Twins, Summer and Resurrection - James Harrison

Summer is coming! It's true, it's only April, but it's (mostly) warm and sunny and there's no looking back! Before adulthood, summer was easily the best time of the year. No school; what more could you ask for? Besides chores, my sunny seasons were spent riding bikes, playing basketball, and hanging out with friends. But after I finished school and entered Youth With A Mission, moving to Alberta, Canada, the summers merely meant that the sun would still be in the sky after work was over, as opposed to seeing stars come out at 5 pm. But besides work, the June, July, and August months meant occasionally visiting good ol' California to see my family.

Now, I have a twin sister. Before you ask, we are indeed identical twins, both in facial appearance and height. Yes, throughout our lives, most people can't tell who was James and who was Julie. It led to all kinds of problems. Julie would dress like me and get into all kinds of trouble, and the next thing I knew, I was being punished! It was tragic. But as adults, we've reconciled our conflicts and get along just fine. Mostly. 

Joking aside, one thing about my twin is this: she is summer. She embodies it, from her bubbly personality that cannot be eclipsed to her shining face filled with excitement. If you're around her, you know what she's feeling. If she's happy and laughing, you will be too! The sun is a ball of light and energy, never ceasing. And my sister is just as hard to shadow if she has set her mind to something. Once when we were seven, Julie got a hold of some flower seeds and started digging a hole. When I found her she was reading the bag of seeds and asked me what 6" meant. Intelligently, I told her, "It means six feet." (Whoops) She said, "How big is that?" "Julie, you'll have to dig for as tall as Jacob!" Sitting in the dirt with her wild, brown, curly hair, she thought for a moment then said, "Okay," and went back to work with the shovel.

She is persistent, loving, and full of life. Like the sun. Like summertime, that time of year I'm accustomed to seeing her. So when I think of the resurrection of Jesus Christ, I think of a special time of the year, lasting the entire year! Seasons disappear and it's summer all year around. The atmosphere is energetic and life is the air we breathe. Our Creator is persistent to plant seeds that don't stop growing, and he will never withhold his Spirit that waters us each day, until the sun stops shining.

Hosanna - Beth Morgan

Last week I was trying to think of what songs to lead for Palm Sunday at church and naturally started thinking through all of the “Hosanna” repertoire.  I started to reflect on the 80’s number, “Hosanna Hosanna Hosanna in the highest…Lord we lift up Your name with hearts full of praise.  Be exalted, oh Lord our God. Hosanna in the highest” and I was reminded of the first time I remember hearing it and the realized it’s an interesting and befitting story.

The first time I heard this song was the German version, “Hosanna in der Höhe“.  I remember thinking how cool it was that in German, “Hosanna” was the same and that the rest of the line sounded funny, but cool.  I was 8.  My big brother had just returned from a trip to East Germany.  He, with a group of teenagers plus a couple of group leaders, managed to get into East Germany and I remember him telling me that they brought a keyboard to a secret group of Christians that were meeting.

The other day when I was remembering this, I started to imagine a windowless room full of East Germans singing with hearts full of praise and hopeful that the King would come and rescue them from a dark, difficult and oppressive time.  I started to think about Jesus riding his donkey into Jerusalem before crowds of Jews so weary and longing for the promised King to rescue them from the oppression of the Romans.  The parallels were obvious and my heart did a little leap with the realization that in my lifetime, many believer’s prayers were answered and that I possess a piece of that infamous dividing wall that was brought down.

My thoughts turned to “far-off” lands today where I imagine there to be secret churches praying with hearts full of praise and with expectant hope of the intervention of the just and good King.  Oh that we would join with them more in prayer and solidarity, rejoicing that the King has come and praying that His kingdom would come on earth as it is in heaven.  Hosanna.

The Gardener - Aaron Alford

The two men had run off, as they were so prone to do, never giving the stranger in the garden a second glance.  The woman who was with them had followed.  He was alone now.  He stretched wide and took in the morning sun as it fell warmly on his face, his hands, and on the garden’s green leaves.  The air was cool, and smelled of the freshness of a newborn day.  A morning song sprang suddenly from the sky above him, and the singer lighted gently on a branch just a few feet away.  He stood there, watching her preen her wings, and he marveled at such a small and elegant creature.  She cocked her head and puzzled at him for a moment.  She sang once more, as if to ask who he might be.  He smiled in response, and the singer hopped into the sky in a flutter.

He heard footsteps approaching, and not wishing to be noticed, he hunkered down on his haunches, and busied himself with the patch of little yellow flowers beside him.

The woman had returned.  She was visibly distraught, sniffling, speaking to herself in whispers and sobs.  He kept to his flowers as she approached the great rock that stood behind him.  He glanced her way, but her eyes did not meet his.  She paused at the sight of the open rock face, and peered into the barren tomb.  He could hear her sharp breaths, and quietly watched as she stepped trembling into the tomb. 

He returned to his flowers with a pensive brow.  He knew what she was thinking.  ‘They’ve taken him!  Oh God!  They’ve taken him!  Hadn’t he suffered enough?  Why strip him even of the dignity of a grave?’  He heard her sobs from the inside of the sepulcher.  The yellow faces of the flowers stared back at him, as if pleading to him, “Say something!” 

Convulsions of sorrow were coming upon her now, and she turned from the open grave, steadying herself against the stone that should have sealed the tomb.  Her fingers caressed her lips as she looked to the empty blue sky in despair, and with a last great sob, she buried her face in her hands, and wept.

He stood to face her, and stepped slowly toward her.

“Ma’am?  Why are you crying?”

“Please!” she said between gasps, her hands pressed mournfully to her face. “Please, if you’ve taken him... If you know where they took him, tell me!  I’ll take him!  Please!”

She fell into the stranger’s arms and wept.  “Please.”

He took her into his embrace, standing silently.  The two of them stood there in the cool of the morning, her head nestled into his chest, both of them aglow with the still rising sun.  He smiled when the breeze caught her unkempt hair, tickling his neck so softly.  He put his lips close to her ear and whispered a single word.  

“Mary.”

Her eyes shot open in recognition, and she pushed herself away to see his face.

“Teacher!” she screamed, and took him into her arms so tightly he began to laugh.

“Oh God!  It’s you!  It’s you!” she cried, her heart barely believing what she was holding in her arms.

“It’s me,” he said.

“Oh, let me hold on to you forever!” she cried.

“Not yet, Mary.  But soon.”

The Raven Welcomes Dave - Dave Skene

Hospitality - Aron Smith

As an amateur etymologist, I can’t help noticing that the word hospitality contains the word hospital.  Checking my big, unabridged dictionary, I see that both words come from the Latin hostis, which may refer to a guest, stranger or enemy.  This Latin word is the root of both host and hostile.  Could it be that all strangers were once seen as enemies, and those who entertained them viewed with suspicion?

The dictionary also tells us that while a “guest” is always “welcomed,” this may be either “gratuitously” or “for a fee.”  So one may be a guest at a hotel (same Latin root as above), in our homes or even in a hospital (although today we would use the word patient), but in all cases, hospitality is offered in that we are taken in to an establishment belonging to another, and to which we would have no right but for the owner’s largesse or desire to make money.

My immediate association with the word hospitality is the story of Abraham in Genesis 18:1-8. As the curtain goes up on this drama, we see Abraham sitting at the entrance of his tent in the heat of the day.  I’ve always wondered why he was sitting out in the heat, in the middle of the desert, rather than staying inside the tent with Sarah, where the shade must have been cooler.  And why wasn’t he working?  Was it his day off?  Was he so wealthy that he didn’t have to work?  We know that he had many servants and flocks and wells, so perhaps he got to relax while his employees did the work.

I don’t imagine that many people came traipsing through the burning sand, so it must have been something special when three men approached, seemingly out of nowhere.  They may have been strangers, but Abraham wasn’t afraid of them.  He welcomed them without having any idea who they were or where they came from.

Looking up, he saw three men standing near him.  As soon as he saw them, he

ran from the entrance of the tent to greet them and, bowing to the ground, he

said, “My lords, if it please you, do not go on past your servant.  Let a little

water be brought, bathe your feet and recline under the tree.  And let me fetch

a morsel of bread that you may refresh yourselves, then go on — seeing that

you have come your servant’s way.”  They replied, “Do as you have said.”

What can we learn from this?  To be sure, Abraham did the normal things that we associate with hospitality:  He provided food, water and a place to rest.  But Abraham went far beyond the provision of these basic necessities.  His actions speak volumes about his attitude.

We are told that Abraham “ran…to greet them.”  Imagine that!  He actually ran to greet them.    These travelers were no mere curiosity to Abraham.  He must have felt a deep compulsion to be of assistance to them.  He welcomed these visitors not grudgingly, nor out of a mere sense of duty, but with joy.  It is obvious that he had great respect for these people who he had never met before, as he bowed down to them and referred to himself as their servant.

So what did Abraham offer his guests to eat?  No mere crust of bread, no peanut butter and jelly sandwich for them.  Oh no, Abraham provided these strangers with the best and finest that he had to offer.

Abraham hastened into the tent to Sarah, and said, “Quick, three seahs of

choice flour!  Knead and make cakes!”  Then Abraham ran to the herd,

took a calf, tender and choice, and gave it to a servant-boy, who

hastened to prepare it.  He took curds and milk and the calf that had been

prepared and set those before them; and he waited on them under the

tree as they ate.

Instead of serving everyday bread, Abraham had Sarah use choice flour while he himself especially picked out a calf that was tender and choice.  Also, curds (similar to yogurt) and milk were considered rich foods fit for special occasions.  And Abraham did all this at a moment’s notice, without giving a second thought to the cost.

The theme of urgency pervades these verses.  Abraham hastened, he told his wife to be quick, he ran to the herd and the servant boy hastened to butcher and cook the calf.  It seems that Abraham’s conception of appropriate hospitality involved not requiring the travelers to wait for anything.

Finally, we are told that Abraham waited on the travelers while they ate.  Perhaps this means that he kept out of sight so that the visitors could take their time.  But I don’t think so.  I believe the scriptural reference is to “waiting” in the sense of a restaurant waiter or that of one who is “waited on hand and foot.”  In other words, Abraham was attentive to his guests, refilling their plates and water and generally seeing to it that they wanted for nothing.

Did Abraham know he was providing hospitality to angels?  That is a question that has been debated for thousands of years.  Ultimately, however, I don’t think it mattered.  I believe Abraham would have extended the same courtesy to any travelers who came his way, no questions asked.  In other words, Abraham saw a need and he filled it.

Why is it so hard for us to emulate Abraham’s sense of hospitality in the 21^st century?  I thought about this recently on a lazy Sunday when my wife and I were enjoying a late lunch in Denny’s down by the freeway.  As we were leaving, she told me that she noticed three young kids sitting at the table behind us and that she’d like us to pay for their meals.  I quickly agreed; we have often performed such random acts of kindness, and Donna has an uncanny discernment of those in need that has always eluded me.  After paying their bill, she walked over to their table and gave each of the three of a ten-dollar bill.  She reported that they just stared at her as if they couldn’t believe their amazing good luck.  One of them had ordered a cup of coffee; the rest drank water.  They had shared a sandwich among them.  My wife expressed her opinion that they were probably traveling, most likely on foot.  They may have been hitchhiking along the freeway, or they could have been homeless, perhaps preparing to spend the night in one of the makeshift camps beneath a bridge abutment or in an alley between abandoned storefronts.  The oldest of them couldn’t have been more than 21 or 22.

We never did find out what their circumstances were.  Donna told me that she wished we could have taken them into our home, let them bathe and wash their clothes, give them a good meal and a cozy place to sleep.  How wonderful, I thought.  But, she reminded me that, in this day and age, it is unsafe to allow strangers into one’s home.  We must help others from a distance, at arm’s length, for who knows if they will harm us, rob us, destroy our home.  Sadly, I had to agree.

I believe that the spirit of Abraham is alive and well, but the realities of modern life have thrown up barriers to properly performing this act of good will.  Was the world really so different in Abraham’s time?  I like to think not.  I don’t believe people have changed that much.  Abraham did not know that the strangers traipsing across the sand were not robbers who intended to murder him and Sarah and ravage his herds.  He had no idea what their intent was, where they had come from or where they were going.  None of that mattered to him.  All he knew was that they had arrived and that hospitality was therefore in order.

Perhaps we need to take a sledgehammer and break down the barriers that stand between us and loving our neighbors as ourselves.  Or at least take a chisel and chip away at it, one person at a time.  All it takes is one or two people to provide an example to others, to demonstrate that there is nothing to fear but our own prejudices.  I only hope I can go out on a limb and be the kind of person I really want to be.  I don’t know that I’ll ever get there, but I pray that I will learn to open my heart fully, willingly and without fear, just as our patriarch Abraham did so many centuries ago.

Grand Abundance Out Of Limited Means - Heidi Fox

Heidi and Justin Fox are city pastors with Rock Harbor church in Southern California.  Justin also writes and records good music.  You can download his brand new album "The Sound Forgiveness Makes" at his website http://justinfox.bandcamp.com It's really good!

Justin and I have lived across the street from the Baker St. apartments for over eight years.  Although the kids from both sides of the street attend the same school, the racial and cultural divide has felt a mile wide.  Ever since moving in, we've prayed about, planned for, and practiced the idea of sharing God's love with these neighbors.  We speak very little Spanish (and don't even like spicy food!), and yet God has knit us together with this Latino community in incredible ways.  PTA projects, birthday parties, an ESL night called "Share Your English", holiday events, and play-dates have all contributed to deeper friendships and incarnational conversations that have indelibly shaped us this year.  After walking out of a restaurant one evening during the summer with our neighbors, they told us this was the first time, in 40 years, that they had ever gone to dinner with a "white couple".  They later asked us, "Why do you show us so much love?"  Can you imagine the Gospel set-up we were handed in that moment?  

This year, we have not only seen the power of reaching out, but we've seen the inspiring way our neighbors care for us.  We could never attempt to attend every birthday party invite, or every community meal we're offered - there's just too many!  My friends from Baker St. are my confidants, my PTA partners, and the absolute hardest working, most joyful people I know.  I am humbled by their contentedness, their simplicity, and their family bonds, and I will never get over how generous they are.  They are always giving, always serving, and always surprising me.  Last week, as the holidays were approaching, I mentioned casually to my neighbors that I had stepped out of my job in Operations at ROCKHARBOR so that I could focus solely on local ministry.  I knew money would be tight, but I also had faith that God was in this and that He would provide.

A few days later my friends said they had a "surprise" and wanted to make sure I'd be home to receive it.  I was not prepared for what I saw; a small group on my front porch with grocery bags!  The husbands even pitched in to bring it all over, and the gang proudly unpacked their gifts of food, condiments, and treats onto my kitchen counters.  A grand abundance out of limited means.  I was overwhelmed.  I kept asking why they would do this, and everyone's response was, "You guys do so much for us!"  This community across the street has encouraged us, inspired us, challenged us, and cared for us, and maybe I have given a lot, but in a deeper way, they have given much more.

¡Qué ejemplo! - Beth Morgan

Reposted from Beth's blog, a story in Spanish and translated below.

Ella casi no la ve: la mujer encorvada, cubierta de mantas casi parece como un montón de basura apoyándose contra el café.  Es una de las noches oscuras y frías de Winnipeg y ella se ha envuelto la cara con una bufanda.  Se ensimisma, pensando en el fin de semana pasado cuando alojó en su casa a una joven misionera.  Hacía sólo dos meses que había asistido a la iglesia cuando hicieron un anuncio pidiéndole a alguien que proporcionara una habitación por una noche para una oradora invitada, una misionera, así que ofreció su casa.  Sabía que no tenía mucho que ofrecer, pero ella podía ofrecerle su cuarto y así ella compartiría con su hija adolescente.

Ella esperaba que no le importara a la misionera que ella fumaba, que los amigos de su hija fumarían yerba en el balcón, que tenía más gatos de lo que debería.  Trataba de hacer algo para cenar, a pesar de que el día sería un día largo de trabajo.  Cuando llegó a casa, se dio cuenta que no había tenido tiempo de lavar los platos de ayer, pero no había tiempo para hacerlo ahora ya que había que cocinar algo para la misionera invitada.

Fue una comida sencilla, la conversación fue ligera y somera.  Ella se preguntaba si la misionera estaba satisfecha.  Observaba que la misionera parecía incómoda.

(La misionera era alérgica a los gatos; y tenía una aversión fuerte al desbarajuste.  A ella no le molestaba la suciedad en los países en vías de desarrollo, pero ella no podía comprender porque esta mujer canadiense se había ofrecido a hospedarla el fin de semana sin haber limpiado la cama.  ¡Qué ejemplo de hospitalidad!)

Actualmente cuando la mujer hospitalaria camina esas calles de Winnipeg, perdida en estas preocupaciones, se recuerda de algunas palabras que una vez leyó:

Veía cómo los ricos echaban dinero en el arca de las ofrendas.  Vio a una viuda pobre, que echó dos monedas de muy poco valor y dijo:

— Les aseguro que esta viuda pobre ha echado más que todos los demás.  Porque todos los otros echaron como ofrenda lo que les sobraba, mientras que ella, dentro de su necesidad, ha echado todo lo que tenía para vivir.

La mujer hospitalaria y generosa cruza hacia el montón en la acera, dejar desaparecer su inquietud propia.

¿Puedo invitarle a un café y un sándwich? — pregunta.

Las dos mujeres se sientan juntas en la acera, se comulgan, comparten historias, comparten sus vidas.  Aprenden la una de la otra.

En el camino de vuelta a su casa desordenada, la mujer hospitalaria reflexiona sobre las palabras de la mujer pobre que llama a las calles, su hogar:

Cada mañana me levanto y doy gracias al Creador.

¡Qué ejemplo de gratitud!

What an example!

She almost doesn't see her; the hunched over woman covered in blankets almost looks like a pile of garbage leaning up against the coffee shop.  It's one of those dark, cold Winnipeg nights, where she has her own face wrapped up tight in a scarf.  She was also lost in her own thoughts, thinking about last weekend when she hosted a young missionary in her home.  She had only been going to church for a couple of months when they made an announcement asking for someone to provide a room for one night for a guest speaker missionary so she offered her home.  She knew she didn't have much to offer, but she could offer her bedroom and share with her teenage daughter.

She hoped that the missionary wouldn't mind that she smoked, that her daughter's friends would probably be doing pot on the balcony, that she had more cats than she probably should.  She would try to make something for dinner, even though the particular day would be a long one at work.  When she got home she realized she hadn't had time to do the dishes from yesterday, but there was no time to do them now—she had to cook something for the missionary guest.

It was a simple meal, conversation was light and superficial.  She wondered if the missionary was happy.  She noticed that the missionary seemed uncomfortable.

(The missionary was allergic to cats; and she had a strong aversion to clutter.  Dirt in the developing world didn't bother her, but she couldn't understand why this Canadian woman would offer to put her up for the weekend, but not take the time to clean off the bed!  What an example of hospitality?!)

Now as the woman walks those Winnipeg streets, lost in those worries, she recalls some words she read once:

Looking up, he saw the rich putting their gifts into the temple treasury.  He also saw a poor widow put in two very small copper coins and said, “I tell you the truth, this poor widow has put in more than all the others. All these others gave their gifts out of their wealth; but she out of her need put in all she had to live on.”

The hospitable and generous woman is now going over to the pile on the sidewalk, leaving her own preoccupation to disappear.  “Can I buy you a coffee and sandwich?” she asks.  The two women are now sitting together on the sidewalk, communing, sharing stories, sharing lives.  Learning from one another.

On her way back to her disorderly home, the hospitable woman reflects on the words she heard from the poor woman who calls the streets her home: “Every morning I wake up and give thanks to the Creator.”  

What an example of gratitude!

How Randy Stonehill Saved My Life - Chris Whitler

I wanted to give an audio story a shot, so, if you've got 8 minutes, click the player below and enjoy or you can download and enjoy this on your media player later...

From a Stonehill concert here in Modesto last month

One Wonderful Night Sky - Kathryn Hodge

This is Kathryn's first submission to the firebowl.  She has recently been staff for Youth With A Mission in Winnipeg, MB but is now setting off on new adventures to only God knows where and that's the truth.  I saw this story at her personal blog The Sometimes Interesting Adventures of Kathryn Hope and thought it would fit in well here.  Welcome Kathryn! -Chris

Two years ago I went to Mexico for a missions trip.  I was there for five weeks, and my team moved around a lot and did lots of different things.  There were pros and cons, but that’s not what this is about.  One place that we stayed was a migrant camp.  The people who lived there had almost nothing, and their homes consisted of one small, dirty room.  We had a room of our own to stay in for a day or two.  We painted some walls and helped dig/build an outhouse, and there were always kids about to play with.  

One delightful evening I went with a friend to one of our little friend’s house.  Not too surprisingly we were overwhelmed with her families generosity and hospitality.  We were offered cookies and beans and tortillas.  All delicious.  Her 2-year-old brother and I were fast friends.  It all started when he slyly looked at me out of the corner of his eye.  We shared treats and played with his toys.  For one reason or another my friend and I had to go back to our group.  He, of course, followed us.  We played chase all the way back.  He had quite possibly the best giggle I’ve ever heard in my entire life.  

We played until the moon and stars were shining.  At one point I picked him up and just held him.  We looked up at the night sky and just enjoyed it together.  He chattered on and on, pointing here and there to the different stars.  I wish that I understood him, but it wouldn’t have made much of a difference.  I still loved it all.  I loved his excitement and his little laugh.  That little boy, with his infectious giggle taught me something.  That night I learned how to just be.  It was just us and the sky that night.

Leggo My Eggo! - Aron Smith

Wow, “letting go” is such a heavy topic, particularly at this time of year when we head straight into the joy of the holiday season. I need to go out and buy Halloween candy, I’m trying to figure out which side of the family will be here with us for Thanksgiving and I just had my vacation days for Christmas week approved at work. I want to think about sharing my great-niece’s first Christmas. I want to think about what we’ll do for my parents’ sixtieth wedding anniversary, which is coming up on Christmas Eve. I want to think about drawing family close to me and showing them how much I appreciate them. So no, I do not want to think about loss, letting go, the steps of the grieving process or anything of that ilk. 

 And that, of course, is how it happens. Back in the Eocene era, when I was in high school, we used to say that life is what happens while we’re busy making other plans. I have found that death happens that way, too. 

About the scariest thing that can happen to us (aside from earthquakes, now that I live in southern California and have had a taste) is receiving that phone call in the middle of the night. It happened to us in February of this year. It was about 3 a.m. and I thought I felt my wife’s cell phone vibrate. I didn’t want to wake her up, so I turned over and tried to go back to sleep. That’s when my own cell phone went off. And then we had to run about like crazed chickens, throwing clothes into suitcases, making more phone calls and trying to decide who would do the crying and who would do the driving for the eleven- hour trip to my wife’s family in northern California. 

Wouldn’t it be nice if there were some handy dandy, magic words we could use to comfort someone close to us who is in so much pain in their time of loss? We get Psalm 23’d to death and nothing seems to help. After all, your mother and father do not teach you how to do this while you are growing up. Nor is it taught in high school. A part of our “adult education” is when we discover that being there for support is all you can really do. Hug everyone, sit down and eat Aunt Mathilda’s casserole. Find a kid to entertain. Offer to make a pot of coffee. Don’t answer that text from work. 

As bad as the days immediately following a loss are, still harder is saying and doing the right things after that, when the wife, become a widow, has to deal with an empty house, when the parents can’t bear to walk by the bedroom of their departed daughter or son, when the vacant chair is matched only by the vacant hole in our hearts. 

I think about all the ways this scenario has played out in my own family, as well as what we may be facing in the next few years as our loved ones, reaching their seventies and eighties, seem to age before our eyes. There was one who collapsed in the bathroom while visiting friends. Another who was found by neighbors who had not heard from him in a few days. Another who fell and broke her hip when no one else was home and never recovered. Some met their ends in hospitals, others in nursing homes. Some were taken from us suddenly, some were taken in their sleep, some were taken by ambulance, screaming siren piercing the night. Others endured a slow decline. 

 Aside from letting go of those who have passed on and helping others to do the same, there is also the matter of helping others to let go of themselves when “quality of life” wanes. The biologists will tell you that clinging tightly to life, even in extremis, is a matter of instinct. The medicos say there isn’t much they can do other than to keep him as comfortable as possible. It becomes harder and harder to drag ourselves to the nursing home or hospice. That’s not the person we know and love. That’s an empty shell. There seems to be no connection between the good memories we have and the fourth floor, north wing, room 258, bed 2. “Sometimes I just wish the Lord would take her,” I hear. I try not to show that I am horrified, instead putting myself in their shoes for a minute. What if it were my own parent? Don’t be so quick to judge. Think of those who can never seem to let go, who leave everything in the house just as it was for decades. Perhaps it is healthy, not horrible, that she is ready to let her loved one go. 

 But what of the patient in the aforementioned bed 2? We may be ready to let go of her, but is she ready to let go of us? I have heard over and over again of family members standing over hospital beds, holding a loved one’s hand and saying “It’s okay to let go.” 

 The cynical part of me thinks there is something very wrong with this. Let me be that person in the hospital bed for a moment. Did I ask for your permission? Did I raise my hand and say “Mother, may I?” I’ll go when I’m good and ready, thank you, or when the Lord sees fit to take me. 

 Whoa! Now I’m told that I’m being insensitive. Some say that giving a family member nearing the end “permission” to let go is an act of love. Perhaps it is. (Warning: Get ready for me to be even more insensitive.) But I wonder how I would feel about it if I were the one in that bed. Relieved? Maybe, if I felt that I had to hang on to the bitter end because my spouse or children needed me. But could it be that the family would simply find it more convenient to achieve some “closure?” (I hate that word). After all, he’s never going to get better and this is costing a fortune (that I could be inheriting). Why should he continue to be in pain for nothing? (I feel bad. When he’s gone, I’ll say “at least he’s not in pain anymore.”) I wouldn’t want to go on living like that. (I’m tired of getting calls from doctors and running back and forth to the hospital when I have a full-time job and a family to take care of.) 

 Now that I’ve offended everyone, think about the fact that helping someone to let go is intimately tied up with our own ability to let go of that person. Indeed, those who are preparing to exit this world often find themselves in the role of the comforter rather than comforted. It is not unusual for them to try to assuage the hurt of those who are about to be left behind. Being a fan of country music, I think of the lyrics of the Patty Loveless song from the ‘90s, “How Can I Help You to Say Goodbye?” 

Sitting with Mama alone in her bedroom 

She opened her eyes and then squeezed my hand 

She said “I have to go now, my time here is over” 

And with her final word she tried to help me understand 

Mama whispered softly “Time will ease your pain, 

Life’s about changing, nothing ever stays the same. 

How can I help you to say goodbye? 

It’s okay to hurt and it’s okay to cry 

Come, let me hold you and I will try 

How can I help you to say goodbye?” 

 In this day and age, however, much of the “letting go” that we find ourselves faced with has nothing to do with the death of a person. Often, it’s the death of a relationship. Divorce is so common that no one gives it a second thought anymore. Well, since I started working in the court system, I guess I do. At least on family law day when the judge stands out in the hall to talk to the children and all of them are crying because they can’t go live with their drug addict mother. It’s strange how I can watch the most badass criminals march into court in shackles for felony sentencing and not flinch. But the kids, man, they get me every time. 

 Letting go in the face of divorce is a tough one. At least when a family member dies, we are not offended; we know he didn’t do this to hurt us and that he would have lived on if he could have (suicide being a notable exception). Sure, there are times when divorce is a mutually desirable parting of ways, but it seems that most often it is the result of one party behaving badly. And that party is usually (but not always) the man. There are the beaters and the cheaters. One woman is shocked when her husband comes home from a business trip and announces that he doesn’t want to be married anymore. Another woman has finally had enough of the verbal, emotional and physical abuse she may have been suffering for years. However the story goes, the formerly married parties have to make new lives for themselves. The woman usually ends up with (I almost wrote “gets stuck with,” but that’s my own prejudice) the children and the result is often dire poverty. Letting go is a difficult proposition indeed when juggling a combination of done-me-wrong rage and too much month at the end of the money. So let’s make it even harder. Let’s add joint custody or visitation arrangements to the mix so that you have to see “that man” when he picks up and drops off the kids every other week. I am reminded of the scene in the movie Mrs. Doubtfire where Robin Williams is trying to feed his kids take-out Chinese food when his ex-wife shows up early to pick them up. The bile in the bickering is enough to make one vomit. I suppose there is no real letting go until the kids turn 18, at least not if there is visitation and child support involved. 

 There is another type of letting go that does not involve the severing of families, at least not directly. In the current economy, there are those who find themselves laid off from their jobs after working for the same company for 20 years or more. Even if it hasn’t been that long, losing one’s job often results in a loss of identity as well as of income. If I’m not a (fill in the blank) anymore, what am I? With the speedup of globalization in the past fifteen years, if your job takes off for China, India or Mexico, well it ain’t comin’ back, son. Oh, and unless you live in New York or Los Angeles, good luck finding another job in your field nearby. You may have to move hundreds or thousands of miles away, or, if family or financial considerations preclude a move, you may be out of work for a long time and then find that you have to reinvent yourself entirely if you ever hope to be employed again. Meanwhile, you may harbor anger at your former employer, anger at the economy, anger at your helplessness to support your family or even yourself. We know of one divorced mother and her three kids who recently lost their home and are now living out of their car rather than move and force the children to change schools. What would that be, letting go of one’s lifestyle? Turning in your membership card in the middle class and embracing homelessness? Some things I cannot come up with the right words to describe. 

 There are, of course, some lifestyles that we are much better off letting go of. I am thinking of illegal drugs, hateful substances that kill our children and have become such a scourge in my hometown. I want to take a big pair of clippers and cut down all those pairs of sneakers hanging from the power lines. And what do you say, can we start a big bonfire and burn all the methamphetamine in the world? Well, I can dream, and yes, Lord, I pray to You on this one, because it is going to take a lot more than my pair of clippers to cut us loose from the destructive habits that have been allowed to encroach on our society. But we are human, now aren’t we? The flesh is willing but the spirit is weak. Those caught in the web of drugs seem to have an awfully hard time letting go even when they commit themselves to regaining clean lives. No struggle with evil is ever easy. It really is true when we say that old habits “die” hard, as a little piece of us does die when we let go of modes of daily living that have helped to define our lives. Whether it’s giving up smoking, climbing on the wagon with friends of Bill W. or breaking ties with habits unrelated to substance abuse (such as committing ourselves to avoiding gossip or to speaking more kindly to our families), letting go of something to which we are used to clinging represents a sea change in how we view ourselves and how others view us. Habits quickly become crutches that at first appear helpful, then comfortable, then essential. Letting go means exiting our comfort zones; falling backward and knowing that someone will be right behind to catch us is truly a matter of faith. 

 Another reason to “let go” is the unnecessary stress that is added to our lives by the pursuit of foolishness. True, foolishness is in the eyes of the beholder, yet, as the Bible points out, we have run after folly and it has profited it us not. We have to keep up with the Joneses, run in the rat race to climb the corporate ladder so we can buy our kids the latest and the greatest instead of spending time with them. We can’t seem to let go of things, mere things, inanimate objects. Things become status symbols and we have increasing difficulty in distinguishing between wants and needs. Back in the 80s, I never put any stock in Reagan’s drivel about Welfare queens driving Cadillacs, but today I encounter very poor people sporting the latest iPhone. We have allowed our possessions, like our jobs, to define who we are. This makes it all the more difficult to let go and pursue instead things that are real, like family and community. In my teenage years, when frozen waffles were increasing in popularity, I used to laugh at a TV commercial in which family fights over the toaster ended with the refrain “Leggo my Eggo!” Even at the breakfast table, family harmony cannot prevail, for we must fight for what is rightfully ours, even down to a lousy frozen waffle. 

 I have heard it said that everyone lives in his or her own private hell. I believe this thinking reflects our culture of individuality and fails to acknowledge that, at bottom, we are all the same, all God’s children. All of us have basic needs and all of us want to be able to provide for our families. Another thing common to all of us is that every type of bondage can be broken, as difficult as it may seem. I don’t know if I will ever find the inner strength to finally bid adieu to my own bad habits. But I do dream of the day that I let them go like so many balloons and watch them float away into the sky until they fade out of sight among the clouds.

Insights from Dog-walking - Beth Morgan

Photo by Alanna Martin

At the moment, “letting go” looks like giving up control, trusting my Master to lead. For the last few months I have been fostering a dog (who's still waiting for his “forever home”) and wow, has it been an adventure! Riley is a coonhound+Aussie cattle dog who was a stray—used to wandering about, wherever his nose takes him. He wants so badly to be free to chase squirrels and rabbits which is certainly quite natural to his breed, but of course, he is being “trained” and this is not allowed. Besides, Riley doesn't really get the dangers of vehicles, so letting him run free in town would not be wise. Riley will pull and pull, even though it hurts his neck, and I will hold him back, as difficult as it is to do so. Sometimes he will try to run on ahead, sometimes he will go off to the side (especially to sniff people's recycling bins) and sometimes he will lag behind trying to scavenge something nasty from the earth that will probably make him sick. I often feel very frustrated and wish he would just listen more; his pulling can even hurt me, especially if we're going down a slippery hill or if he's all tangled around me. But then there are times, especially lately since he knows and trusts me more, when he will listen, when he will trot along beside me, ignoring all of the tempting things off in the distance. In these times I will tell him what a good boy he is and sometimes even give him treats.

I don't really know if God gets frustrated with me when I continually try to run on ahead, take control or create my own way. I do know that His words patiently continue to reach me and shed some light on the path.

“I could hold on to who I am and never let You change me from the inside...but You have called me higher, You have called me deeper and I'll go where You will lead me, Lord.” (by All Sons and Daughters, but here's my little cover version...)

Called Me Higher by Chris Whitler

A Summer Shift - James Harrison

Last summer something changed in me. Something big. 


 I want to share with you a bit of my recreational life. I am a pretty easy-going guy most of the time, and I’m content to read here and there, play sports when the weather’s fine, and even ride my bicycle around. Now, if there’s a free or cheap place to swim, I’m in! But usually, when I’m not working, and especially if the weather’s not good, most of my time is dominated by video games. Be it PlayStation 2 or on my PC, I’m swinging a bat, shooting bad guys, or strategizing world domination all through my fingertips. The hours fly by in this way, and very rarely—if ever—do I laugh out loud or play these video games with friends. It is quite a lonely hobby the more I think about it. 


 See, growing up in the city I never had my own car (well, there was one for a bit that my brother gave me, but it broke down at least a dozen times) so I was pretty grounded if I wasn’t with friends. Outside of sports, my after-school time was spent playing video games. Video games are interactive and I found it much more preferable to watching tv for hours, since I could have control, creativity, and stimulation. 


A few years later I came to a 9-to-5 job in Alberta, Canada, where the weather is typical mountain weather—unpredictable; and the winters are excruciatingly long. The best winter remedy? Leveling up my Dwarf Champion, suiting him with armor, and gaining a legacy defeating digital foes! See, there was exploring, fighting, equipping, and even socializing; a recipe for fun. 


 When summer finally hit I was given the job of grounds keeper. This involved mowing the whole property regularly and making any improvements I wanted. Without any attempt, vow, or oath I simply stopped playing video games! For months! I was out of the office and in the sun; I was tired at the end of the day, getting hard hands, and learning how to change oil, fix and maintain a riding mower, and most of all, do what I deemed best. “Those trees are a pain to walk under—I’ll trim off the lower branches!” “These bushes are out of control—I’ll cut them down to height!” “Say, this basketball hoop is a joke—I’ll build a new one! I don’t know how now, but I’ll learn.” 


 Work became life-giving because I was being creative, stimulated, and I was exploring and learning the details of the property. I came to own something. That’s never happened to me before. I loved it! So without trying my recreation time became reading, writing, playing and creating songs on the guitar—things that give me life! I have the chance to be the grounds keeper this summer, and I know God will move in my heart again. Though I still play video games, last summer was the first time I’ve ever felt like I was spending my time, living my life, like an adult… like a man. I felt capable. There was a shift. I was changed.

Ahh, Summertime - Tina Barrentine

    When I was little, my family would go camping at Big Trees State Park. It had a crystal clear river, large boulders that begged children to climb across their time-worn faces, and (as the name suggests) big trees. Really, really big trees. I know what you’re thinking: “Tina is very short. Even shrubbery would seem like big trees to her.” Wrong! I have stood at the base of trees that towered 200 feet above me and asked them how the air was up there. They had little to say in return. Big trees just don’t get my sense of humor.

    The list of cons for this summer wonderland was short, but significant.  I got two words for ya. Porta. Potties. I was cursed, even from a tender age, with impeccably high bathroom standards. The practice of collecting communal excrement horrified me then, and does still, to this day. The pungent aroma offended my delicate, six-year-old sensibilities to the point that I refused to use the facilities. For three days in the summer of 1982, I stoically held on to my principals and my bowels. In the interest of honestly, I suspect (though, don’t remember) that I found liquid relief in the no-longer-crystal-clear river.

    On the third day, the good Lord saw fit to ease my suffering and sent my deliverer in the form of The Maintenance Man from Heaven. He came down like an angel from above and cleansed the pit of despair, making it pine-sol fresh and fit for decent, God-fearing human beings. I marched boldly to that porta-potty, determined to be the first one to use it just as soon as the MM from H finished purifying it. And there, already standing in line, was my cousin Lori. She was a grown-up 13 year old, and I didn’t have sufficient seniority to bump her in line. I sent up a desperate plea to my creator and prepared myself for warfare. I pulled a knife from my boot and lunged at my opponent who had craftily hidden a pistol in her fanny pack. She dodged my attack, lowered her weapon at my head, and asked, “Do you feel lucky, punk?”

    The memory, I’ll admit has gotten a little fuzzy over the years. It either ended with Lori killing me in cold-blood in the mountains, or it ended when she saw the desperate look on my face and said, “You wanna go first?” 

Ahh, summertime.

A Love Letter to My Wife - Aron Smith

How do I love thee?  Let me text the ways.

It may seem  like the most hackneyed, gaggingly syrupy sentiment to say that I love my wife, but I do.  Can you still be in love with your wife after thirteen years of marriage?  It must be against the law or something.

I could name many of my wife’s sterling virtues, but certainly the one I most appreciate is that she has somehow managed to put up with me for all these years.  Let me tell you, that is no small feat.  You see, it’s easy for me to love my wife.  She is a thoroughly delightful woman who it would be difficult for anyone not to love.  But me?  That is another story entirely.  So it amazes me that she loves me despite the fact that I’m turning brown at the edges and starting to rot like a peach that’s spent a little too long in the crisper.

How do I know that my wife still loves me?  By her texts.

Don’t laugh.  I didn’t even have a cell phone until a few years ago, so it’s not like I cut my teeth on texting along with my pablum.  I suppose I may have an increased respect for the technology because I experienced half a century or so of living before I came to it (or it came to me).  The whole reason I obtained a cell phone in the first place was to keep in touch with my many nieces and nephews.  It was easy to see that if we were going to have any kind of relationship, it was going to have to be on their terms.  And so I learned to text.

So do I ever hear from my nephews and nieces?  Very rarely.  But fear not, my little pocket phone has not gone to waste, and my texting is in top form.  So who do I text?  My wife, of course.

Unfortunately, my phone doesn’t hold a lot of messages, so I have to delete them and start over every few days.  I was about to perform this function today when I was stopped dead in my tracks.  I began reviewing my recent texts, and that’s when I realized that they hold the proof of my wife’s love.  I mean, you can tell we’re an old married couple.  Allow me to show you what I mean.  It’s in a foreign language, so I’ll translate as I go along.

Wife’s Text:
Leaving Albs.  Cart needed.

Translation:  I’m leaving the grocery store now and heading home.  Get out here and lug this stuff  inside.

Wife’s Text:
Appt for car on Sat between 8-9.

Translation:  Guess what you’re doing this weekend?

Wife’s Text:
Putting my eyes in.  I’ll text you when I leave.

Translation:  Yes, I’ll pick you up for lunch!  Crap, I gotta mess with my contact lenses first.

Wife’s Text:
Want me to bring you food?  I can go to Del Taco if you want.

Translation:  I have put a lot of time, effort and creativity into making a lovely dinner for you, which has long since gone cold.  However, I understand that it’s 8:00 at night and you’re still stuck at work.  Let me feed you, honey!

Wife’s Text:
Need anything?

Translation: I know you’re having a very hard day.  How can I make it better?

Wife’s Text:
I hafta complete this form.  Can you help me?

Translation:  I know I’m perfectly capable of doing my own paperwork.  But I want you to feel needed, so come rescue this damsel in distress, you big stud, you!

Wife’s Text:
Spent $65 at Smart & Final.

Translation:  I’m out spending your money, haha!  Having a good time, wish you were here!  You don’t mind, now do ya?

Wife’s Text:
People are waiting.

Translation:  Um, you’ve been in this public rest room a little too long and a line is forming outside the door.  They’re starting to adopt a lynch mob mentality and may be about to bust the door down.  Hurry up and flush!

Wife’s Text:
Did you hit the F key that turned off the Internet?

Translation:  You are so inept with anything technical!  Now quit being a whiny baby and pay attention.

Wife’s Text:
I’ll sell it on eBay.

Translation:  So what else is new, you’re bringing home another worthless piece of detritus.  Never fear, I’ll parlay even this thing into a couple of bucks for us.

Wife’s Text:
What are you doing?

Translation:  I’m having fun shopping with my mom and sister.  Do you miss me?

Wife’s Text:
How’s it going?

Translation:  I miss you!



Wife’s Text:
Hfsfbuc
Jgdyjcdgn
Gagging scho
Guff

Nonsense phrases, you say?  Not at all!  This just proves that we’ve married long enough that we have our own language that only we can understand.  Translation:  I’m waiting in the car for you and it’s hot as Hades!  Get your bohonkus out here!

Wife’s Text:
I love you.

Translation:  I love you.

Husband’s Text:
Me too!

Translation:  How on earth did I get so lucky?  God is good!