Snow Savior

"Yet, O Lord, you are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand." Isa 64:8

Has it been a month already since last I posted? Well, it snowed here on Sunday, which always brings back fond memories. While kids are usually (and I was no exception) excited by snow, most adults find it a nuisance. Not my Dad, I think he enjoyed snow as much if not more than we kids did. You see, my father is a master when it comes to snow sculpting. Whenever we would get a good snowstorm he would be the first one out the door. He had to get there first in order to access the fresh snow before it was trampled on by my sister and I. Carefully he would cut paths through the snow carving out blocks as he went and laying them carefully aside, these were the pathways we were to stay on so as to preserve the uncut snow for further building. Once he had cleared sufficient space, he would set to work stacking blocks into magnificent fortifications, monuments, and sculptures. It was painstaking work in the cold, yet the results were fantastic. He could transform the backyard into a winter wonderland in a single afternoon, he was an artist in those moments and snow was his medium.

As I reflect back on the days spent working on and playing in those icy castles, I see a parallel to Christ’s work. As my dad molded formless solid water into things of beauty, so too does God mold us. We start out as a pristine blanket of snow (the doctrine of Original Sin tells us that we aren’t pristine, just as the very formation of snow requires dirt for the water to crystallize around, but the appearance is similar). And, as the master craftsman puts his hand to the snow, so too does Christ put his hand to our lives, shaping us and molding us. As we go through life if we stay inside the paths cleared through the snow by the Maker, the bricks that are carved out stay neat and square. It’s when we walk outside those bounds, trampling the fresh snow, that the bricks become messy, cracked, and not as useful for building. That’s not to say that everything will be wonderful all the time as we go through life on the path. To continue in the metaphor; life will still have its moments of cold, its icy patches, and its frozen tree roots poking out to trip us. Yet, how much more difficult is it when we try to forge our own way through the snowdrifts of life?

"For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do." Eph 2:10

Labor Day

"Then Haggai, the Lord's messenger, gave this message of the Lord to the people: "I am with you," declares the Lord. So the Lord stirred up the spirit of Zerubbabel son of Shealtiel, governor of Judah, and the spirit of Joshua son of Jehozadak, the high priest, and the spirit of the whole remnant of the people. They came and began to work on the house of the Lord Almighty, their God," Hag. 1:13-14

Growing up, Labor Day always meant one thing for me: actual Labor! Every year for Labor Day my Dad and I would get up early and head over to my Grandfather’s church for the Labor Day fall cleanup extravaganza. Getting an early start was essential to ensuring everything was accomplished with time enough to spare for the huge picnic spread my Grandma, Mom, and Aunts would layout for lunch. At first the task list would seem insurmountable, but as the morning wore on people would start to arrive and pitch in. It was amazing to see how many church members would show up to help with the cleaning, painting, landscaping, etc. Once my Uncle and cousins showed up, it was questionable whether or not the work would be accomplished much quicker (my cousins and I being more interested in what was going on in the kitchen than our assigned duties). Yet, by the end of the day, everything would be done, the food would be gone, and the church would be set for another year.

Why would people give up their day off (one of only 11 Federal Holidays) to come and work for free on a building they spent maybe 3 or 4 hours of their time at a week? Why would chores which were consistently blown off at home be volunteered for here? My Grandfather, I’m sure, attributed it to his commanding presence in the pulpit. My Grandma, probably ascribed the willing appearance of volunteers to her magnificent cooking and homemade apple pies (Prov. 16:26 lends weight to that theory at least). I, for my part, certainly harbored delusions that the prospect of a day in my amazing company was enough to entice an army of workers to any task.

My Dad, I think, knew the real reason for the Labor Day turn-out: God. He explained to me that throughout the Bible, the virtue of work is extolled, not as a route to salvation, but rather as a reflection of personal values and commitment. To do God’s work involved more than just evangelizing or serving in one of the “traditional” church jobs, it involved day to day tasks; the mundane work of living. In that respect, working to clean up the church and its grounds on Labor Day was a natural extension of working for God at a normal job. In joyful labor, we can both serve God and receive his blessing, and so, those that came each year to the Labor Day cleanup came not only for the picnic or to avoid the guilt trip of not attending, they came to do God’s work in the most ordinary of settings, and be blessed by that work in the most extraordinary of ways.

"There are different kinds of gifts, but the same Spirit. There are different kinds of service, but the same Lord. There are different kinds of working, but the same God works all of them in all men." 1 Cor. 11:4-6

"Therefore, my dear brothers, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain." 1 Cor. 15:58

"Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving." Col. 3:23-24

Self Confessions of a Cutter

"A truthful witness gives honest testimony, but a false witness tells lies. Reckless words pierce like a sword, but the tonue of the wise brings healing." Pro 12:17&18

I was a cutter. No, not in the Emo sense of the word; I have more than enough legitimately earned scar tissue. Rather, in the way most boys are at one point or another while growing up, slightly obsessed with knives and axes and whatnot. I liked to play with scissors, whittle sticks, chop wood, etc. This landed me in trouble at times and lots of trouble one particular time.

I had just received my first pocket knife from my grandfather. It was an older used knife; a bit beat up but as beautiful as any new one in the eyes of an 8 year old boy. It had 2 blades that folded out of the carved deer antler handle, a screwdriver, and a small file, more than enough hardware for me to get into mischief with. It came with the added bonus- that is; that I’m sure my Grandpa hadn’t consulted with my folks about whether or not I was ready to wield such a mighty weapon. Grandpa had made that determination on his own and I was not about to let him down.

For about a week I carried that thing around with me everywhere, resisting the urge to carve the world with it. I contented myself with unfolding and folding it various blades and implements and feeling the weight of it in my palm, ever careful of its edges so as not to cut myself. Ultimately I decided that being “old enough” to carry a knife was determined by my ability not to cut myself with it. Having this firmly in mind, I set forth to unleash the awesomeness the blade bestowed upon me on the world.

I started carving points on sticks because, as I well knew, a pointy stick is a spear or sword or pole arm of some sort, a non-pointy stick is just a piece of wood, hardly suitable for fighting imaginary dragons with. This was fine for awhile but, once all the evil minions had been dispatched, it grew old. Concerned that my vigorous weapon-smithing my have blunted my knife, I decided to test its edge against something sturdy.

I knew at this point that things were getting a bit out of hand yet, as the old saying goes, “to a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail.” Well, to a boy with a pocket knife, everything looks like something that needs to be cut! In due time, I decided that the clothes line would be an appropriate test subject in determining the keenness of my little blade. After all, it was not too thick but possessed of the tensile strength to support a load of wet clothes, and it was easily accessible as it ran the length of my imaginary backyard kingdom.

I am proud to say, my knife was more than up for the job…yet something was wrong. To my dismay, I realized to late the ire this deed would incur upon me from my mother. Being the wise young lad that I was, I immediately went to her to confess my misconduct. WHAT!?! Heck no, I knew this was bad and would result in the confiscation of my most prized possession, so I did what any reasonable 8 year old would do: embark on a cover-up the likes of which had not been seen since Watergate.

I wrapped the cut in the line with scotch tape, I mean really wrapped it up good, and went merrily on my way. Secure in the knowledge that my misdeed would go unnoticed, I continued to enjoy my new knife in private; until laundry day that is.

No amount of scotch tape could hold that line together once my Mom started hanging out the laundry. And, while lines do break from natural causes from time to time, never do they break with such a clean cut and with such a large bundle of suspiciously wrapped scotch tape around the brake.

While my Mom was the determination authority for this particular crime (she cut half the tail off my favorite stuffed animal- a good object lesson in and of itself), ultimately it was my Dad who flushed out the whole scope of what I had done. He explained to me that I hadn’t just destroyed something of my Mom’s; I had tried to cover it up, and in effect lied about it. He talked about temptation (that knife came with a sore temptation to use it for purposes it was not intended for), honesty (I was anything but forthright in this situation), and consequences (as clearly demonstrated by my Mom).

"For the word of God is living and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart." Heb 4:12

The Women

"Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised." Prov 31:30

I’ve talked a lot so far about my Dad and Grandfather, but my Mom has already cropped up as well. Several other ladies also play a prominent part in my life and so, will also be making appearances throughout the course of this endeavor. As I am still in an introductory mode, I thought it best to acknowledge their contributions as well as intro them up front.

My Mom is a Home Economics teacher though she put her career on hold while my sister and I were little. She once worked as an advisor on a call-in gardening hotline, coached several students to first place finishes in various national fashion design competitions, and has rendered medical aid to me on countless occasions while I growing up.

My Father’s Mother (Grandma) was an amazing woman as well. Her childhood was fascinatingly retold in her memoirs “Grandma Was a Baby Too”, a riveting tale about growing up in the West during the depression. She was an accomplished writer; also a pianist, teacher, devoted wife and mother, and she enjoyed a good joke. She cooked us dinner every Friday night while my folks went out on a “date” (I’m pretty sure they just stayed home, ate ice cream and enjoyed an hour or so without kids around). She was the most joyful person I have ever met, even through chemo and up until her death, she was filled with joy; joy of a life spent in Christ’s service.

My sister had a role to play as well. While I viewed it differently at times while growing up, the lenses of history clear reveal most often: she was the protagonist and I the villain. That’s not to say we didn’t collaborate at times or were particularly antagonistic towards one another (I guess the same amount as any typical brother and sister). We had a good time growing up, and connected much better once she went off to college. She is now a wife, mother, librarian, and frequent phone/text companion to the next lady on my list…

Last, but in no way least: my lovely Wife. An incredible lady, mother of our 3 boys, and patient indulger of my crazy schemes; she has accompanied me around the world, endured numerous deployments, and still lets me go on the occasional fishing excursion. In and amongst her busy schedule she still finds time to lead women’s Bible studies, knit blankets and scarves and whatnot for various charities, and volunteer in various church activities. I’m not sure how she does it all, but I’m glad she does!

And so, the title of the post is in no way meant as a pejorative, just as the blog title is not meant as an exclusion. As I continue to think and write about the spiritual influences that shaped my life from a patriarchal perspective, I will continue to reference the women who shared their lives with those men, and in doing so, shaped mine.

"In the Lord, however, woman is not independent of man, nor is man independent of woman." 1 Cor 11:11

Sunday Sermons

"And now, O Israel, what does the Lord your God ask of you but to fear the Lord your God, to walk in all his ways, to love him, to serve the Lord you God with all your heart and with all your soul, and to observe the Lord's commands and decrees" Deut 10:12-13a

My Father’s Father, my Grandfather, is an Ordained Minister among other things. He served as a mechanic in the Army Air Corps during WWII, played bass fiddle in a swing band at one point in his life, and served as a police officer while starting his church (He used to joke that he was the only officer on the force that could read a criminal his Miranda Rights AND his Last Rights).

Growing up I attended his church somewhat regularly (My sister and I sang in a choir in another church, so we would go there on Sundays we were scheduled to sing). I loved going to my grandfather’s church and sitting in the same pew with my uncle, cousins and my grandma and watching grandpa work. From my vantage point in that crowded pew, he seemed so wise and venerable, yet affable and kind as well. I loved that he would let us grandkids take turns ringing the church bell before service started (It was an old bell mounted in the steeple, complete with a pull cord which descended from a hole in the ceiling).

I must have listened to hundreds of sermons given from that pulpit and, while I cannot remember them all, they are at the core of my spiritual foundation and were formational in my relationship with God. I took great pride in the fact that that was my grandpa behind the pulpit, leading worship, chatting afterwards with the congregation about their daily lives. He [my grandfather], took great pride in delivering God’s message, doing God’s work, and living his whole life for God- and I think that is one of the greatest lessons he taught me. I was proud of his title “Grandpa”, he was too; he was more proud of his title “Servant of God”.

I have lots of titles now: Captain, Father, Husband, Brother, Son. Putting the title Servant of God first doesn’t diminish the importance of the others, it enhances my ability to live up to them by keeping me focused on the Godly principles which must necessarily be at work in them.

"Am I now trying to win the approval of men, or of God? Or am I trying to please men? If I were still trying to please men, I would not be a servant of Christ." Gal 1:10

Respect

"He who scorns instruction will pay for it, but he who respects a command is rewarded." Proverbs 13:13

I remember a particular incident that landed me in considerable hot water. I was in the 5th or 6th grade at the time, and was playing the trumpet in the middle school band. My band teacher was a good enough guy, but he had a terrible hair piece. Seriously, it looked as if he had run over a squirrel on the way to work and decided to staple it kind of slanted across the top of his bare pate.

Always the class clown, and with my well documented proclivity towards mischief, I decided to take direct actions against the offending toupee. I carefully concocted a plan in my secret lair (the middle stall of the men’s room, by the gym). The execution was flawless. As the rest of the band, largely unawares of what was about to transpire, practiced diligently at the Aria from Aida, I snuck down from my perch in the brass section. I stealthily flanked around the woodwinds and broke into a trot. I reached the conductor’s stand without incident, and, at the moment of truth, delivered. Spectacular, Spectacular! I grabbed the unruly mop from Mr. J’s head, leapt from the stage, and ran cackling through the multi-purpose room in triumph. [I promise this is going somewhere].

Unfortunately, my planning didn’t involve any sort of disguise, escape plan, or any considerations past the “grab-go- celebrate” stage. I was quickly apprehended by the gym teacher who happened to be passing by, and was firmly escorted to the principal’s office. In the office, words like suspension, detention, and expulsion were bandied about before the truly terrifying suggestion; “make him call his mother!” was injected into the conversation. That latter course of action was settled upon, most likely because they sensed the mortal fear the very thought of it inflicted upon me. My momentary elation in pulling off one of the greatest capers in middle school history was short lived, as Mom quickly arrived on the scene to bring me home. The short ride home was deathly silent, yet my spirits were lifted slightly when we arrived at the house and mom turned to me and said, “Wait till your father gets home.” [See, I told you I’d get somewhere with this] I had hope, not only in the myopic outlook of a 6th grader- “punishment delayed is punishment not suffered”, but also in that surely Dad would be lenient. For how could someone in possession of such refined taste in comedy as my dad (a huge Three Stooges fan), fail to see the humor in this situation.

As you can well imagine, events did not quite play out the way I wishfully imagined them to. In due time, dad arrived home from work. Ordinarily, it was my custom to run out to the car to greet him and help carry in his lunch container and brief case; not this day however. He came in the house and called for me in a tone reserved for only the most serious of offenses- Uh Oh! Reluctantly I came to him, upon which, he grabbed my shirt and with one arm hoisted me bodily from my feet and planted me (rather gently, all things considered) against the wall.
For sure I thought he was going to strike me (though he never had before), and maybe the thought flickered through his mind in that moment, but he didn’t. He held me there for awhile (In reality, no more than a few moments I suspect), and then, in a sad gruff voice he said “You disappointed me son.” Words which stung more than any physical blow could ever have.

We talked at length that night about respect. Rather, he talked and I listened sheepishly. He talked about respect for our elders, respect for authority, and respecting our father and mother. In the months and years since that day, I have learned many lessons about respect, yet none remain as clearly as that one. This blog exists in part because of the deep respect I have for my father and the lessons he taught and continues to teach me.

"Rise in the presence of the aged, show respect for the elderly and revere your God. I am the Lord." Lev 19:32

"Children, obey your parents in the Lord for this is right." Eph 6:1

Giants!

"The Nephilim were on the earth in those days-and also afterwards...They were the heroes of old, men of renown." Gen 6:4

My Dad is a giant! Not a literal giant, though I do come from a tall family. He does stand at a slender 6 foot 1, a height it took me until the 9th grade to surpass. As a small child though, my dad seemed impossibly big.

I can’t say I remember what it felt like having him hold me as an infant, but having held my own sons in my arms, I can certainly imagine it. The warmth, tenderness, and the security which I consciously try to make myself convey (I’m not the most “emotionally in-tune” of guys), would have flowed naturally from my dad. He has a heart of compassion, much more so than I do, and a seemingly inexhaustible supply of patience (also much more than I).

One of my favorite games when I was a little older was having my dad throw me in the pool. My best friend had a pool which we would all go swimming in as a family; rather we kids would float around on tubes while my dad would swim around under water. Suddenly, you would feel him grab hold of the tube and next thing you know you were being flung through the air, tube and all, and come crashing down clear across the pool. FUN!

Older still, there was a particular incident in which I caused so much trouble that my dad, at a loss for what else to do most likely, picked me up by the shirt with one hand and planted me bodily against the wall. With arm sinews rippling and neck veins throbbing, in that moment, though I was older and bigger, he was again a giant.

My dad’s enormity lies in more than just his slightly above average height and lean athletic build however. It lies in the impact he has on his family, surroundings, and everything that comes into contact with him. Though I surpassed him long ago in the height department, my stature still seems small in relation. Through his life and actions, he has taught me that a man is more than the sum of his physical parts. As I reflect on that lesson, I am grateful to have a giant for a dad.

"We saw the Nephilim there... We seemed like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and we looked the same to them." Num 13:33