Curls and Seams

She combed through my wet hair, clean from washing with green Prell shampoo, then parted off narrow vertical portions.  One at a time she wrapped the wet sections around her finger, making curls she then secured vertically with bobby pins.

Gloria at age 4

It was Saturday night—bath night—and the pinned-in-place curls were soft enough to sleep on.  By morning they would be dry, and mother would remove the pins, gently brush out the curls, forming shiny ringlets for church.

After our breakfast of bacon, eggs, and biscuits, she would pull my freshly ironed dress over my hair. I would find clean white sox with lace around the edges tucked into my black patent leather shoes to put on for church. Most of my dresses had a sewn-in sash that mother would tie in a bow in the back. She had made all of my dresses, as well as those of my sister and her own.

She was an expert seamstress, a skill she learned from her mother that equipped her to work before I was born at a designer dress shop in Battle Creek called the Francine Dress Shop where she was part of the designer sewing team.  She also modeled these dresses in style shows and for magazine and newspaper ads for the shop.

My red satin dress

Mother was a stickler for finished seams and sculpting details that made a garment “hang right” as she used to say. And both mother and her mother loved quality fabrics.  One of my favorite dresses when I was around ten years old was made of red satin with a white yoke.  I felt so beautiful when I wore it, and at ten beautiful is important. I didn’t wear this dress to regular church; it was saved for special occasions.

Most of our life revolved around the church, since daddy was the pastor.  Even special occasions were special services like New Year’s Eve watchnight services, area conventions, or performances of the Easter and Christmas plays and programs mother wrote and directed.

From the time I was four years old my parents pastored churches in small towns, churches that were struggling that they nursed into strong, stable congregations. This was a full-time job, and I don’t remember ever hearing the phrase “my day off” from my father’s mouth.  Our phone rang at all hours and on every day in the week with calls from someone who was in trouble, in need, or in a hurry.  We had weddings in our living room, cook-outs in our back yard, and area youth skating parties at the rink just down the road. Our car was the taxi for kids or older people who didn’t have a ride to church.

Like getting my hair set on Saturday night, watching my mother construct fine garments out of good fabrics, or hanging out in the barn where my dad made beautiful things out of wood, I saw my parents take whatever characters a community provided and love the best out of people, then patiently train and encourage them into a strong commitment to the Father of us all.  Some characters were more difficult or complicated than others, but my parents thought everyone had the potential to become more than even they believed they could be.

Some of the toughest old characters were there just the best challenges to my dad.  I watched him take on crusty men who wanted nothing to do with the church and persistently and consistently meet them where they were. Some never came to church but came to respect and embrace what the church stood for.  Others became some of the strongest believers with the most amazing testimonies to what God can do in a life.

Burlington Church when we first went there

We went to the Burlington church when I was four.  I literally grew up with many of the families that became (and are still) a part of that church. One family had children my age.  I remember one Sunday when most of the families were snowed in from a serious blizzard and, for good reason, couldn’t make it to church.  But daddy shoveled out our driveway and went to the church early to shovel off the steps and porch of the church. He turned up the heat while mother put some pine sprigs and holly on the communion table.

“Well, at least we’re here and God’s here!” my dad said.  About the time we decided it would be just us, in drove a big farm tractor with George and Eleanor Funk and their three small children, bundled up to their noses in coats and scarves and hanging on for dear life to the tractor seats.  They lived in the country and probably the farthest from the church.  But, bless their faithful hearts, they were there to worship, snow and all! 

Gloria at 14 with Sunday School class she taught Janet Funk right in front of Gloria

What an impression that made on this little eight-year-old!  I have never forgotten the beauty of the Family of God. Just a few weeks ago on our 61st anniversary, we got this text from the woman who was the four-year-old on that tractor that snowy day in Michigan:

Happy Anniversary, Gloria and Bill!  I just want you to know that I am thanking God for both of you...still impacting people with the gospel all over the world!! And, Gloria, you and your family have impacted my life personally for so many years!  I know God is blessing your family.  Have a special celebration of your years together.

Much love,   
Janet  

The Funk family were just some of the great “regular people” who have been giants along my path.  And whether I’m called on to curl hair, make a dress right, shovel off a walk, or plant roses that won’t bloom until after I’ve moved away, I just hope that all I do today will be done right and for the glory of God.

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The Journey Continues

This first month of the New Year, the journey continues.
The star promises that the Messiah is already a reality in this earthen world,
and hints that there are those who have found Him—
some have even embraced Him.

Yet for even those who are wise enough to seek,
this day is a desert day of dust and sand,
plodding and enduring—until the star stops.

Most of us believers—who travel in caravan—visualize as we go where that star-place will be.

We can’t help feeling that the place must be wonderful—
an oasis, a resort, a fine abode fit for a King.

Like those first travelers,
we are way too literally minded
to keep focused on the wonder
of the Incarnate One, Himself—
that He is the wonder.

Will we be disappointed with the destination of this day’s journey
when we find no place spectacular?

Will we, like the poet, miss the glory of the summit
because of bramble distractions?

Lord, today as every day, the hope of finding You on my journey—
that starring promise—
guides and pulls me along the dusty way.

Satisfy my seeking heart with the pleasant reality of Your sweet Self,
resting there in the familiar surroundings of common things.

And, Lord, fill me with gratitude
for Your provisions along my way to You.

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A New Day, a New Year

Lord, on this new day of the New Year I am thankful perhaps most that last year is over and a new page has been turned. I know the moment that marks a new year is in reality no different from any other moment. Each moment gives me a chance to make a better choice, take a bigger risk, avoid a careless word, and embrace a glorious joy.

But sometimes we need a sacrament--a party, an event, a mark on the national calendar--to shake us from our routine. We need a landmark, a finish line, a line in the dust that says, "Here. Here is the place to begin. 

So, I am thankful for this moment. This New Year's Day is a closure to pain, an opening to joy, a celebration of past victories, a funeral for past failures, an open door to exciting and terrifying possibilities, a back-turning on all that would drag us downward. This is a moment. I choose to love it. I will do the hard thing today. I will speak the truth today. I will forgive and offer grace today. I will receive forgiveness and give it today. I will not be cynical today.

I will laugh freely like a child at what I see, at myself, at the sheer loveliness of life. Today I ask for no burning bushes or eruptions of Sinai. I do ask for the eyes to see the bushes already aflame with awesome frozen beauty glistening like diamonds in the air. 

I ask for ears to hear the voice of God in the thunder. I ask for the sensitivity to feel the pulse of the universe when I press my breast against the warm sand on the beach. May I taste the honey on the purple roadside clover and the sweet tender end of the stems of native grasses.

May I thrill to the gentle touch of snow landing on my cheek, laugh when my nostrils send smoke rings of steam into the morning air. Today may be as hard as yesterday, but make me a new woman in the living of it. Tomorrow may be as glorious as my best memory. Make me a new woman to celebrate it. Thank You. That's all I have to pray. Thank You.

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Glimpses of Your Body United

There are glimpses, Lord, of Your Body united
and these glimpses are beautiful.

They let me know that this harmony, health and peace are possible,
and, in spite of other times that shatter this vision,
You will draw us like a magnet to Yourself.
There will be a time
when all the broken and dispersed pieces of Yourself
will come together in beautiful reality.

Lord, sometimes I feel as if I’m living in the valley of dry bones—
surrounded by parched and bleached body parts
disconnected from each other,
unable to perform the simplest function of the living.

But then I hear a voice and a sweet wind brushes my face
like angel wing tips in a dream.
I see a strange movement.
I feel an innate desire for being connected
moving through the bones:
a song sung in harmony,
an embrace between two who thought they had nothing in common,
a move to forgive before forgiveness is requested,
a meltdown of the spirit in some small group studying Your Word.

I feel it then in my own bones—a pull drawing me to the Head of focus.
I sense a warming in the marrow, a kindling of fire.
These times make me dare to trust
that the dislocated body parts will not only adjoin,
they will form the body of a beautiful Bride,
breathless with infatuation,
as she walks with perfect grace toward her Groom.

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My Body Aches

Lord, my body is throbbing from fatigue from all the Christmas preparations.

When I stop to consider the Messiah and His coming, I can't stop my mind.
I keep making mental lists of details, names I want to remember, things I have yet to do and foods I must buy or prepare. But I am not complaining, Lord. I love having a reason to do special things in Your name for people I love. I am grateful that Your coming makes the whole world sing! 

The business of Christmas brakes us all—even those who don't know You for themselves—from the craze of commerce for profit and accomplishment and turns our attention to others. The bell-ringers of the Salvation Army have become as much a part of the joy as Santa at the mall. And although the crèche can no longer be assembled in the city square, more of us are taking time to tell the children why we make the manger and its tiny Occupant such a part of our homes.

I feel the urgency more than ever to make for another generation a celebration that will make this the most important event of the year. This must not become just another day or even just another holiday. We must tell each other and the children that this Babe in a manger was and is the coming together of heaven and earth. But, Lord, help me keep that focus in my own heart.

Help me remember that there is nothing of value that doesn't demand sacrifice and effort. You Yourself came on a quiet night in a small town, but it wasn't the idyllic, effortless night depicted in the windows. There was blood and water and pain. There were insufficient provisions and fear. There were visitors at a time when Mary must have wanted privacy. From then on, You were putting Your own needs as a human being on the back burner for the Big Picture.

So, it is not out of character for Christmas to be wonderful and demanding, a time when fatigue and effort are invested for a few amazing moments of glory. It is for love. All this day, let me remember it is for love. 

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The Waiting

It is advent. 
I am waiting – waiting for Your coming, Lord.
There are so many places where I wait for Your coming.
You came to Bethlehem, that tiny place of an almost forgotten promise.
You came to Nazareth, a in no way spectacular town,
and You came to Bethany, Capernaum, and Jerusalem.

There are places in my life that await Your coming.
Here – where Your message of reconciliation is so needed;
or there – where Your tears could fall like they did over Jerusalem. 
I need You to come where it would take at least a choir of angels
to make the dullest of hearts aware of something eternal. 
I wait for Your entrance into those dark places of disbelief –
the crude and mundane corners of my existence so in need of starlight illuminations. 

Come where there is little privacy, comfort or warmth –
where animals feed and lowly service is offered.
How many times have I plunged headlong into the celebration of Your coming
without being assured of Your actual arrival?
I have gone more days than three “assuming You to be in our presence.”
But advent is not for scurrying or for assuming.
It is for waiting. 
May I recognize You when You come
not as the peak moment of our preplanned celebration,
but as the subtle surprise,
the simple object of wonder,
the God of small things.
I wait.  Come, Lord Jesus, come.

National Day of Thanksgiving

This day of national Thanksgiving
I have personal gratitude to bring to You,

For treasures on a very personal level:

For the fire in the kitchen hearth this man I love
kept burning through the night;

For the hodge-podge of wonderful objects-
furniture, pictures and child-art wall hangings-
that make up this home's cache of memories;

For the tables set by our sweet daughters
and the ghosts we see of those
who have sat in these same chairs over the years,
talking, laughing, crying, pouting, praying.

For the bubbles I feel in my stomach just knowing that any moment
children will burst through the door.

They will run to throw their arms around my legs,
children full of excitement for this happy day;

For the memory of those so dear
who were once so much a part of this day-
now thankful to be around Your big table;

For the pain You've brought us through, that distilled into victory,
making this and every moment sweeter
like the sap of a tree, bled into a silver pail,
then boiled around the clock
to make the golden nectar we call maple syrup.
Each drop is a big price--yet so sweet.

For Your presence, Lord,
that is the fire to distill,
the breeze to cool,
the storm to bend us low,
the sunshine to draw us upward.

No wonder our forefathers took such risks
and even died for the promise of a soil
on which they could kneel in repentance
and a clear space into which they could
freely speak their gratitude
and worship to You.

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Driving Through the Mountains

We've been driving through the mountains, Lord-
winding our way in an air-conditioned car up the narrow road
cutting through the towering oaks and maples,
pines and tulip trees.

The mountain laurel and sassafras sprouts are at eye level as we drive along
and I know the fragrance is heavenly
mixed with the musky smells of mosses and rich earth.

Why was I so timid, then, Lord,
when I suggested we roll down all the windows?

Why was I so easily silenced
when someone said the wind would mess up our hair?

Now, I know we will return to the flat plains with our hair intact,
but not our spirits.

The mountain trails were beautiful to behold,
but You gave us at least five senses
as avenues to transport food to our souls,
and we settled for using only sight.

We could have filled our nostrils with fresh mountain air
fragrant with a hundred rare perfumes.

We could have heard the leathery rhythm band
of colliding oak leaves accompanying
the song of a thousand birds.

We could have felt the wind in our hair, caressing our faces.

We could have stopped
and touched the shagbark hickories
and the smooth beeches.

We could have pulled up a small sassafras seedling
and nibbled on a sliver of root.

We could have peeked under a tulip leaf
to find the lovely yellow and orange blossom
so rare to huge trees.

We might have stopped at one of the pull-off places
and leaned over a cliff to see the valley below
and beheld vistas that would have taken our breath away.

But at least, Lord, we didn't sweat
and our hair didn't get messed up.

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Children on the Carousel

I watch the children on the carousel this morning, Lord.
They are mesmerized by the glittering horses,
the bejeweled elephants,
the undulating lights.

The merry-go-round starts to turn as the music plays,
and, one by one,
the images familiar:
mother, father, tables, cars, grass-
blending into a spinning blur-
disappear.

The children gradually come to embrace a new reality,
the world of bright, flawless animals,
colored lights, music box sounds.

Only peers populate their brave new world.
Their wide eyes become fixed
on the mechanized, artificial wonder—
blind to any other reality.

Lord, am I, too, spinning in my artificial world,
caught up in glittering plans,
dazzled by artifacts of our culture?

Are my ears so tuned to the tinny sounds
that fill my hearing that sweet voices of those I love
can no longer be distinguished from the din?

Has the centrifugal force of my running-around-in-circles
blurred Your dear face into oblivion?

Is my whole perception of reality
based on the habits and lifestyles of those who spin with me?

Slow me down, Lord.
Let my contrived machinery run out of steam.
Let the music stop.
Pull me out of my trance.

Let the light bulbs go out;
let the sunshine stream in!

Blow Your clean, fresh breezes into my stupored face.
Give me a hand, Lord.
Lift me from the phony conveyances
and set my feet on solid ground.

I may be disoriented for a while, Lord.
Steady me with Your strong arm.

At first, I may be blinded by the bright light of Your truth.
Be patient with me
until I can refocus on the images
You want to reveal to me.

Lord, lead me into a quiet place
where I can learn to hear the gentle sound
of the clear brooks of Living Water.

And, when I can bear it, let me hear Your voice;
let me see Your face;
let me walk in Your paths;
let me recognize the eternal in every fragile moment.

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Let's Talk about Seeds

Before sun and moon and stars, before there was light—there were seeds, just waiting, waiting full of the power of potential. 

As soon as there was land separate from the waters, there were plants with seed just waiting for light, just waiting for sunshine and the pull of the moon—there was the potential of reproducing every tree and plant God made on the face of the earth.  Before there were fish or birds or animals, before there was hunger, there was food—plants to bear flowers with seeds and fruit with seeds.  Seeds everywhere just waiting.  Before there was sunshine or dew, before there was seasons or cycles, there were seeds, just waiting.

And the seeds had intention:  to make more and more of whatever held the seed, perpetrating  ad Infinitum, a lush harvest to feed everything that was yet to be created.  Before the need, the seed.  Before the hunger, the food, Before the privation, the provision.

photo by Angela Kellogg

How like God to think ahead, to transcend the logic of all lesser creatures, to supply the needs of His creation before he made the life that would need it.  No wonder the metaphor of seeds is sprinkled throughout the sacred scriptures.

The poetic prophet Isaiah gives purpose to the rain and snow, that purpose being to come down as precipitation to make the seeds do what they were made to do, to bud and flourish so that they would “yield seed for the sower and bread for the eater.”  Only then could the moisture return to the clouds. That moisture (rain and snow) is a metaphor (says Isaiah) for the life-giving word that goes out from the mouth of God and does not return until it accomplishes the purpose for which it was sent.

The result?  We who receive the water of that word will...

...go out with joy and be led forth in peace
The mountains and the hills will burst forth
in singing before you, and the trees of the field
will clap their hands!

Not only is the refreshing rain that opens the seed the word of God, in Matthew the seed itself is the living word, and the tiny seed a metaphor for faith that can move mountains. In II Corinthians the seed is used to represent generosity in caring for those in need, seeds that keep on reproducing. I Peter talks about the difference between the seed from human reproduction and the seed that is eternal, the imperishable seed that makes us a part of the family of God. This seed of God is Jesus who took on the body of the seed casing (human form), a human body, so that He could go all the way to dying like a seed must do, so that the living, eternal seed could burst out, alive and green!

The Provision that preceded all things calls to the eternity in each of us, making it possible for us to bloom, “not of perishable seed but imperishable, through the living and enduring word of God.” (I Peter 1:25)

This is the season of seeds.  Every grain of wheat, every kernel of corn, every soybean, every finished marigold or zinnia, every cattail by every pond, every apple, pear, and peach—all the fruit of every harvest is provision for new life.  Every seed surrenders to the burial of decay so that in the darkness of soil, its casing will give way to the promise of provision.

Let the abundance of seeds keep us from dark thoughts, fear, and despair.  God makes provisions before we are even aware of our need.

To All the Poets I Have Known

I am a debtor.  My life as a writer/lyricist has been infused with the generous gifts of others—some I’ve known intimately, some I’ve walked with for a time, some I’ve never met.  But I own them a debt I keep trying to repay
for giving me a poet’s eye,
a poet’s words
a poet’s pen.

They taught me to see beyond the object to the origin.
They taught me to recognize in the particle, the purpose.
They tuned my ear to hear not just the score being executed by the orchestra,
but the angel voices who first sang the music to the composer.

They taught me to pull back the camera of my eye
far enough from the seemingly unrelated specifics
to find big picture.

They modeled for me how to take the broken
fragments of a dream and push the shards
into the wet plaster of another day
to form a mosaic more beautiful
than the vapor of imagination.

 THEY ARE THE POETS I HAVE KNOWN.

 Here are but a few:
--My mother, who made me a designer wardrobe out of bargain
fabrics, masterpieces out of oil paint and canvas, legends
out of farmers, and funding for world change
out of a penny-a-day.

 --Louisa Bowler, a high shool English teacher
who insisted that a fifteen-year-old
had something to say to the President.

 --Milton Buettner, who barely escaped China
with his life when the Commune
rounded up the missionaries,
then inspired a class of Anderson College students
to write better than they ever thought they could.

 --The father of Thomas Wolfe who never got to be
the sculptor he wanted to be, but spent his life
carving tombstones so his son
could write great American fiction.

 --Lawrence Fogelberg, who spent his days
leading a high school band in Illinois,
but gave his artist soul so his son
whose songwriting inspired me
to capture life in song.

 --Stuart Hamblin, whose cowboy ballads
confirmed my belief that a song lyric
could be a whole sentence and that the audience
was as smart or smarter than the performer.

 --Garrison Keiller and Madeleine L’Engle who made me
trust the power of story.

 -- dozens of other poets whose skill with words
showed me that indeed the “pen is mightier than the
sword”.

And I owe a lifetime of gratitude to the man with whom I fell in love more than six decades ago because I recognized the poet in his soul--and the fine singers who have taken to the world what we have written in words and music.  They have given voice to the song in my soul.

I wrote this lyric as a love song to all the poets I have known.

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Harvest

Lord, it is harvest time.

The ripe fields are being cut,
their full grains carried by conveyors
into waiting trucks,
then driven off to storage bins.

Huge wagons loaded with baled grasses
move like awkward prehistoric animals
through the country roads, groaning
with the weight of their burden.

Apples and pears,
sweet and full,
are sorted into wooden crates
to be the central joy of craft festivals.

Root vegetables are being dug
and hidden in dark cellars
against the threat of winter.

Everywhere the reaping of fruit
and grains
and grasses
celebrate the faithful work of spring planting
and hot summer cultivation.

This, Lord, is the season to rejoice,
the season to enjoy,
the season to rest from labor
and to dance in streets and country roads-
around warm bonfires.

I feel it in my bones, Lord.
I, too, am entering the season of harvest.
For so long I have wondered what I would be when I grew up.
For so long I have done, as faithfully as I knew,
just what the day demanded of me:
daily tasks, tending children, meeting deadlines,
passing out love, finishing routines.

All the while I felt as if one day I would "turn out"--
do something special,
be something when I grew up.

Now, half a century of my days have passed
doing "regular" things the best I knew.

I smell the smoke of autumn fires,
and feel the days shortening.
I hear the rustle of "gathering in”.

I can see now, that the daily being
was what I was to do.
Even now, my days are so "regular,"
my chores so unspectacular.

Yet, I feel a festival in the air.
My grandchildren dance in the leaves on the hillside.
My husband hurries home to be warmed
by hot soup and a fire in the kitchen hearth
and by our well-tested love.

My work has, on wings of its own,
found its way into places I will never go,
but joy has returned on the wind
to sing at the festival.

Yes, this is harvest time.
The fruit is ripe and sweet.

Help me. Lord. to see the life You’ve given me
in a new and joyful perspective.
Help me to embrace the process of seasons.
May the harvest bonfires
be a sweet incense to Your nostrils, too.

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Go for the Cream!

Is there no end to bad songs?

Over the years we have been handed hundreds of CDs, lyric sheets, and music and lyrics on music staff paper.  Out of those I can count on two hands the gems—songs of quality that deserved to be heard and sung.  The reason for such a slim outcome is the very reason every Christian college should offer at least a serious class and hopefully a major in songwriting, since our faith has always been carried on the wings of a song.

Why bad songs are bad and good songs are good is a topic that demands much more than this blog.  But at least I must say what my mother often said: “Cream rises to the top.”  I knew what this meant because my grandfather had two or three cows that he milked by hand.  He poured the fresh milk into what he called a separator.  It was a tall milk container sort of shaped like a huge metal vase.  The opening was wide then narrowed to a waistline that held a round white filter.  When the filtering milk can was full, the milk was left to set for a few hours.  The cream content of the milk would rise to the top, most of which was then dipped off to churn butter. The rest was mixed with the remaining milk and put in the “ice box” for us to drink.

I find myself wishing there were a filtered separator through which worship leaders would pour the endless committee-written songs that are being milked by worship publishers from their writing rooms of eager young would-be songwriters.

How I wish that these young writers with such good hearts could spend time reading great literature and studying the poetry and music that has lived through season after season of musical fads and evolving popular rhythm feels.  How we need for these great hearts to spend time being schooled by the scripture and internalizing the spiritual metaphors that should teach us all how to navigate the obstacle courses of our own lives.

What makes me saddest of all is that our language is so rich with possibilities, the well of spiritual experience so deep, and minds and souls of aspiring writers are such a potential resource that none of us as followers of the Master should be satisfied to nurture our souls on the skimmed milk of weak phrases and four popular chords just because there is so much of it.

Great songs, great literature, and great art all take layer after layer of deep study, life experiences (both hard and beautiful), and skillful discipline.  There is always room for creative innovation that plows new ground and uses new media of expression.  But the quality should get better and better because we have such a great history to build upon—a deep history to teach us.  The times demand it!

Art of faith should be (and historically has been) the greatest art of all, because we are writing and singing about the God of all time and space, the source of all life and creativity.  Our subjects are inexhaustible and our pursuit of ways to express the depth and breadth and height of our personal experiences with God should drive us to find unique and fresh ways to tell the great Story ever told.

Let’s not settle for bland and mediocre reconstituted dried skim milk.  Let go for the cream!

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Tasting Summer

For the tastes of summer I give thanks:
for swollen red tomatoes that explode their wonder into my mouth,
for berries and peaches, pears and apples,
and all the fruits of the harvest orchards and berry patches,

 I clap my hands with glee like a child.

For color and textures in such wild variety
that they make a circus of the summer table,
and make every meal a glorious celebration,
I thank You.

For pies and cobblers, salads and compotes,
for all the ordinary creativity this bounty inspires,
I thank You.

For recipes passed down that tie our tasting parties
to all the generations who have gone before
and join the hands in my kitchen to the hands
in the kitchens of Michigan and Indiana,
Missouri and Tennessee,
Italy and Germany,
Ireland and England,
I thank You.

I dance my turn in the jig or reel or clog or hoedown
around our well-worn table.

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What Good Are Love Songs?

Ezekiel must have been an amazing speaker. He warned, he told stories, he reminded people in colorful terms of their history with God.  He called out wicked leaders and exposed corruption in high places.  He predicted the very collapse of the country God had chosen for them and with which he had blessed them.

 He drew great crowds!  The people said, “You’ve got to go hear Ezekiel!  He is such a passionate communicator!  He’s incredible to watch and hear.”  But when all was said and sung, they went home entertained and stimulated, but nothing really changed.

 Ezekiel fell on his face before God for some answers, and God spoke to him giving him even more things to say to the people, things so dire that it tore Ezekiel’s heart out to have to preach them.  Then God said this to Ezekiel: 

 As for you, son of man, your countrymen are talking together about you by the walls and at the doors of the houses, saying to each other, ‘Come, and hear the message that has come from the Lord.’  My people come to you to listen to your words, but they do not put them into practice.  With their mouths they express devotion, but their hearts are greedy for unjust gain. Indeed, to them you are nothing more than one who sings love songs with a beautiful voice and plays an instrument well, for they hear your words, but do not put them into practice. When all this comes true—and it surely will—then they will know that a prophet has been among them. (Ezekiel 33:30-33 NIV)

What God wants is for his creation to not only listen but turn. He woos; he gives a land flowing with milk and honey.  He longs for His children to bask in His love, feast from his amazing supply, love each other, and dwell in His sweet peace.  He longs for us to reflect and spill out mercy to others, joy in His presence, and rest from our frantic and empty pursuit of pseudo-living.  He promises that if we follow the “decrees that give life,” we will surely live.

There is still time to turn.  There is still time to do more than enjoy the music and the poetry. There’s time to internalize the message and let the music draw us into the dance God intended life to be. 

Once there were prophets, but we wouldn’t hear them.
Once there were wonders; we wouldn’t believe.
Fire and manna once rained down from heaven;
Great mighty winds once parted the seas.

When we were blindest, God sent his vision;
When we were deaf, He spoke and we heard.
The Light of the World walked through our darkness—
Jehovah, Himself, the Incarnate Word.

But what good are love songs, if they don’t make us lovers?
Why be an eagle that won’t spread its wings?
Why write our hearts out?  We’re not moved by the passion,
And if love songs don’t change us, then why do we sing?          

Lyric: Gloria Gaither©Hanna Street Music (BMI)
Woody Wright Wouldhewrite Music(ASCAP)

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Our Priest–Forever!

Under the old arrangement, there had to be many priests, so that when the old ones died off, the system could be carried on by others who took their places. But Jesus lives forever and continues to be a Priest so that no one else is needed.  He is able to save completely all who come to God through him.  Since he will live forever, he will always be there to remind God that he has paid for their sins with his blood. (Heb 7:23-24)

It’s life we’re after.  Oh, yes, to be rescued from the disastrously inevitable results of our unregenerate choices is a surprising and precious gift of His one-of-a-kind, once-and-for-all death.  By it we are saved from an ultimate never-ending death with its horrible process.

But for what?  We are saved, stripped of death and enduring pain to live!  The point of it all is to live, and live free, dancing when no one is looking, singing when no one hears, joyful when there’s no party, or no other people around for that matter.  Living without fear, living with abandon, carefree as a child and twice as loving, forgiving, kind, unselfish – in short, living without all the actions and attitudes, choices and thought patterns that cause us and others pain--this is our goal.  When a gift makes us clean, clear down to the core of our being, that is being saved “to the uttermost.”  And that’s what His dying – and living – is for.

So, we can always face tomorrow and live intensely, impassionedly, bravely, joyously, and peacefully because He lives—our priest, our advocate lives!

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Awards, Trophies, and Life

There are awards—and then there are rewards.  Plaques and trophies are given freely these days for all kinds or reasons.  Sometimes they are given for true excellence in one field or another—sports, journalism, music, entertainment, and scientific discovery.  Sometimes they are given just to encourage a kid along in 4-H, spelling, academic achievement, or a school sport.

But last week an award was given for excellent living.  Oh, it was a sports award, too.  But Carl Erskine was given the National Baseball Hall of Fame Buck O’Neil Lifetime Achievement Award for “his extraordinary efforts to enhance baseball’s positive impact on society.” This was only the sixth time this award has been given, but in our opinion it was long overdue for Carl.

Now 96, Carl wasn’t up to traveling to receive this award in person.  But maybe it says even more that his and Betty’s family was there to receive it.  Their son Gary represented them in receiving the award, saying, “It is the thrill of a lifetime to accept this award for my dad.”

Who more than a man’s family is qualified to give testimony to the authenticity of a person who spent his life not only “broadening the game’s appeal and whose character, integrity, and dignity epitomizes the intension of the award but also exemplifies those qualities in the many years off the field.”

Ted Green, documentarian for the Erskine film The Best We’ve Got*, described Erskine as “the 96-year-old guy with the 12-year-old eyes,” eyes that, I might add, dance whenever he’s telling baseball stories or playing his harmonica.  It was Ted who videotaped (in Carl’s and Betty’s home) Carl’s characteristically humble response to receiving the award: “For just a skinny kid from Anderson, Indiana, it was quite a journey to be on the big stage with the superstars of the day.... They were all Hall of Famers.  I don’t know where I fit in there, but I was glad to be there.”

A few weeks before the award, Bill, Woody Wright, and Buddy Greene went over to see Carl and Betty.  Buddy went in the front door playing “Basin Street Blues” on his harmonica; without a word Carl answered by picking up the harmonica he keeps on the table by his chair, and joining Buddy in the tune.  Greeting enough!  And that harmonica has opened many-a-door for Carl to break down barriers and forge friendships over now six decades since he left baseball.

Famous for being one of the Boys of Summer, Erskine played with legends like Duke Snider, Jackie Robinson, Peewee Reese, and Roy Campanella as a stand out pitcher for the Brooklyn and LA Dodgers, racking up 122 wins and two World Series championships.  He threw 14 shutouts and played in 11 games during five World Series. His baseball accomplishments go on and on.

But for Bill and me and the people of Madison County, Indiana, the real honors go to a long life well-lived. After baseball Carl and Betty returned to their home town of Anderson, where he coached at Anderson College for twelve years, winning four conference championships.  And that was just the beginning of “wins” nobody knew to applaud at the time. Faithful to their church, charter members and lifelong supporters of Fellowship of Christian Athletes, contributing to dozens of projects and endeavors to enrich their wide community, Carl and Betty consistently began to help give sinew to the frame of their home town and state by encouraging, supporting, and always “showing up for work” in daily ways.  

For Bill and me perhaps the greatest story of all is the love affair between Carl and Betty.  Just as Carl’s baseball career was beginning to draw attention, he married his high school sweetheart.  For her, “I do” meant being a consistent, steady force to a man, who would move a lot in the baseball life, and be there to hold things together when he was away from wherever home was over the years.

Their son Gary put it this way: “During Dad’s playing days, we always followed him.  We moved to Vero Beach during spring training and on to Brooklyn or Los Angeles during the season and back to Anderson in the off season.”   

During that time, they had two more little boys, and Betty made a home for them wherever home was.  A third child, their little Susan, came along just when Carl’s career was at its peak in 1955.  It was when Susan was four that Carl retired from baseball, and they had their fourth baby Jimmy, who had Downs syndrome. At a time when it was assumed that Downs children would be institutionalized, Carl and Betty said, “No, he’s our son, and he will go home with us.” From that time on, the Erskines committed not only to making Jimmy a part of their family, but a part of the community and the world.   They started the Indiana chapter of Special Olympics and became lifelong advocates for people, especially children, with disabilities by helping to create the Hopewell Center in Indiana.  Because of their making our area more aware, our community cheered Jimmy on in the Special Olympics and became proud to greet him all the years he worked at Appleby’s.  Everyone knew Jimmy!

The beautiful love affair between Carl and Betty was an example to Bill and me of what real love and romance is all about. A few weeks ago, we took our dog Windsor and went over to visit Carl and Betty.  Bill wanted to show them the video cuts the Vocal Band had filmed singing to their wives the collection of love songs they had recorded.  Carl and Betty watched and at times sang along.  When they got to the song “You Are So Beautiful to Me”, Carl looked over at Bill and me and pointed to Betty and smiled.  That said it all after 76 years of marriage.  She said he thought she was still beautiful because he was looking at her through grandpa eyes.  But all of us know they are both beautiful in the eyes of everyone who knows them.  And this beauty is--like the two of them—the real deal!

*The Best We’ve Got” Documentary can be viewed on many platforms

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Christmas in July

I grew up in Michigan in the home of two parents who ministered to people in three communities.  Besides pastoring, writing, and speaking, our family did a lot of fishing in the lakes that dot that beautiful state.  My sweet father seemed to never tire of dragging soggy row boats in and out of Michigan lakes so my mother could fish until it was too dark to see a bobber.

My sister and I learned early to bait our own hooks and take our own catches off the hook. We also were pros at catching night crawlers at night with a good flashlight and quick action that yielded a coffee can full of bait for the next adventure.  Evelyn and I also knew to take our place in the fish-cleaning assembly line our family formed to turn our catch into the flour and cornmeal fried delicacy we then ate late at night after our day on the lake.

My mother was the fishing expert and addict.  I used to think the waters glimmered and the fish cowered when mother showed up.  I also knew to take a good book when mother “went fishin’” because if the bluegills and catfish started biting, there would be no time limit set on our expedition.

Over the years I have come to realize how much a person is shaped by the environment in which one develops. Both Bill and I grew up with a strong sense of place and have been driven to create a place that would shape and define our own children.  We have always wanted to make our place a home our kids and their kids could come home to.  And even when they were far away, they would carry home in their DNA.

I have lived now in Indiana for five decades, much longer than the time I called Michigan “home”.  I have learned to love Indiana and its vast “oceans” of corn and soybeans, wheat and grasses.  I love the smell and beauty of freshly plowed soil and newly mown hay. Yet I still have fresh water “seas” in my veins, and my soul quickens at the sent of the breeze blowing over a fresh water lake surrounded by pines and birches.

So imagine my surprise and delight when for Christmas Bill gave me a week in Michigan to do whatever I wanted!  All winter and spring I have been planning this trip, choosing places I most wanted to absorb that would be “pure Michigan” to me.  I wanted to choose places, too, that would let Bill truly experience the essence of Michigan.

Because my family could never afford a hotel of any kind, especially one on any of the Great Lakes, I chose to drive the south to north border of the state, hugging Lake Michigan on highway 31.  I chose to spend four days on the northwest side of the “mitten” and three days on the very Dutch and Norwegian southwest shore.

In Petoskey (famous for the fossil-formed stones that wash up on the Petoskey beaches), we enjoyed the historical Bay View Inn on Lake Michigan and made day trips from there to the enchanting town of Glen Harbor near the Sleeping Bear Dunes, visiting galleries full of the creations of the artists inspired by the breathtaking environment.  We ate dinner every evening where we could see (and smell) Lake Michigan.  We had our fill of lake perch, prepared exactly like my mother did, dusted with a simple mix of flour and corn meal, salt and pepper and pan fried. 

The last three days we spent in Holland, and like the name implies, this area has a strong Dutch influence, from the Windmill Island and Dutch Reformed Churches, to the greatest Tulip Festival this side of, well, Holland, where sometime in May color reigns with acres of tulips of every variety.

This time of year, however, fruit is everywhere!  In the Petoskey-Traverse City area, it’s cherries—huge sweet black bing cherries and red sour cherries—to buy and to pick.  Cherries everywhere!  Cherry pies, cherry jam, cherry scones and muffins, cherries to eat fresh like candy.

In Holland it’s blueberry season. There are acres of blueberry fields where families can pick-your-own blueberries.  And when blueberry season is over, it will be peaches, then apples. The sandy acidic soil of Michigan is perfect for all kinds of fruit and also for pines, birches, dogwoods, hydrangeas, and azaleas.  Flowers, too, love this soil and bloom from home gardens, planters, and window boxes.

My sweet lover drove around a thousand miles to give me Michigan. When we were headed  home, we went through the little town where I grew up, past the church my parents pastored on the St. Joe River, where the youth group speared carp and fished for trout.  We had our last dinner at Bill’s favorite Michigan restaurant,  Win Schuler’s In Marshall, famous for prime rib and crocks of cheese spread.

When we got home, the corn had grown a foot, and the Madison County 4-H Fair was about to begin.  We got on our old dilapidated golf cart and took our dog Windsor for a ride to check on the pines and birches Bill has planted around our creek for the last 50 years to give me a feel and smell of Michigan. Home again.  And again.

Michigan

To live between the Lakes,
To always have the awareness
That we are safely held
By great bodies of water—
No August can be so dry,
No summer so hot
As to erase the knowing
That there is water enough.
The sign says NO SALT—NO SHARKS
Great bodies of fresh water
Fed by deep springs—
We live aware that there is water enough
For my parched soul
Water enough.

--GLG 7/2023

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Going Home

Bill and I had been away from home about a week, holding services in a church in eastern Tennessee.  Our little Suzanne had been as patient as a one-year-old could be.  Finally, the last night, we said good-bye to our friends and packed our bags and boxes into our station wagon.  I shook hands with the last of the people in the church lobby, then headed for the Sunday school room we had used as a dressing room to put Suzanne’s pajamas on her and jump into my jeans for the long drive home from Tennessee to Indiana.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, Suzanne asked, “Where are we going now, Mommy?”  Children of traveling parents ask that question a lot.

“Home, sweetheart,” Bill answered.  “We’re going home.”

She clapped her hands and made up a song.   “Going home.  We’re going home,” she sang until she finally fell asleep.

As we drove away from the city lights and onto the highway, I remembered how safe I felt as a child in the warm cocoon of our family car--heading home.  My parents traveled often to conventions and other ministerial meetings.  We were gone so often that my mother bought me an extra set of schoolbooks so I could keep up my work.  There was something so comforting about finally leaving the place we’d been visiting to head home where we belonged.

Bill must have been thinking about something very similar. “I remember when I was a kid, Mom and Dad would take us to Nashville to the Ryman Auditorium for the all-night singings,” he mused.  “I’d beg and beg until Dad would finally agree to make the trip.  He’d say, ‘We’ll go, but you better stay in the seat for every bit of that singing.’ I think he was sorry he ever said that when, at one in the morning, I was still there listening to the very last song!  And yet I remember how happy I felt when Dad would put his arm around my shoulder and say, “Come on: let’s go home, and we’d pile into the car and head for the farm in Indiana.  I was so full of music and dreams about someday singing like that that I wouldn’t stop talking for miles.”

Suzanne had given us an idea for a new song, and her little tune kept going through our minds.  Children who have to travel as much as ours did seldom beg to go someplace.  Instead, they beg to stay home.  Home is the sweetest place of all.  They know; they’ve been everywhere else! 

In a way we’re all children of a traveling family.  We’ve seen some nice places.  We’ve stayed in some nice houses.  We’ve had some memorable experiences and met some great people.  But we really don’t live in those places. 

And sometimes the miles get long and the attractions--no matter how exciting--get to be just another county fair.  No matter how much we sleep, we don’t ever seem to be at rest.  No matter how sweet the fellowship or how pleasant the hospitality, we don’t ever seem to really belong.

But one of these days our Father will scoop us up in His strong arms and we will hear Him say those sweet and comforting words, “Come on, my child.  We’re going home.”

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Our World in Turmoil

The world is in turmoil.
Bewilderment and confusion at the deepest level
     fulfill the ancient prediction
        black will be white—
           wrong will be right.

Absolute truths have been made relative . . .
Even the Golden Rule has been tarnished—altered to read:
     “Do to others what You think they would do to You
         if they had the chance.”

Goodness seems to always have an angle.
Manipulate-your-way-to-the-top lessons begin in daycare.
Theology is twisted to create more loopholes—
     true righteousness is the object of scorn,
        even in ecclesiastical circles.

The questions children ask are answered with cynicism.
Innocence is destroyed before it can have a chance to root
     and sprout into virtue.

Build an ark, Lord.
Call some crazy Noah for our day.
Find with Your perfect vision someone who will saw wood
     (when it has never rained) to build a great ship.
Rescue a remnant of trust—
     a fragment of faith.

And, Lord, if even the jackass was invited
to bring a mate and start anew,
        could You choose—could You use me?

From SIMPLE PRAYERS
©2006 Gloria Gaither

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