My Early Story (7)

 

Bible College

 

In September of 1966 I traveled south to enter seminary. It was the seminary that both Walter Veasel and Donald Wilkes attended. I really had no business heading down there, and I can't believe my parents let me go - but it's likely that they didn't know what to make of my conversion and the fact is that even if I was a bit crazy about Jesus that it sure beat the alternative - for you see in the summer of 1965 I had run away from home in Maryland to New York City.

 

When I went to register the registrar told me that I couldn't take seminary classes because I hadn't graduated from high school (this was really more like a Bible College, but it called itself a seminary at the time; I think it has since dropped the word seminary and now uses Bible College). I told the registrar that if they'd let me in that I'd have my GED before I graduated from seminary. Guess what? Yep. They let me in.

 

Life was pretty austere at school, but I didn't mind, meals were simple, the dorm Spartan. As one upperclassman told a newcomer, as a fly buzzed around our dinner table, “There is your protein for tonight, you’d better catch it.”  Most afternoons after class I worked on a crew that the school contracted out in order to pay my tuition. We did demolition work and cleared land; those are the two jobs I remember. My hands got so blistered at one point that I couldn't depress the top of my shaving cream dispenser. We worked half-days on Saturdays too, and after our return to campus and lunch I took long naps on Saturdays to recover from the week.

 

Like I said, I didn't mind. I enjoyed classes, took them seriously, in fact I took the entire experience seriously.

 

The school was coed, but you couldn't talk to members of the opposite sex. I guess since most of the girls were older than me it wasn't an issue. In daily chapel, church on Sundays, and in classes the guys sat on one side of the room and the gals sat on the other.

 

I was reassigned from the work crew to helping an older man do repairs around the campus, including in the girls’ dormitory. I guess because he was old and I was young they figured we were safe, or maybe just safer.

 

I had two roommates, one of which left after a few weeks - the environment was a bit much for him, which I can understand. That left brother Joe and me. Our dorm room was adjacent to the restroom. One evening for dinner we had fish, something like salmon cakes as I recall. Late that night I heard terrible noise coming through the partition from the restroom - I mean terrible, moaning and groaning and the like.

 

"Brother Joe," I said, "do you hear that?"

 

"Yes, I do, brother Withers, perhaps we should see what's going on?"

 

I should mention that the restroom had a line of commodes which were not separated by partitions, much like the military - I mean, why spend money on something like partitions? You just have to clean them and otherwise maintain them; and people are going to do what they have to do, partitions or no partitions. So with this salient fact in mind...

 

Brother Joe and I opened the restroom door to behold a line of young men on the floor, moaning and groaning and holding onto commodes like a good prayer warrior holds onto an altar - except this was no prayer meeting, this was an assembly of those who got sick on fish from dinner. It was not a pretty sight, and yet it was not without its humor. Why some of us got sick and others didn't we'll never know. I can't put it down to righteous living because I know myself too well.

 

Now I guess brother Joe and I could have found some oil and anointed and prayed for the other brothers, but the thought never occurred to us. I suppose we could have remained with them to console, or even perhaps sing songs of praise; but again our thoughts were not how we might lighten the loads of our dear brethren. No, I have to admit that our thoughts were selfish in the extreme, though not without thanksgiving and resolution - we were thankful we weren't sick and we were resolved to do the best we could to get a good night's sleep in the midst of the moaning and the groaning.

 

 

My Early Story (6)

 

My Second Church

 

Either shortly before or immediately after attending camp meeting in Frostburg, MD in the summer of 1966 I moved in with my mom, two brothers, and an elderly great-great-aunt in Rockville, MD and began attending a church in the Wheaton - Silver Spring area that was in the same denomination as the Little Church in NW D.C.

 

This church had many more people compared to my first little church, and there were even a few younger folks, though not many. The pastor, Donald Wilkes, was urbane and cosmopolitan, a contrast from Walter Veasel's simplicity, and from all appearances he was likely doing well as a pastor. The church was in a nice section of the county, the members were middle-class and upper-middle class professionals. The music, traditional by today's standards, was terrific. The choir often reminded me of the camp meeting choir with its enthusiasm, energy, and joy. I still recall one morning when we sang, "Wonder Grace of Jesus," I thought I'd burst for joy.

 

I was the only kid from outside the denomination and there were no other boys my age, and only a couple of girls. Once again, the adults made me feel welcome and did the best they could. They were a more relaxed congregation than the Little Church and what women wore or how they did their hair didn't seem to be issues that concerned them.

 

I recall that Don Wilkes called for a day of prayer and fasting. I was all excited about the prospect and looked forward to the appointed day, which was a Saturday. As it turned out pastor Don and I were the only two people there until the evening, then others arrived, joined in prayer, and we concluded the day. To my young mind I couldn't understand why the church wasn't packed. I couldn't understand why it was only the pastor and me at the church. Things haven't changed in the professing church, but I still don't understand it.

 

I was befriended by a widower in the church, Bill Wood, with three children, two girls and a boy. His wife had died of cancer not long before my arrival. I spent time with his family and often went to church with them. That summer Bill hired me to work at a local newspaper where he was general manager; I helped lay out display advertising by operating a machine that produced graphic letters.

 

Bill was kind to me, and looking back I have to wonder why he would take the time to bother with a kid  like me when he had three children of his own who had recently lost their mother. Bill was soft spoken, thoughtful, and, I think, lonely. He once mentioned that people had started treating him differently after Mary died. People who used to invite his family over for dinner and activities stopped doing so - maybe he saw that I was lonely too?

 

A week or so before leaving for Bible school the church had a going away party for me at Bill's house. and the night before I left for Bible school in the fall of 1966 was spent at Bill's home. Early that morning he drove me to the bus station in Washington, D.C. and I boarded a bus for the South and school.

 

I returned to the church during my Christmas break and recall attending Christmas worship with my mom. Don Wilkes preached from Luke about Simeon and Anna and Mom remarked that she'd never heard a Christmas sermon like that - I guess she meant that it wasn't traditional...it didn't focus on the birth narrative.

 

I was kind of a poster boy for this church since I was from outside the denomination. I testified in front of the church once or twice but thank goodness I didn't preach! One bad sermon (see previous post) was enough.

 

The last time I visited the church was probably during that Christmas break in 1966. I did see Don Wilkes at least once a few weeks later - after I had been expelled from Bible College, but I don't recall attending church again. Oh - actually I saw Don one last time in June 1968 - it was very briefly at the hospital when Mom died - I called him and he came, there is a lot to be said for that.

 

The last time I saw Bill Wood was around 1971. I recall visiting him at his home, but I don't think I saw any of his children at that visit.

 

I regret not having an older man in my life who would be straight and direct with me, who would not hesitate to say things to me that I needed to hear, and who would challenge me with the Scriptures. Walter Veasel was nice to me, Don Wilkes was nice to me, and for sure Bill Wood was nice to me - now I needed nice, but I also needed straight talk - conversion does not equal maturity or even common sense.

My Early Story (5)

 

A Little Church in NW D.C.  - PART FOUR

 

In December of 1966 I returned to the Little Church while on Christmas break from Bible school and preached my first-ever sermon. Walter Veasel was no longer there. I don't know why he left, hopefully he left to take another church closer to home. As mentioned above, a few years later when I saw him again he was pastoring outside of Baltimore.

 

I don't recall the name of the new pastor. He was older than Walter and was welcoming to me. I really had no business preaching and I didn't do a good job. I preached from Leviticus 11, about clean and unclean animals and tried to extrapolate it into principles of holy living. It's kind of interesting that I'm writing this right now because last week a friend of mine remarked on the propensity of some preachers and traditions to excessively allegorize - of course I did it then because I'd seen others do it. [To be clear, I'm not opposed to allegory, the NT writers certainly use it, just look at Galatians 3:21ff. However, I do think it needs to be rooted in the Biblical fabric and not used as a stand-alone argument or teaching. Just because some folks misuse things is not an argument for their non-use; just consider the gifts of the Holy Spirit on that point.]

 

I'd say the only good thing about my sermon was its brevity - it only lasted 10 or 15 minutes. I didn't know that I was practicing one of the great principles of preaching - "when you've said what you have to say - sit down". So while I violated a number of exegetical principles, I modeled a homiletical principal that a lot of preachers seem to have missed - when you're done just shut up and sit down - no need to repeat, "In closing,” ten times before you actually bring yourself to stop speaking.

 

My last time in the Little Church came a year or two later. I visited on a Sunday after living outside the D.C. area for a while. As I was leaving the church that Sunday, the couple who had driven me to camp in the summer of 1966 asked me to call them. I was excited at the prospect of reconnecting with them, they meant so much to me. Perhaps they'd ask me over to spend time with them? Wouldn't it be great to catch up!

 

The next day I telephoned them in anticipation of renewed friendship. The wife answered the phone and after some brief small talk said, "Bob, you really should shave your beard off."

 

You see I had grown a fledgling beard during my time away. Blown away was my anticipation of seeing this couple who meant so much to me - they didn't want to see me, they wanted me to shave my beard off. My heart, which had been high with excitement, plummeted like a roller coaster after teetering at the top of a drop - and in this case the cars of the roller coaster came off the track. That was the last time I visited the Little Church, it was the last time I talked to anyone, other than Walter Veasel, from the Little Church.  It wasn't that I was angry - just hurt; and I didn't know how to handle it.

 

That last phone call has never colored my affection for the Little Church. After all, the people welcomed me, cared about me as best they knew how, and did the best they could. I'm sure they'd never had an outside kid wander in, a kid with no clue about their tradition, about bobbed hair or beards or women in pants. Consider this, these folks did not allow the generation gap to stop them from reaching out to me; they didn't say, "We are old and he is young, we don't know how to relate to him." They did the best they could and I'll always be thankful for that - hey, suppose they hadn't welcomed me? Maybe I'd be a Moonie today or something like that - maybe I'd be writing a blog for the Hare Krishnas or the Loyal Order of Cat Daddy Distillers.

 

My biggest regret about that season of life, in both the Little Church and in the sister church in Silver Spring, MD, is that I didn't have a mentor, an older man to counsel me and help lay a foundation for the future.

My Early Story (4)

 

A Little Church in NW D.C. - PART THREE

 

In the summer of 1966, the denominational conference to which the little church belonged had a camp meeting outside Frostburg, MD. The first week was a youth camp and the second week was an all-church camp - I think I have the sequence right. Anyway, it was two weeks. An older couple from the church drove me to Frostburg. It was hot. Since the car didn't have air conditioning we rode with the windows down. The wife put her right arm through the sleeve of a shirt so that it wouldn't get sunburned while resting on the car door during the ride.

 

I don't recall discussing the camp with either of my parents, though I must of done so with my mom. In essence I decided I was going and that was it. On the other hand, thinking back, the folks at the little church must have done some behind the scenes work for me - otherwise how could I have gone? I didn't have any money to speak of. I didn't pay anything to go. I did agree to work at the soda fountain in the conference center during the two weeks, but that would hardly pay for two weeks of camp meeting.

 

(By this time I was either living at my mom’s, or I decided to live with her upon my return from camp. My return ride was via a widowed dad who had kids at the camp and who belonged to the sister church in Silver Spring. Since my mom lived in Rockville he gave me a ride to her house on his way back to Silver Spring from Frostburg.)

 

Camp was great. Being around other teenagers was neat. The services were exciting. During the regular camp meeting week I sang in the choir and loved it. Pastor Valentine from Baltimore led the choir and generated excitement in everything he did. I still recall some of the songs we sang: It Took A Miracle, The Song of the Soul Set Free, A New Name In Glory, Wonderful Grace of Jesus - oh how we sang those songs! I was in heaven.

 

Sometimes the other kids talked to me about things I didn't understand. Once I was asked my opinion about whether women should "bob" their hair. I didn't have a clue. Then one morning, following a night at which I'd been at the altar for quite some time with people praying around me, the other kids wanted to know if I'd been sanctified or baptized with the Holy Spirit. I didn't know what they were talking about. I did try to understand - but wasn't sure what was going on with me or what all these new terms meant (they probably didn’t either). I suppose I was the first teenager from outside the denomination to have attended the camp in a while.

 

If you are reading this with a critical attitude, give it a break. You see, the story here is that these kids accepted me, they invited me into their lives. These adults were kind to me - a kid who needed kindness. That camp meeting gave me something that I had never experienced - and it is only as I write this now, almost 60 years later, that I see it ever so clearly - that camp meeting introduced me to joy.

 

Singing in that choir, having wholesome fun with other teenagers, being around adults who were kind - I felt safe...and I experienced joy. This joy is more than emotion, it is the joy of which C.S. Lewis speaks, a joy found in beauty, a joy found in a window of time, a joy found in a vision, and a joy found in others. Joy penetrates our heavens in many ways - it first penetrated my heavens in a camp meeting in Frostburg, MD in 1966.

 

My Early Story (3)

 

A Little Church in NW D.C. - PART TWO

 

As I mentioned, the pastor of this little church was Walter Veasel. Walter and his wife had, I think, three children and lived on the other side of Baltimore. He was a schoolteacher. As an adult reflecting back on Walter, I wonder how he managed to be a husband, a father, a schoolteacher, and pastor a church that was easily over an hour from home - probably 1 1/2 hours. It's hard to imagine that Walter was in the ministry for himself. It must have been hard for Mrs. Veasel and the kids too - all that traveling, no other children in the church, long Sundays.

 

Years later I met Walter in Baltimore. He had since assumed the pastorate of a church in the Baltimore area whose meeting house had been destroyed by a hurricane - and thanks to insurance and Federal disaster aid a brand-new facility had been constructed - I was happy for Walter.

 

I wasn't at the little church in N.W. D.C. for very long, for after my conversion tension between my dad and I was such that I moved back to my mom's in Maryland and I attended a sister church in Silver Spring. But for the time I was at the little church the people did the best they could and I'll always be thankful for that and be thankful for those long trips Walter Veasel made every Wednesday night and every Sunday to serve a little congregation that could give him nothing material in return for his long hours of travel, ministry, and preparation.

 

I've seen others like Walter in my life. Men and women who do things that don't make material or temporal sense. Men and women who do things for which there is no apparent "return on their investment". I'm reminded of the woman who poured out precious ointment on the feet of Jesus, it didn't make sense to the disciples, they termed it a waste.

 

Who knows where I might be if not for Walter? Suppose he hadn't been there and there had been no church? Of course we don't know the answers to questions like that, but we do know that God put Walter there, and that Walter was there when I came, and that he drove me home that first Wednesday night. I don't recall a thing that Walter said - but I remember that Pastor Walter Veasel was there - and I think that says a lot.

My Early Story - (2)

 

A Little Church in NW D.C. - PART ONE

 

Howard Wall's church was in Seat Pleasant, MD, too far for me to travel. I did visit Howard one weekend and attended his church, which was Southern Baptist - some of my best friends are Southern Baptist, no kidding. They had a visiting preacher that Sunday and his message was from Matthew 23. I recall Howard commenting about the fact the preacher used the RVS, which meant nothing to me at the time.

 

I visited the local Presbyterian Church in Georgetown by going to speak to an associate pastor. He gave me a booklet which explained the church year, church symbols, vestments, and the like. I'd only been reading the Bible for a few weeks, but when I realized that he didn't know where the Lord's Prayer was, and I did, well that sealed the deal - I thought the Lord's Prayer was probably more important than vestments and symbols.

 

I visited a Baptist Church in Georgetown, it was a communion Sunday. The folks were gracious and invited me to take communion - I guess that was my first communion come to think of it. They were all elderly, which was neither here or there to me in terms of age, but it was all rather subdued.

 

There was a cashier at the Food Mart who invited me to her church. I first went on a Wednesday night. I must have taken the bus, or maybe I rode with her, I can't remember. After the prayer meeting the pastor, Walter Veasel, drove me to the apartment I shared with my Dad on Wisconsin Ave. I returned on Sunday.

 

It was a little church, and other than the pastor's children I was the only one under 30, and I'm not sure there were many under 40. I guess there weren't more than 40 people on a good Sunday. They were old time Pentecostal - of course I didn't know what being Pentecostal meant anymore than I would have known what being a Seventh Day Adventist meant. I knew about the Washington Senators and NY Yankees, and I knew who in my old neighborhood were Baptists, Presbyterians, Catholics, and Methodists, and I knew that my classmate Donny Rothenberg was Jewish, but beyond that Pentecostals were like a hockey team to me - I'd never seen ice hockey and didn't know the rules.

 

The excitement was great on Sundays, the exuberance intoxicating, and the praying...well I'd never heard praying like that - not that I'd ever heard much praying. The people were serious about religion. More importantly, they welcomed me as best they knew how.

 

I often think back to that little church when I read the latest and greatest ways to reach youth. That church didn't have a youth program. It didn't have good music. It didn't have anyone my age. But those people welcomed me as best they knew how and I came back. We make things too complicated.

My Early Story

Good morning,

I have hurt my hand and can't really type, so I am going to revisit my early story which I first shared over 15 years ago. I hope it will encourage you to reflect on your own story.

Love,

Bob

Howard Wall

 

You wouldn't be reading this if it were not for Howard Wall (speaking in the natural). Of course you would not be reading this if it were not for a number of other people as well, but I'm going to begin with Howard.

 

When I was in the 10th grade and attending Western High School in Washington, D.C. I worked at the Food Mart,  a grocery store at 31st & M streets in Georgetown. I worked after school and on Saturday, stocking shelves, bagging groceries, and carrying orders home for folks who lived in walking distance from the store.

 

It was early 1966 when Howard came on board as our new produce manager. He was around 5'8", thin, with coal black hair slicked back, and heavy rimed black glasses with thick lenses. Howard was a Native American.

 

I took my breaks in the area where Howard prepped his produce, for that was also the area in which our cases of dry goods were stored in preparation for stocking. I'd sit on a box, eat my snack, read the paper, and chat with Howard, who was probably around 50 years old.

 

(I recall the first time I tried yogurt during one of my breaks. I couldn't understand why anyone would eat the stuff - it was so bitter! Then I discovered that the fruit was on the bottom.)

 

I don't recall Howard and I talking about anything in particular during those early days of getting acquainted. He wasn't a sports fan, which I was, so that wasn't a common interest. I guess we just talked - maybe about heads of lettuce or radishes or maybe even kumquats. Have you ever had a conversation about kumquats?

 

What I do distinctly remember is finishing my break one day and getting ready to go through the stainless-steel double doors that separated the back of the store from the public area when Howard asked me a question: "Bob, are you a Christian?"

 

"Sure," I replied. After all I was an American, I had been christened in the Presbyterian Church, therefore I was a Christian. That makes sense to you, doesn't it?

 

Howard's question, however, led me to begin reading the Bible and asking Howard questions. He loaned me some books to read, among them Billy Graham's World Aflame, nothing like a little drama to get one's attention.

 

What strikes me as I reflect back to Howard is that he was never pushy - he was, as we say today, relational. And get this, he was significantly older than me and he was relational. I wonder where we get the thinking that older folks and younger folks can't relate? He was interested in me and so he could talk with me and listen to me - not rocket science is it?

 

I wonder what the timing of Howard's question looked like on his end? Why did he decide to pop the question at that particular time? Had he been thinking about it for a while? Had he started to ask the question at other times only to draw back at the last moment?

 

Howard and I both left the Food Mart later that year. Howard moved to Colorado and I lost track of him. I left because I didn't feel my initiative was appreciated. But during our remaining time together Howard and I talked about Jesus and during the weeks following Howard's question I came to know Jesus.

 

I don't know if the Food Mart is still at 31st and M streets, but I do know that one day I'll catch up with Howard and thank him for asking me the most important question anyone could ever ask, and I'll thank him for being my friend.

Indelicacies

 

Indelicacies

 

A friend has inquired about Lady Jane, and this has put me in an awkward position. I can hardly disclose the truth about Lady Jane without venturing into indelicacies. What to do?

 

I realize that indelicacies are a thing of the past for most people, but I have a sensitivity rooted in both classical Christianity and in my great-great Aunt Martha and I take no pleasure in parading the indelicate before the world…or the church. After all, the Law of Moses teaches us that we are to take certain things and conditions outside the camp.

 

Aunt Martha spoke to me of things such as enunciation and deportment, of dropping my chin when I speak; she also taught me to play two-hand solitaire, leading me down a path of dissipation (just kidding about the latter). When Aunt Martha taught school, they not only taught cursive, they really did teach deportment and enunciation, speaking properly was important – now we grunt and can’t put a sentence together, let alone a sustained thought. We make a joke at everything, and what we don’t laugh at we scoff at and ridicule – maybe the joke is on us?

 

I realize that some Bible passages are rather indelicate, Ezekiel has pretty raw passages, such as Chapter 23; when I preached on that I gave the adults a heads-up a week prior in case they wanted to have their kids in children’s church…just saying.

 

One Sunday morning I noticed that the lead vocalist on our praise team had a problem with his attire of which he was obviously unaware (I was sitting with the congregation in a pew). What to do? I hastily scribbled a note, gave it to one of the boys, and asked him to take it to Mr. “Rufus.” Upon reading the note, brother Rufus retreated behind the drummer and when he reappeared his face was rather red. Indelicacies can be a challenge.

 

King David was most certainly sensitive to indelicacies and had compassion on those who suffered them. I am sure you recall the incident in 2 Samuel Chapter 10 when the foolish king of Ammon, Hanun, took David’s messengers and “shaved off half of their beards and cut off their garments in the middle as far as their buttocks.” The Scripture tells us that the men “were greatly ashamed”. David told them, “Stay at Jericho until your beards grow, and then come home.” Hanun would regret this indelicacy.

 

Sometimes we need to hear the indelicate. One morning before church I was chatting with the grandson of a parishioner when the little guy looked at me and said, “You have bad breath.” While the grandmother was apologetic, I was thankful, grabbing the breath mints and thanking the little guy!

 

At other times the indelicate can help with communication, such as when during a children’s sermon, with the kids gathered around me in the front of the church I asked, “When you think of old, what do you think of?” Kyle Mitchell quickly responded, “You.”

 

From that point on I had everyone’s attention.

 

The indelicate can also save lives, as we see in 2 Kings 4:38 – 41. Elisha and his home boys were cooking a big pot of stew, with everyone contributing something to the pot. One of the men harvested some wild gourds that were poisonous and threw them into the pot.

 

As the men were eating the stew they started crying out to Elisha, “O man of God, there is death in the pot!”

 

While it is indelicate to draw attention to a meal that ought not to be eaten, it can save lives.

 

If I am fixing a stew or chili or soup, and I realize that it needs Vickie's touch with herbs and spices, I’ll say to her, “Please come and heal this, there is death in the pot.”

 

We also use the term when we are at restaurants or elsewhere, if the term is warranted. However, please be assured, we have never used it in your home, never, never, never.

 

Sometimes I hear a sermon or a teaching, or read an article or book, and I’ll say, “There is death in the pot.” There is a lot of that happening right now – folks seem to have lost their taste buds.

 

This brings me, mercifully for you, back to Lady Jane.

 

When we made the decision to bring her inside and make her an indoor cat, we knew we had to take her to a vet for shots and a general health check. Also, we needed to get her cuts looked at because she had been attacked, likely by Socks the tomcat.

 

I made an appointment with a new practice in the area, borrowed a carrier from a neighbor, and off we went. The carrier had two towels for padding, and we placed a beach towel over the outside to give Lady Jane a sense of security during the ride.

 

The veterinary clinic is about 15 minutes from home and we hoped the ride would be uneventful, alas, it was not. No, Lady Jane did not escape from the carrier, roll down the window, and jump out of the car. What she did do was to encourage us to roll down all the windows by engaging in an indelicacy. All of the air freshener in the world could not have masked this indelicacy. She must have been frightened.

 

We arrived about 15 minutes before our appointment, and as we waited to be called to an examining room, we wondered what we would find in the carrier with Lady Jane, that is, we knew the nature of what we would find, but we didn’t know the extent of what we would find.

 

Finally, a tech called us back, asked questions, and wrote down answers. From this point on, you really had to be there, but I will do my best to describe what happened.

 

A woman entered the room who we assumed to be a vet. She did not introduce herself. She did not say, “Good afternoon. Thank you for coming to our new practice.” She did not say, “This is a holdup, give me your wallet and purse.” She did not ask, “Have you ever seen an UFO?”

 

After looking at the carrier, which only had a front door, she did say, “If you bring her back to me I won’t see her if she is in this carrier. This is the second rescue cat today that has been in a carrier like this. You must bring her in a carrier that opens at the top.”

 

Well, good afternoon to you too! Thank you very much! Ain’t this grand?

 

If it had not been for the fact that we were there for Lady Jane, we would have left.

 

But it gets better.

 

Not once did she discuss Lady Jane’s health with us.

 

Not once did she discuss our options for heartworm and flea and tick treatment, she gave us a tube of XWY and said, “Use this, and when you come back you can buy more.”

 

Not once did she engage in conversation, or even speak distinctly, she seemed to be talking to herself more than to her tech, and certainly more than to us.

 

She and the tech removed the top half of the carrier (they are made so that while there is no door on the top, the top half can be removed). Then the tech lifted Lady Jane out of the carrier. At that point Lady Jane’s indelicacy distinctly manifested itself.

 

Now you really had to have been there for what comes next, because it really does get better.

 

The vet (that is, the woman who we assumed was the vet), reached into the carrier and lifted the towels out. Within the towels lay Lady Jane’s indelicacy. Rather than place the towels on the floor, rather than put them in a trash receptacle, the vet hands them across the examining table to Vickie and says, “Take these.”

 

Ha! Did I say you had to have been there?

 

As Vickie reached for the towels Lady Jane’s indelicacy, which was substantial for such a small animal, rolled out of the towels, down Vickie’s arm, onto her hand, and was deposited on her leg (she was wearing shorts).

 

Then this person, who we supposed was a vet, had the tech go get a trash bag and give it to Vickie so she could put the soiled towels in it.

 

But it gets better, don’t leave me yet.

 

Rather than say to Vickie, “Why don’t you come over here to the sink and get washed up. Here is soap and water, here is sanitizer,” this vet person hands her a roll of paper towels to simply wipe the indelicacy off her skin and clothes.

 

Now I ask you, gentle reader, would you really want the residue of cat poop on you, even if you dearly loved the cat? I don’t mean to be indelicate, goodness no, I don’t intend that at all, but I think it is a legitimate question. I think there are times we must confront the unpleasant, no matter how indelicate.

 

Lady Jane received a rabies vaccination, and also another vaccination for a number of problems cats can develop. We were given meds for her wounds. Another towel for her carrier was thankfully provided by the tech, she was placed back in the carrier, the top half was secured, and we left the examining room.

 

I went to the car with Lady Jane while Vickie paid the bill – one with exorbitant pricing.

 

As Vickie approached the car, I saw her carrying the trash bag. Not thinking that we wanted such indelicacy as company on the way home, I asked her to leave the bag outside. Then I got out of the car and deposited it in the clinic’s dumpster.

 

The only really funny thing about all of this is that the supposed vet made an appointment for us to bring Lady Jane back for a booster shot. Ha! We canceled that appointment and are taking Lady Jane to another vet, the drive is longer, but we’ve been to this clinic before and know what to expect.  

 

In case you’re wondering, Vickie got cleaned up when we reached home…and Lady Jane took a nap.

 

 

 

 

Theo of Golden – Revisited (1)

 

 

I don’t think I’ve ever read a book three times in one year, yet I’ve just returned to Theo. As I recall writing in an earlier reflection, Theo of Golden by Allen Levi is a lifelong companion – little I did know at the time I’d be spending so much time with my new friend.

 

I first read Theo on the hardy recommendation of my friend, Michael Daily. After I completed reading Theo, I next read it aloud to Vickie. Since then I have often thought of Theo, and Vickie and I regularly speak of the folks we met in Golden.

 

I have returned to Theo of Golden because I want to touch some gracious humanity, I need a good dose of kindness, I need some inspiration, I need some hope. I need to be reminded that even if the world, and much of the professing church (at least in the West), has lost its mind, that one or two people, or a small group of people, can still make a difference.

 

Faces still matter, no matter what the color of skin, citizenship status, social or economic background, intellectual or emotional capacity, religious adherence (or not), no matter what, no matter what, no matter who…faces still matter – individuals still matter, they are loved by God in Christ and the possibility of sainthood lies within the image of God, no matter how defaced.

 

As I write this I am reminded of David Wilkinson and Nicky Cruz. While Wilkinson may have gone off on tangents later in life, he had one thing right in the beginning, that Jesus loves us. Relying on my fading memory, when Nicky Cruz threatened him with a switchblade, Wilkinson responded with, ‘Nicky, you can cut me into a thousand pieces, and every piece will say, ‘Jesus loves you.’”

 

Wilkinson’s call to share the Gospel with gangs in New York City made no sense, no sense at all. People thought he was crazy, and I suppose he was, he was crazy for Jesus and love for others.

 

There are things in Theo of Golden that make no sense, as Pearce Glissen would likely point out, but they sure make sense to someone like Theo who knows what it is to have misplaced loves and priorities, and who has learned to look into eyes, to look at the lines on faces, and see into souls, to see the potential of saints.

 

I need a good dose of compassionate humanity – not the caricature we see in violence and hatred and vitriol and in worshipping the god of money and possessions and fleeting pleasure. I need to be reminded of the beauty God has given us in literature, and music, and art, and acceptance and forgiveness…and within each other.

 

If you haven’t yet read Theo of Golden, I hope you will. You can purchase it, and also learn about its author, at Allen Levi

 

Love,

 

Bob

 

Trail Magic

 

 

Have you ever been the recipient of trail magic?

 

Have you ever given trail magic?

 

The Appalachian Trail (A.T.) is 2,197.4 miles (of course you knew that!). It has approximately 464,500 feet of gain and loss in elevation. The total elevation gain on the trail is equivalent to scaling Mt. Everest 16 times.

 

How many states does it cross? Quick! How many? 14 (of course you already knew that!).

 

The A.T. has about 3 million visitors each year, some are day - hikers, some just visit a visitor center or vista for a picnic, some hike a leg or two of the trail. Then there are the thru-hikers, the hardy souls who attempt to hike the entire trail in one continuous trip, typically traveling south to north, from Georgia to Maine, taking an average of 6 months.

 

Every year about 3,000 hardy and determined souls attempt a thru – hike, with an average completion rate of 30%. Well, better to have tried and done the best you could than sit home and just think about it.

 

One of the surprises that thru - hikers can look forward to is trail magic. Trail magic consists of acts of kindness by strangers on or just off the trail. This can take the form of meals (usually breakfast or lunch), water supply, rides to a nearby town (and back) or hostel for resupply and meals. It can even take the form of free repair services for backpacks and tents.

 

Perhaps the best thing about trail magic is the kindness of strangers, their thoughtfulness, their encouragement, their smiles, their hugs. Trail magic is for thru-hikers, it is geared to encourage those who are making the attempt at something few are prepared to try.

 

Trail angels with their trail magic are amazing. They can be individuals, couples, civic groups, churches, even towns and villages.

 

One trail angel can make the difference between a good day and a bad day for a thru – hiker, maybe even the difference between pushing through and giving up. By design, the AT is wilderness, it is not an amusement park; it is challenging.

 

Perhaps there is a sense in which we are all on an AT, all on a journey in which some days are better than others, some days lonely, some days not so lonely. Some days we enjoy beautiful horizons, other days we are enveloped in fog, rain, sleet, and miserable cold. Some days we are soaked through, other days we bask in the warmth of the sun.

 

Some of us have been on the trail longer than others and know the surprises that can happen, some of us may be a little more humble than we were when we began, others may still think they are going to conquer everything they encounter and leave everyone else in the dust, others may simply be trying to make it through another day.

 

Paul writes that we are to “do good to all people” (Galatians 6:10). Jesus says that we ought to be like our Father in heaven, blessing the unthankful as well as the thankful (Matthew 6:43 – 48).

 

A kind word, a smile, an inquiry into someone’s well – being, an offer to pray, a word about the Gospel and God’s love, a cup of coffee, a meal, mowing a lawn, a gift of cookies, a card in the mail, a phone call – how many ways can we be trail angels to those around us? To the folks who serve us when we shop (whether they are personable or not!), to the people we work with, see in the neighborhood, or even see on Sunday mornings.

 

Years ago (decades really) I knew a man named “Ross” who was the night manager at a truck stop (the 11 PM – 7 AM shift). One night at about 2:00 A.M. a tired and weary trucker came into the store to pay for his fuel. Ross and the trucker (Mike) got into a conversation that led to Jesus.

 

Mike shared with Ross that he was losing his faith; things weren’t going well in his marriage, with his kids, with his job, at his church, he was ready to just give up. Ross did his best, by the grace of Jesus, to encourage Mike and to point Mike to the incredible love that Jesus had for him and his family and to encourage Mike to read the Bible. Ross never saw Mike at the truck stop again.

 

About two years later, in a city about 100 miles from the truck stop, Ross was with a church group at a nursing home on a Sunday afternoon. The group was leading a worship service for residents and staff when a musical group from another church arrived; they were invited to join in ministry and worship.

 

During the service one of the guitarists began telling a story about a time in his life when he was discouraged and felt like giving up; he felt far from God, far from his wife and family, far from hope. Then he shared about a night when he pulled into a truck stop and had a conversation with a man who encouraged him in the love and grace of Jesus, and how Jesus used that conversation to turn his life around.

 

Then he said, “And that man is here this afternoon,” and pointed to Ross.

 

Ross had not recognized Mike, after all, not only had he not seen him again, but he was 100 miles away from where they had met. Ross had not recognized Mike, but Mike sure had recognized Ross…his trail angel.

 

Who can we share trail magic with today?

 

 

Tolstoy’s Three Questions – Reflections (8)

 

 

Now we come to the king’s final question, “What is the most important thing to do?”

 

The hermit replies:

 

“The most necessary man is he with whom you are, for no man knows whether he will ever have dealings with anyone else: and the most important affair is, to do him good, because for that purpose alone was man sent into this life!”

 

Since we’ve already considered the first part of the reply, we’ll now consider the second, “The most important affair is, to do him good, because for that purpose alone was man sent into this life!”

 

Now it should go without saying that the idea that “for that purpose alone was man sent into this life” is amiss. It is amiss because it is but one wing of an airplane in one sense, in another sense it is amiss because while it is important (as I hope we will see) it must be rooted in another purpose, that of loving and worshipping and belonging to God.

 

We ought not to dismiss what the Hermit says, we ought rather to place it in its proper place. We cannot love God without also loving our fellow man.

 

Jesus says that we are to love God with all that we are, and that we are to love our neighbor as ourselves. Then He says, “There is no other commandment greater than these.” (Mark 12:29 – 31).

 

The apostle John teaches us that, “The one who does not love his brother whom he has seen, cannot love God whom he has not seen” (1 John 4:20). We want to deny this truth, we want to make exceptions to it, we want to justify our unloving attitudes and behavior, we want to exalt what we profess to believe over our unloving actions toward others – thereby exempting us (we think) from truly loving – but the fact remains that “He who does not love abides in death” (1 John 3:14).

 

“The most necessary man is he with whom you are… and the most important affair is, to do him good.”

 

“But whoever has the world’s goods, and sees his brother in need and closes his heart against him, how does the love of God abide in him? Little children, let us not love with word or with tongue, but in deed and truth” (1 John 3:17 – 18).

 

“What use is it, my brethren, if someone says he has faith but he has no works? Can that faith save him? If a brother or sister is without clothing and in need of daily food, and one of you says to them, “Go in peace, be warmed and filled,” and yet you do not give them what is necessary for their body, what use is that?” (James 2:14 – 16).

 

“Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to do it. Do not say to your neighbor, “Go, and come back, and tomorrow I will give it,” when you have it with you” (Proverbs 3:27 – 28).

 

The time is always now, and the person before us is always the most important, for as the hermit says, “No man knows whether he will ever have dealings with anyone else.”

 

Jesus alleviated pain and suffering wherever He went and whenever He could. There is no recorded instance of Jesus refusing to heal or refusing to deliver people from Satan – think about that – Jesus was always alleviating pain and suffering whenever He was allowed to do so. Yes, there were times when the unbelief of people limited what He could do, as we read in Mark 6:5 – 6:

 

“And He could do no miracle there except that He laid His hands on a few sick people and healed them. And He wondered at their unbelief.”

 

Are we about our Father’s business? A business which includes not only making disciples of all peoples, but of accompanying our Message with serving others in tangible ways, serving the whole person.

 

“That you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven; for He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same? If you greet only your brothers, what more are you doing than others? Do not even the people of the world do the same? Therefore you are to be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Matthew 5:45 – 48).

 

In other words, we are to be a witness to Jesus and the Gospel and be a blessing to others wherever we are, with whomever we are.

 

“So then, while we have opportunity, let us do good to all people, and especially to those who are of the household of faith” (Gal. 6:10).

 

We must not prequalify people in order to determine if they are worthy of our love and service – for Jesus did not prequalify us, and for sure none of us are worthy outside of Christ. Furthermore, we learn to be the sons and daughters of our Father as we learn to love and serve others – whether others understand what we are doing or not, whether others are thankful for what we are doing or not.

 

After all, how many times has our dear Father in heaven blessed us without us seeing His love in our lives and without us giving thanks to Him? Can we even begin to understand how ungrateful we have been over the years?

 

I’ll close this series of meditations with a quote from The Valley of Vision (Banner of Truth, pages 212 – 213):

 

“May I live by thee, live for thee, never be satisfied with my Christian progress but as I resemble Christ…

 

As I pursue my heavenly journey by thy grace let me be known as a man with no aim but that of a burning desire for thee, and the good and salvation of my fellow men.”

AMEN