by this virus.  We are staying home like we’ve been told to do.  We read and talk about the good books that some of our friends have recommended as well as those we promised ourselves to read “someday”. We cook and have long conversations with friends through texts, emails, and the phone—yes, that invention through which we can actually hear the tone and inflection of real voices (no emojis needed). 

Because of some of the closures and changes, our daughter is home from N. Y., our son-in-law from the university  (he now teaches and grades on line), and our grandson from the military academy where he is a high school senior.  He will finish the year on line as well, and maybe even graduate virtually.  They all self-quarantined for the required days, before we finally got together for dinner the first time.  It was an especially sweet evening.

One of our university graduate grandsons is using the time to compose music; both of our daughters and our son are working on writing and recording projects at home.  I am writing this blog to share with you.  Bill selected from our archives a playlist of 35 songs of hope and encouragement for you to listen to alone or with your family.  Little Mia is painting.

Mia (10) painted this last night.

My daffodils are starting to bloom, even though it snowed again.  The white swan are nesting on the peninsula, and the wrens are building a nest in the bark bird house by the back door.  When I went out for the newspaper this morning, they were singing their little heads off.

Oh, I know for sure our sweet Lord was crucified.  I know the earth shuddered so hard at this terrible cosmic injustice that the ground split in two and the veil that kept regular people like me from the fearsome presence of the Almighty tore right down the middle. I know He was Roman-sealed in a tomb, hollowed out of the hardest stone.  But the enemy couldn’t steal Easter.  No, it came just the same.  And whether we live or die, death cannot stop the surge of the eternal from starting to move in our veins, and stone or no, virus or no, we will live again!  We can know life eternal, now.  It is these lasting things we must value now.  It is recognizing the essential from the non-essentials now and in embracing the eternal, releasing the joy, now!  Does it matter? Yes! This is what matters, now.

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Shelter in Place

How quickly our consumer-distraction-assembling habits have come to a screeching halt! Almost overnight going-just-to-be-going has become a danger, and gathering has been eliminated for the common good and community survival. Instead of eating out, we are resurrecting that old recipe book mother gave us or checking on-line to see how to actually make a perfect pot roast or mac and cheese, providing we can find the ingredients to make them.

We have been asked to “shelter in place.” That has all kinds of implications, one of which is being thankful for shelter at all, a blessing many do not have. It also means spending more time with spouses and family. With distractions whittled down to movies, games (on and off line), social media (the constant and welcome ding of the text-waiting notification), we may hopefully turn to actual conversations, great books, and creative output. Maybe it is a really good time to write a song! Or paint a picture! Or do a craft with the kids!

It also means coming face to face with ourselves, coming to grips with our darker side that creates conflicts or discovering the “angels of our better natures.” Both could be a good thing. In this self-quarantine we might read with new eyes the scriptures, and in this present context discover some deeper meanings of some of the passages that have been a puzzle in the past. One such passage for me has been Matthew 10:34-39.

When Jesus said, (Matthew 10:34-39) “Do not think that I came to bring peace on earth but a sword”, it seems so inconsistent with His message of peace.  But what if, like most of His words, they were to be taken on many levels:  personal, historical, spiritual, and prophetic.  What if, for example, He meant on a personal and spiritual level that we must “kill off” everything in ourselves but our real, naked selves, the selves God made us to be—to strip off everything that keeps us from being authentic and constantly takes precedence over Him—like the dying process does, or as Thornton Wilder put it, like a “weaning away” so that we’re eventually happy to die to everything that isn’t eternal.

Maybe spiritually there is a weaning-away of preoccupations with personal beauty, success, accomplishments, other relationships (even right ones and definitely wrong ones), security—everything except just our naked helpless eternal self, standing before God.  “I come to help you slay it all,” He says.  He brings the sword to us. And the slaying must be done every time anything or anybody rises to pre-eminence and muddies up our motives.

We are not called to war against others, but to free ourselves from selfish attachments to them so that we can be freed from them to then love them purely with the love of Christ as our stripped down, vulnerable, no-angle self.  This self is the “sanctified” or blood-anointed self, the one washed clean of all self-serving motivations and needs, stripped of attachments and addictions to things, relationships, status, needs for affirmation, so that, naked before God once again, we can love as He loves by just being a not-needy presence of Light. People in darkness, stumbling around, trying to find their way will be drawn to the Light and not be electrocuted by our selfish needs and thus confused or repelled by those who say they follow Jesus.

If we let God give us a sword to kill anything that is a facade, a veneer, a phony semblance of what He created us to be, including false and selfish uses of relationships, then maybe He could lead us “in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake,” innocent as Eden and ready to be citizens of a new heaven and a new earth.

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Spring Is Renewal

Spring is the season of renewal.  Easter is the shedding of all that would hold our spirits down and keep us earthbound; it is the embracing of new life that transcends and ascends.

© Angela Kellogg

Spring is the birthplace of sacraments:  the washing of feet, the breaking of bread, the draining of the cup.  This is the season for pilgrimage:  the preparation of Gethsemane, the gathering in the upper room, the cross-laden journey to Golgotha, the weighty walk to the tomb, the joyful run to “go tell.”

© Angela Kellogg

The process of the seed, fallen, buried in the earth, is spring:  the shedding of protective coverings, the insistent unfolding in the quiet stillness beneath the surface of embryonic beginnings, the pull sunward of sprouting, living things.  A newfound courage to grow, to become—this is spring!

This is the time for resolutions that began this new year/decade to become reality.  This is the time for words to become deeds, for ought-to’s to become habit. 

© Angela Kellogg

In this morning of the year, may the resurrection be more than a day in the ecclesiastical calendar.  Deep in the veins of our souls, may life stir like the blood beginning to move in a man crucified.  May living warmth work its way from the heart to the hands, and may we begin to move as one made alive who was dead!

It’s morning, Lord, and my senses are rested from yesterday’s assault of stimulation. I am aware of the delicious regularness of this day:  the clean, cool sheets against my skin, the fragrant familiarness of this house, the sound of my husband’s much loved body breathing beside me, the white pine branch brushing against the window, the children talking and giggling upstairs in their parents’ childhood rooms.

© Angela Kellogg

Help me to savor the simplicity of today, Lord, to hold each tasty morsel on my tongue and enjoy its gift before I swallow it into the process of my life.

I would live sacramentally.

“This is my body...”

I hold this moment of Your Life and give transforming thanks.  May these simple elements be changed into Your very self as I partake of them.  May the life-blood of this scarlet morning move through my veins making me a part of this day…and of You.

I raise my chalice and toast the dawn.  “Do this in remembrance…”

Prayer 67 from A Book of Simple Prayers by Gloria Gaither, © Gloria Gaither. 2008 Gaither Music Group, Alexandria, Indiana

In the light of the present pandemic, I want to share the attached 4 minute video from our friend Andy Andrews. 

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Spring Cleaning

Spring is the time of new life.  Wonder sprouting everywhere!  Cleaning out the old to make room for the new is vital.  In our house that means pulling out furniture from the walls, cleaning in places hidden by winter’s accumulation, dusting ceiling corners and getting rid of “stuff” in drawers and cabinets and pantries.

Mother taught me (and her mother before her) that anything can be cleaned with vinegar or soda.  Surfaces cleaned with vinegar-water dry quickly and leave bacteria no place to grow.  Soda can take out stains, sweeten any place mold might have grown and scour away stains.

It’s time, too, for what Bill’s Aunt Lillie used to call “riddin’ out.”  Magazines, catalogs, newspapers and boxes saved for “someday” need to be taken to recycling centers.  Extra flower pots, glass vases, and “fancy” jars can be put in some charity’s yard sale.  Half-burned candles, silk flowers, extra dish towels, blankets, sheets and towels can find new uses at women’s shelters and missions where folks are trying to put together a life after tragedy or house fires.

Once the spaces of our lives are clean and neat, spring can happen even before the flowers are in full bloom.  Spring colors in bedspreads, couch pillows, towels, dish towels, tablecloths and candles can turn a winter room to spring in no time and with minimal expense.  Wicker baskets spray-painted white, yellow, pink or robin egg blue, then filled with clumps of silk daffodils, tulips or dogwood can accent a dining table, fireplace mantel or bedside stand.  Colorful brightly-enameled metal gardening containers filled with forsythia and pussywillows adds spring sparkle to an outdoor entry or porch.

There are five senses: sight, touch, hearing, smell, and taste.  I like to think of these as five roads into the center city of our souls, so I try to use as many of these roads as I can when I decorate.

A bowl of lemons appeals to the eye and the taste buds.  A small fountain brings the sight and sound of a spring stream.   Textures of soft pussywillow, a ragged piece of rock or shell, a container of sand, the smooth surface of polished stone or a piece of lace or other fabric entices the hand to touch.  And music; don’t forget the music of spring.  My favorite is Spring from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and I love to have it playing in my clean, spring-sprinkled house when the family comes for dinner.

Soon I will add symbols of Easter and resurrection:  a ceramic rabbit and her bunnies by the back door, a flowered straw hat over the fireplace, a soft lamb among the daybed pillows, some fuzzy chicks on the “children’s shelf,” a straw nest with five blue eggs by the flowers and candles on the kitchen island.

The extended family will gather here after everyone has changed from church clothes on Easter Sunday to watch the children search the hillside and creek bank for hidden eggs. Even the big kids love this family tradition.  The rocking chairs on the porch will be lined with grown-ups taking pictures and cheering them on.  (Our rule is that nothing low or on the ground may be “found” by the older children, but be left for the little ones.)

One of my favorite times of the whole year is the early morning hiding the eggs.  I have them filled with prizes and ready to go the day before, but early morning hours are my private time.  Watching the sun rise, hearing the ducks and geese and swans stirring and conversing on the pond, listening for the happy song of morning birds, I make my way to every corner of our property placing eggs where the children will find the most delight in the discovery.  This is my personal sunrise service.

Finished, finally, with my mission, I sit for a moment on the old bench by the pond and think of that first Easter morning when the women made their way to the place where their Lord had been laid three days before.  I listen for the voice in my own soul that declares to me that there is no death here; He is alive.  He speaks.  And I, too, say “My Lord, and my God!”

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Poised for Spring

There was another big snow last week.  Every twig, every fence, every pine branch was heaped high with frosting.  Even the basketball net looked like expensive lace.  The whole landscape was a photograph in black and white.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Well, except there was a tell-tale hint that it might not be a black and white. In the dormant forsythia outside my kitchen window perched an outrageously scarlet cardinal.  (No wonder the cardinal is the Indiana state bird!) My photographer friend, Angela, popped in to say she was headed to the creek to take some pictures.  She sent back another hint that we were not living in a black and white photo.  Two of our white swans were swimming on the silver pond.  Their orange bills gave such a splash of color that they looked like they had been photoshopped in!

Photo by Angela Kellogg

The bones of the maples and oaks, willows and sycamores revealed the amazingly beautiful and strong framework that in summer holds the weight of such luxuriant foliage that it would break a weaker structure.  Winter tells the whole truth.  The cedars and arborvitae that are in summer a dark aggressive green have backed into a more submissive, humble brownish-gray so as not to intrude on the stark drama of winter.

It was time to put on boots and earmuffs and make a few tracks of my own.  Such a wonderland deserved a closer look.  I found it was too cold for the snow to pack; it was like angel dust, and the slightest gust of wind made the glistening flakes fall again—from the stack piled on every high branch.  I passed the northern magnolia and, lo!  The tips of each twig had a swollen, velvety bud.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

The maples that from a distance looked so bare, were not bare after all, but held clusters of last year’s seed—helicopters, we used to call them, because the new ones in spring fall spinning like propellers to pierce the loose soil of my gardens, sowing seed for maple and boxelder sprouts everywhere.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

I held the fragile “bare” branches of every tree and shrub as I passed—the lilacs, the forsythia, the pussy willows, the dogwoods.  Each branch ended with a small tight bud. Life!  Just waiting and poised to respond to the first warming day, to open to the wooing of sunbeams.   Even in snow there is the promise of spring.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

I get it.  I have discovered that in every dormant season of my soul, in every paused waiting period, there is a subtle moving of something deep in my roots that is pushing its way upward and outward toward a promise.  There is a throbbing in the frozen vessels that insists that in spite of the most colorless day, even in the most chilling discouragement, resurrection will not be denied.  The strong framework of former growth makes me know that the budding that seems tight and frozen now will burst open with new flower and thick leaves. The trunk and branches of proven faith will hold the weight of glory to come!  The roots that have been driven deeper by the frigid days will pump new energy up, up to the very tips of my being.  The sun will shine again.  The earth will green again.  Spring will come, and my heart will sing!

Though the skies be gray above me
And I can't see the light of day;
There's a ray breaking through the shadows
And His smile can't be far away.

Though the earth seems bleak and barren
And the seeds lay brown and dead;
Oh the promise of life throbs within them
And I know spring is just ahead. 

Thank God for the promise of springtime;
Once again my heart will sing.
There's a brand new day a-dawning;
Thank God for the promise of spring.

By William J. and Gloria Gaither
© 1973 Hanna Street Music (BMI) (adm. at CapitolCMGPublishing.com) All rights reserved. Used by permission.

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Slippers and Running Shoes

A luxury afforded Bill and me at this juncture of our lives is most days to own the first couple of hours of the day.  We can actually put on slippers, wrap up in our warm robes, and leisurely drink our coffee, read the paper and our inspirational books, and discuss everything from new revelations and insights to Pacer basketball editorials and the current headlines.  We then make the bed together and get ready for the day.

The other morning, I noticed Bill just standing there by his bathroom closet, dressed and ready, but rocking back and forth in his new walking shoes.  He was smiling.

“What?”  I said, waiting for him to deliver a bit more information.

“I love these shoes,” he finally said.

“And...?” I asked.

“Well, I love drinking my coffee with my slippers on, but when I put on these shoes, I shift into another gear.  My brain clicks into excitement for whatever comes today.”

He smiled again, quit rocking on his cushy running shoes, and then left for the office.

That left me to process this weird behavior.  Just maybe, I thought, there is a balance, a lovely rhythm to the intake—output of life.  I am coming to believe that both are so necessary.  Just maybe to start off into the flurry of activity without any intake may not only be unhealthy, but may leave the mind and heart gasping for spiritual and emotional oxygen somewhere in the middle of the day’s demands. To spiritually and relationally stretch and breathe deeply, take in the beauty of gratitude, to inhale the fresh gift of one more day, to just BE before we hasten off to DO, changes our perspective and widens our sensitivities to all good things to come. Maybe it is as necessary as stretch conditioning before a physical workout.

But there also comes a time to use that fresh energy to “run the race,” to kick off our slippers and appreciate the bounce in the running shoes of life.  It works both ways.  Too much lounging in slippers and not enough running shoes makes our leg muscles antropy; the blood never gets pumping to our brains—or the contemplation to our souls.  Yet too much running around in frantic flurry of activity without quiet intake, spending time with the lover of our hearts, absorbing the wisdom from that “still small voice” that speaks peace produces little but stress, exhaustion, and frustration.

I can’t help thinking of the “run the race” metaphor from Saint Paul, who advises us to rid ourselves of encumbrances, things that hinder and entangle, and do some deep breathing and changing of our aspirations, setting our goals on much higher expectations.  Then when we kick off the slippers and tie on our running shoes, Paul inspires us to run with determination and endurance, knowing that there is a stand full of accomplished veteran runners who have “finished the race” cheering us on. The promise is that if we fix our eyes on the “pioneer and perfecter of our faith,” who is empowering us with the fresh air of victory, “we will not grow weary and lose heart.”

Too long in slippers makes for too little running. But too little slipper time makes for purposeless running.  It’s almost never either/or.  It’s almost always both/and.  Isn’t there a shoe called new balance?  Oh, I so hope to find it!

A valentine for the love of your life.

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Things I Must Tell the Children

This is the fifth in a series I call “The Blessings” that have both the visual of words and images, and audio, so you can listen while you drive or walk or clean. 

Over the course of a year of speaking at week-end retreats, I asked parents this question:

“If you knew you were going to die tomorrow, what would you want to have gotten said to your children, no matter the ages of your children?”  The answers I received on the questionnaire I handed out were varied and wise, profound and joyful.

I gave the responses the title of one of our songs, Things I Must Tell the Children, and turned them into a gift book.  I have asked our family to speak them for you.  So here they are.  I hope you will take time to listen to them and share them.  I’d love to hear back from you, too, with your answer to my question.

If you would like to share this blessing, it is available in a gift book below.

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The Fly-over Zone

Tonight Bill and I went to Cracker Barrel together before he met some buddies to go to the Pacer basketball game.  There was a wood fire burning in the big fireplace, which made the place smell like our farm kitchen.

After we ordered, we were catching up on each other’s day when a big man came over to our table.  We didn’t know him but found out he had farmed in our county all his life, and his family was the third generation to live in the same house and farm the same land.  Retired now, he just wanted to thank us for the music he had listened to most of his life.  He said he had originally farmed 1500 acres, most of which by now had been sold off to corporate agriculture.  Smart, wise, and personable, he told us his family’s story and how our songs had intersected with his life.

Our chicken dinners came.  While we ate we noticed a man with his father at the next table.  The sun was setting and was at the place where it shone straight into the older man’s eyes.  The son immediately got up, and I heard him say, “Here, dad, trade places with me.  My eyes can take the brightness better than yours,” as he switched chairs with his father.  Their food arrived, and they paused in their pleasant conversation; the son took his father’s hand across the table, and they bowed their heads and prayed a blessing over their food.

Behind Bill was a couple that looked to be in their late 70s.  Still beautiful, the woman had well-groomed grey hair, and the man engaged her in a conversation about pictures she was showing him on her cell phone; I’m guessing grandkids.

I watched as another couple came in and settled at the table to our left.  The gentleman was pushing his wife in a portable wheel chair.  As the waitress took their order, I noticed that the woman held the menu in her right hand while her left hand rested in her lap.  When their meals came, the husband quietly got up and went around to her side of the table and began cutting her food in manageable pieces; I knew, then, that she only had use of one hand.

Our little waitress was about college age and was working so hard to make sure we had everything we needed, while she juggled the service of four or five other tables.

Three long-term marriages, a middle-aged man enjoying his father, a husband caring for his sweetheart after so many years, a young woman who shows up for work and is full of joy doing it....  These are stories that don’t make the ratings-driven 24/7 news shows.  It isn’t likely that they show up in the political poles.  These folks probably don’t have election signs in their yards or bumper-sticker banners on their cars.

They are not naïve, uneducated, or susceptible to campaigns to cultivate the swing vote. They don’t look to empty platitudes to solve their problems, take care of their aged, or escape responsibility for caring for the less fortunate across the street or down the road. They read, think, love their families, and seek out enriching relationships in their neighborhoods, their churches, and their families.  They care about the hungry and the disenfranchised and show up for organizations that try to address these issues.

Like you, there are days when I think the world is going to hell in a handbag, and then my sweet husband takes me out for fried chicken at the Cracker Barrel down the road, and I come home knowing that there are still strong fibers in the fabric of faith and commitment in this country.  The roots of goodness are deeper than the news would have us believe, and real people are still making a real difference in real places—like Indiana.

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O, Come Let Us Adore Him

When God shows up, we can do nothing but fall down in praise and adoration.  That’s what happened the very first time God made an appearance on this earth in human form.  It’s what will always happen whenever we find ourselves in the presence of the living Christ!  All discussions of the “how’s” and “what’s” of worship styles, or worship aids and devices, will fall silent in the presence of the Holy One.

When God is present we will at first stand in awe, fall down in wonder, or bow low in repentance; then, finding our voices, we will sing, shout, weep, dance, beat drums, play instruments, clap hands, make banners, march around the altar (or the manger or the stable or the living room)….  Indeed, we will not be able to find enough ways to express our praise.  We will not argue about old songs or new songs, hymnals or screens, robed choirs or blue-jeaned worship teams, pipe organs or guitars.  We only argue about such things before God shows up or a very long time after He’s gone away. 

But when He comes – when God Himself is born among us, we may have to shut up entirely and let the angels sing.  One thing for sure, there will not be dissension and fussing and dividing of services or churches.  No, there will be peace on earth, goodwill toward men, and women, and children, and neighbors, and strangers, and all the world!

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The After-Christmas Carol

The Christmas music has died down in the department stores, and the JANUARY SALES signs have taken its place.  The relatives have mostly headed back home to work and to school, and the needles are falling from the real trees as we take down the ornaments and store them away for next year.  The after-celebration reality has settled in, and for many the post-Christmas-depression is lurking around the corner as we vacuum out the car and sweep up the glitter and styrofoam packing balls from the living room. The jingle of Christmas bells have been silenced by the 6:00 news, and bewildering lead stories are shattering the spell of “joy to the world.”

Perhaps now is the perfect time to break out another carol, a timeless, unconquerable carol for the spirit.  It was written in 1863 by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow after the death of his wife, and following the departure of their oldest son to fight in the Civil War without his father’s blessing.

From that Christmas of 1863 until the present, people have entered the “season of peace” when the world and their personal lives were in chaos.  No, this year is certainly no exception, yet the Peace Jesus came to bring is not and never has been at the mercy of the current lead story.

The Song that started with the angels one night on a Judean hillside cannot be silenced by the dissonance of opposing political or religious factions or the cacophony of war.

There has to be a Song!  No one can live without hope!  The gift of “the Song” is the best gift of all.  Let us fill our own hearts with it.  Let’s fill our homes with it and our cars with it as we travel back to our regular routine.  Let’s give it to those who mourn and to those who struggle with debilitating illnesses.  Let’s sing it in the ears of our children as we tuck them into bed, and take it to the discouraged and the lonely.  Because, as Longfellow wrote those decades ago: God is not dead nor doth he sleep!  The wrong shall fail, the right prevail, with peace on earth, good will to men.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet, the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

I thought how, as the day had come
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

Then in despair I bowed my head,
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of Peace on earth good will to men.”

 Then pealed the bells more loud and deep
“God is not dead, nor doth he sleep!
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.”

In the gray winter of our days, let’s not only believe but practice with our last breath and action, the lived-out message of the new life of Christmas and the new life of the resurrection, LIFE WINS!  LOVE IS STRONGER!

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The Water of Life on Earth's Shore

The great Creator who breathed galaxies into existence began the creation of our world by speaking into the swirling, formless void of nothingness, “Let it be!”  Because He is light, His first “let it be” was “light.”  And there was light.  Then He separated the light from darkness and gave them both names:  day and night.

Then He called the firm particles out from the misty wetness, drawing the firm together and separating what was solid from the liquid.  He named the firm firmament and the liquid water—water below, vapor above and land in between.  His first foundational work was done.  There was light.  There was night.  There was earth, and there were seas.  “Good work!  Necessary work!” He breathed.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

Eons later, this great Creator would choose to plant Himself on this planet.  He longed for His created work to know Him, especially the creation He had named man.  But this would require an enormous risk of limitation.  Life itself would have to distill itself into the smallest denomination of life of which this tiny planet was capable:  a single cell.  This cosmic singularity must become a single cell to combine with a human cell.  This great God would become one of us in our most vulnerable form—a helpless baby.

The story of this Creator-God reaching all this unfathomable distance is a wonder that stretches credulity.  Yet, it is simple enough on its surface for a child to understand and so profound that the most brilliant and most schooled of minds cannot truly comprehend. So all, the simple and the brilliant, must hold the mystery with an open hand like one holds for a moment a snowflake on an eyelash in the moonlight.

Photo by Angela Kellogg

How fitting that this human-encased God-essence, pure and true, walked in sandaled feet the sandy shores of a small sea—a place where firmament and water come together—telling the secrets of the mystery in earthy stories filled with metaphor, so that we who were made of the very earth He called forth could have inklings, now and again, of a truth beyond words and a Life that transcends the living out of our days.

This Holy child that was born in earth’s simplest of circumstances never got very far from a seashore where water and grains of firmament meet.  There He taught with stories that explanations could never impart, so that we ourselves could transcend time and space, earth and water to recognize the essential kinship between eternity and this moment.

Click below to listen to the podcast “The Story You Never Heard” featuring Gloria Gaither.

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