Focus on Faith

When Time Chimes in the Universe 

As I begin to write, I’m about ten minutes away from hearing a beautiful sound. In ten minutes, our chiming wall clock will ring out a quarter past the hour. You won’t notice, but I’m listening, and I’ll be pausing for a moment.

You see, our clock has been away, taking time for a bit of a sabbatical for its health. For decades, it has been hanging on our living room wall and, as long as I remember to wind it, it has quite precisely and faithfully fulfilled its sweetly-toned chronological duty.

Ah, but clocks, and clock owners, are ironically prey to the onslaught of time itself. Our clock recently began to chime out (or not) a few warning signs that it needed some cleaning and fine-tuning. So, we took it down and entrusted it to the daughter and son of the skilled clockmaker from whom we’d bought it long ago. (What a fine and vanishing craft it is to be able to build and/or repair such an instrument.)

While it was away, I missed that clock terribly. Perhaps I’d not realized how often each day I’d gazed at our well-trusted timepiece. I’d not realized how accustomed my ears were to hearing the “quarters” rung out in the familiar Westminster fashion or how often, even in the night, I’d counted as it chimed the hours. I’d rather count from my pillow than roll over to gaze at the alarm clock which will soon—too soon, whatever the time is—be shrieking through my head. I much prefer the gentle chimes.

So, for a time, all I could count were the number of times each day my eyes focused on a sadly blank wall. My ears were so hungry for clock music that they tricked me into hearing some “phantom chimes” once or twice. But the clock is now back in its place, and I smile to report that some order has been restored to our place.

Time itself is one of the deep mysteries of our existence. We live in it. [Wait! Here come the chimes.] But we never really feel at home with it. It seems to move too quickly or too slowly and always inexorably. I remember C.S. Lewis’ assertion that humanity’s discomfort with time is a clue that our Creator had something far better in mind than for us to be time-bound, time-chained.

I wonder, and I marvel, that the eternal God of the universe, so far above and beyond time itself, is so divinely “aware” of the “right” times. The Apostle Paul writes, for example, that God sent his Son into this world “when the time had fully come” (Galatians 4:4).

As I write, we’re just days away (hear the clock tick) from another Holy Week which will begin with Christ’s “triumphal entry” into Jerusalem. Throughout his earthly ministry, Jesus gives hints that he is completely aware of “the time.” He knows when it’s time for him to “be about his Father’s business.” Later, he’ll perform incredible miracles, but almost as surprising to us as the miracles themselves are the times when he warns (I’m paraphrasing), “Don’t be loud about what I’ve done.” The Son, it seems, was deeply aware of the Father’s “timetable” for the culmination of that ministry. It must not be rushed.

But then perhaps you could say again that it was precisely “when the time had fully come” that the Lord enters Jerusalem as a triumphant king in a way that no one could possibly miss. And he says that, if the cheering crowd was silent, even “the stones would cry out.”

It seems clear that the disciples were deeply confused about what was coming and the kind of King he would be. But it seems just as clear, though profoundly mysterious, that the Lord of the universe was divinely aware of “the time.”

When You Need a Friend 

One of my three favorite daughters-in-law has written a children’s book called The Rowly Growly Bear. Not in print yet, it soon will be, and I’m very proud of what she’s done.

Danetta is a great wife, mother, and teacher, and a good while ago, she began writing this sweet book. It’s based on a story her father spun for her when she was just a small child. The main character in the book is a little bear—the “Rowly Growly Bear,” of course. And the little bear is looking for a friend.

It’s not always easy to find a friend when you need one, but the little bear works hard at it. He thinks that Mrs. Bird would be a great friend, but she has some serious nest-building to do. It seems that Mr. Fox might be a fine friend, but he’s too busy finding food for his pups.

Ah, but in a surprise twist (I hope I’m not giving away too much here), the little bear meets a caterpillar who is open to friendship. The caterpillar is not much of a conversationalist; in fact, it doesn’t talk at all, but it is surprisingly good at playing “hide and seek.”

All goes well for a time, until… Well, until it’s chrysalis time for the caterpillar who “hides” quite effectively in its chrysalis and then, most surprisingly to the little bear—and perhaps to the caterpillar as well—emerges as a beautiful butterfly and flies away to do what butterflies do.

I won’t give the ending away, but I will say that a very nice little rabbit shows up as the story ends quite happily. Since it is a children’s book, if any rabbits anywhere might actually be eaten by bears who don’t have friendship in mind, that’s not happening here.

I’ll also mention that one of the nice things about the book is that the very talented illustrator Danetta has worked with has been a friend of hers since third grade. Friendship all around.

The little bear in the book is learning a lot about friends, how to find a really good one, and how to deal with the changes in life that affect and color friendships. Those are good things for all of us to know, and it’s great for kids to get an early start as they grow and as their friendships also grow.

Oh, the little bear is right that a real friend is an incredible blessing. To share your joys and your struggles… To experience with a dear friend the good times and good things you both most enjoy and then recall them again and again… To laugh and talk and be amazed later to look at the usually relentless clock and realize that even time itself seems to have surrendered to make room for the joy of friendship… To feel completely safe in the presence of a friend… What a precious gift!

Speaking of gifts, we do well to listen awestruck as Jesus tells his disciples how to love each other: “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13). We hear, and we know what is coming, that Christ’s love will be written in red blood on a cross and shake the universe.

After we catch our breath, we need to keep listening and be astonished anew at another wonder-filled tribute to divine love as the Lord continues, “I have called you friends.”

What a loving Savior! What a Friend forever!

“I Had All the Answers” 

“When I was twenty-four years old, I was pretty sure I had all the answers.”

So said one of my dearest and, I think, wisest friends. He’s the kind of guy I always enjoy talking to, not least because in the midst of our “shooting the breeze” laughter, he always gives me something to think about. He’s lived a lot of life and taken both its deepest joys and most difficult sorrows with the kind of faith in God that I aspire to have myself.

After making the statement, or confession, above, he chuckled, “It’s been pretty much downhill ever since.”

I laughed, too, because I knew what he meant. A mentor as well as a friend, he is a deep thinker who has learned the right questions to ask and has never been (well, at least, since he lived past year twenty-four or so) willing to settle for easy and trite answers. As he has sought real answers to real questions, he’s encouraged many others in the same endeavor. If he’s in an analytical mood, which is often, you’d better not say, “Good morning” without being willing to back up your assertion with facts. But laughter will probably follow.

“What does it mean to be a spiritual person?” he once asked. I’ve spent years trying to hone the answer to that question, and it’s been good for me. It’s kept me from buying our society’s general view that if you enjoy sunsets, birdies, and mountains, you are “spiritual.” That answer is too thin and wispy. Most easy answers are.

The big questions are the hardest; they are also the only ones that ultimately matter. Does God exist? Is God both loving and good? Can we have a real relationship with the God of the universe? Who is Jesus Christ and what is the meaning of the cross? How can a loving God allow pain in this world? Why do good people suffer? Does prayer really matter? And so on.

In our lives, the answers to such questions are far more practical than many people tend to think. They make a difference in how we face each day and meet joys and sorrows. They make a difference in how we do business, greet a newborn, face a funeral, listen to a diagnosis, make vows at a wedding. They color how we live, and they shape how we die.

Oh, once we’ve lived much past whatever “twenty-four” might be for each one of us, we usually are much more aware of not having “all the answers,” but we’ve learned a lot more about how important the big questions are and what big answers really matter. Being less “full of ourselves” means that we have a lot more room in our souls for some humility.

As blessed as I’ve undoubtedly been in my life, I’d tell a much younger me that life will be both a lot harder than you think—and a lot better. Both. The sorrows will be deeper than you can imagine, but so will the joys.

And I would tell that younger me not to dodge the big questions. I’d say, “You may not like to hear this, but when you’re older, you will have many more questions than you do now. The good news is that you’ll also believe you have good and tested reasons to trust in two big answers: God is good, and God is loving.”

And I’d say, “By the way, don’t buy the popular notion that faith is unreasoned or unreasonable. God is big enough to allow us to ask questions even about his goodness and his love—and his very existence. How very good and loving of him!”

Thinking About Foolishness and Fools 

Months ago, I jotted down a few words about, well, fools. It was probably a foolish thing to do, likely motivated by my foolishly reading too much news. But here’s what I wrote.

“We all at times play the fool. Only a fool will install each of the bars of his own soul-cell by flaunting freedom for license, trading love for lust, parodying self-less patriotism with mindless populism, mocking virtue’s civility with soul-rot’s untamed tongue, confusing strong opinion with eternal truth, assuming that ear-shredding volume is more consequential than quiet, soul-stirring integrity, replacing strong spines with plastic and expecting a proliferation of courage, bartering with fool’s gold for cheap and fleeting results and expecting pure gold’s priceless permanence. The bars we build for ourselves go up, one by one, and we don’t even hear the click of the cell door behind us when it shuts.”

Okay, I suppose. Foolishness certainly does carry some very real consequences, and it is never in short supply. But I found myself seeking some wisdom from some of the Bible’s wisest words warning us about fools and foolishness. And that quickly led me to the Bible book of Proverbs, the sweet spot, in so many ways, of the “wisdom literature” of the Old Testament. Let me paraphrase a few verses. The “real ones” are better, and I’ll list the references, but what follows is my take. (Thanks to the folks at dailyverses.net for a handy listing of verses; if you want a really great—and fun—paraphrase, check out these verses in Eugene Peterson’s The Message).

“Spend time with people who are wise, and you’ll become wise, but run with fools, and you’ll end up bruised and bleeding” (see Proverbs 13:20).

“Those who are wise are quick to recognize and apply wisdom, but a fool chatters on, listening to no one, and is always crashing into brick walls with his mouth running” (see Proverbs 10:8).

“A wise person avoids arguments, but people who would rather fuss than breathe are certified fools” (see Proverbs 20:3).

“A fool is easily and often ticked off, but the wise know when it’s best to be deaf to insults” (see Proverbs 12:16).

“Fools never experience the priceless joy of learning from others because they bask in the counterfeit pleasure of loudly proclaiming their own opinions” (see Proverbs 18:2).

“The flapping lips of fools propel them into continual trouble, and their mouths full of nonsense are tempting targets for a therapeutic slap” (see Proverbs 18:6). 

“Those who honor God and follow him are on the path to wisdom, but fools worship themselves and reject even their Creator’s instruction” (see Proverbs 1:7).

And I think my personal favorite is this one: “Even fools who keep their mouths shut and stay silent may be mistaken for people who are wise and prudent” (see Proverbs 17:28).

Some patterns worth noticing begin to show themselves here, and I know how badly I need to take them to heart. It seems clear that the foolishness of fools is most often proven by an inability to control their own mouths and a self-destructive love of their own voices. And I suspect that one of the most foolish mistakes that any of us might make is to think of ourselves as being wise.

A little humility is for us all a big step in the direction of wisdom. And some silence is certainly wise. I need to be quiet now.

Flat Tires and Some Perspective 

Flat tires. I don’t know anyone who enjoys them.

Does anyone enjoy the raucous rumble of tire rubber flapping against the road and your vehicle’s fender wells?

Do you relish the opportunity to make the suddenly crucial decision as to how long to glide your once-smooth-now-loudly-limping ride to a stop? You’re actually faced with more than a few decisions that could well be discussed a bit—but not when you have scant seconds to make them.

It’s clear that you’re stopping but how quickly and where? Safety needs to be paramount, so you want off the road far enough. Nobody enjoys the roar and rocking motion as other perfectly operating crafts fly by feet away in a blur of terrifying wake turbulence. But you don’t want off the road so far that you bury up to your bumpers in sand or mud or get lost in tumbleweeds. And you’d prefer not to destroy the tire or rim if such hasn’t already happened.

Some flat tire psychology, even PTSD, might be at work. Perhaps some of the multitude of feelings flowing along with your adrenaline-charged blood are due to previous experiences. Do you enjoy berating yourself, maybe yet again, for not conducting a serious inspection of your tire-changing equipment and its location and use? Didn’t you promise yourself last time… Maybe it really would have been a good idea some time ago to conduct a trial run in the relative comfort of your driveway, but who thinks that far ahead?

Maybe you now remember the specific gut-wrench that came from a long-ago flat tire experience when you finally had the spare tire on and, as you began lowering the vehicle while your stranded family watched, discovered that your fear was more than theoretical. The spare was headed to the ground. All the way. About as flat as the tire you’d taken off. Time for Plan B. And that was what exactly?

No, I can’t think of many lovely memories connected with flat tires and automotive marooning. But I do think of a lesson or two from it, and, not least, I find it pushing me toward some perspective.

Flat tires happen in this fallen world. Sometimes we drive in our lives into places and situations we surely would have been wiser to avoid. Sometimes we just pick up a nail. But living very long at all in this world should produce in anyone who has ever been stranded by trouble a tendency to be merciful toward others presently in trouble.

And perspective matters. Flat tire sorts of problems can be intensely frustrating, and yet most of us can quickly think of much more serious difficulties—even tragedies and suffering and trials so terrible and heartbreaking that we wonder how anyone could survive them.

Without making too much of life’s flat tire problems and much too little of life’s tragedies, it’s true to say that the Lord Jesus was being utterly realistic and covering an incredible range of “tribulation” when he warned his disciples, “In this world you will have trouble” (John 16:33). That simple statement squares with the reality we see around us in this fallen world—from its annoyances to its heartbreak. 

But I think Christ’s is the perfect perspective when, after warning us to expect trouble in the territory, he continues, “But be of good cheer. I have overcome the world.”

If we think the Lord is making light of pain, we certainly don’t know the suffering Savior. And we’ve forgotten some very important nails and a cross.

Driftwood and Eyes That See 

Driftwood.

One person’s trash is another person’s treasure. For my mother, driftwood was treasure. She was a country girl, born and raised in Coke County, Texas, and I remember that, even after she’d been grown and married and had long since left Coke County, she had a love affair with driftwood. At least, that’s what I always called it, and I think she did.

It’s quite possible we were using the term inaccurately. I just looked up a definition or a few. One dictionary says that driftwood is “wood drifted or floated by water.” Another describes driftwood as “wood that has been washed onto a shore or beach of a sea, lake, or river by the action of winds, tides or waves.”

The wood that Mom was on the lookout for was, to be more precise, generally pieces of mesquite, the kind of wood Coke County has in plenty. What the county doesn’t have a great deal of is water upon which such wood could “drift.” Seas and lakes and, thus, shores and beaches, are not in large supply. These days, especially, with rivers dammed or diverted upstream and the droughts that have oppressed a large part of the area, even the bodies of water that remain have barely remained. When a lake is estimated to be two percent full, I assume that means ninety-eight percent empty, and even if it manages after rare rains to ramp on up to eleven or twelve percent full, it can be a pretty good hike from the end of a little-used boat ramp to actual water. And managing to drown in what passes in West Texas for a river or creek may take some effort. And yet I’m sure that a once-in-a-blue-moon “gully washer” might fill up a creek enough to wash out some mesquite.

But most of the pieces of mesquite Mom considered treasures were just old pieces of broken down or “cleared” trees that ranchers in the area are happy to grub out, pull down, pile up, and be rid of. And that is where Mom had a valuable ally. My Granddaddy Key, her father, was a rancher in Coke County, raising and trucking cattle and sheep. Granddaddy had plenty of occasion to run across exactly the kind of treasure Mom was after.

I remember, as a boy growing up in Amarillo, Texas, the wonderful times when Granddaddy and Grandmother would come to visit. In the back of his pickup bed (a place my younger brother and I loved to climb around in as we became cowboys, Indians, or various brands of soldiers) was almost always a load of mesquite wood pieces.

For a good many years, Mom would take those pieces of wood, pick out the best ones, clean them up, drill through them in the right places, and thread in the wiring, “lamp pipe,” and sockets. She would apply varnish, affix some artificial greenery and/or flowers, install a bulb or a few and an in-line switch, and add a lampshade if such was called for. That piece of “driftwood” mesquite was transformed into quite an ornate table lamp, television lamp, or night light. Mom was creative enough to work with a wide range of sizes. I can only imagine how many folks received these sweet craft pieces as completely unique gifts. For Mom, and for my grandfather, I’m sure, the whole process was a pleasure.

Handcrafted. The word itself says a lot. And a large part of the wonder of such a creation is that it is often made of the most common materials. What is uncommon is the eye that sees the beauty residing in the “ordinary.” You can’t get more ordinary than a mesquite tree. Ah, but Mom saw the beauty.

Eyes to see beauty. Eyes to see potential that many might look right past. How thankful we should be for parents, friends, teachers, and all of those who have seen in you and me something worth cultivating and encouraging, something precious and beautiful that might remain dormant were it not for eyes of wisdom and love.

Don’t doubt for a moment that our God sees us with such eyes. All of the time.

Of the Counting of Many Words 

No surprise, I enjoy words. I am amazed that, in the English language equipped with an alphabet of 26 letters, those letters can be combined to create hundreds of thousands of words. And that brings up an interesting topic.

If you have some time on your hands and are interested in doing just a very little bit of easy research (as in, internet search research), you’ll probably find the number of words in the English language variously estimated at being anywhere from a bit under 200,000 words to over one million.

I wasn’t surprised to find an incredibly wide range of estimates, but I was quite surprised to see in a few different articles an exact figure: 171,476 words. Not 171,475. Or 171,477.

Ah, but then that minor mystery was solved. In an article on the Word Counter website, Allison Dexter writes, “The Second Edition of the 20-volume Oxford English Dictionary contains full entries for 171,476 words in current use (and 47,156 obsolete words).” Bingo! Citing the venerable OED is bringing in a pretty big gun. But Dexter wisely notes that those numbers do not include “slang and jargon” which significantly increase the total. Word-counters are wise to seek wiggle room.

Of course, any person or organization undertaking this subject will be quick to point out that new words or combinations of words are being created all of the time, and not just a few words start out in another language and make their way straight into English usage. They count, too. Fancy an enchilada? The fact that the language is able to change and grow is an amazing strength. It is also one of many good reasons that no one will ever be able to nail down a specific number of words in the language. I suppose, too, that a word-counter would need a rule about how many forms of a particular word should be counted as their own separate words. No wonder this counting task is well nigh impossible.

Now, Pet Peeve Alert! I do wish that folks would slow down a bit in the process of trying to turn every noun in the language into a verb. Just because it’s often easy to do doesn’t mean it should always be done. If you enjoy such discussion, do an internet search on “verbing.” The word is an interesting example of the very phenomenon it describes. In your search (and you might include “verbifying” or “verbification”) you’ll quickly find that folks who care about these things have some strong opinions. I can envision a fight breaking out over such in a bar frequented by English majors.

For my part, I’ve largely made peace with “contact” as a verb. Even “impact.” I only cringe slightly now when someone talks about “gifting” or “regifting” a gift. And I admit to chuckling when I recently read of someone describing an elderly person as “turtling” down the hall. No turtles were harmed in the verbing.

By the way, it’s never bothered me at all that we “salt” our eggs or “butter” our bread or “table” a motion. Those nouns have been so successfully “verbified” ages ago that we no longer even notice. (I’m embarrassed that I needed someone else to point out those examples.) We “google” things all of the time now, and the language remains healthy.

So, yes, I guess I can be magnanimous enough to make allowances for lots of word-morphing in moderation, in good taste (some nouns really do turn into monsters as verbs), and when it’s done to accomplish the desired effect in one’s wordsmithing.

If you choose to start counting English words, let me know if you plan to count “salt” as a noun and “salt” as a verb as one word or two. And, if you come up with a word total for the whole language, I’d like to know. In the meantime, I’m quite content with this statement from the Merriam-Webster website: “There is no exact count of the number of words in English.”

For my part, I’m a lot more worried about word quality than word quantity. And I close these rambling thoughts with words easy to count but filled with meaning and mystery the whole universe cannot contain: “In the beginning was the Word…” (John 1:1).

Problems with Possession Proliferation 

Possessions and proliferation. Two “p” words, each beginning with “p” as in “problem.”

For the first to be last and the last to be first—a biblical concept for sure—I begin with “proliferation.”

I’m not talking about nuclear proliferation. That is its own “capital P” problem. Suffice it to say that I love the prophet Isaiah’s words about the time when nations will “beat their swords into plowshares” (Isaiah 2). But, sadly, in this fallen world, that time is not now.

No, the proliferation I’m thinking about has to do with—here’s that other word—possessions.

Sometimes I wonder (back to the nuclear motif), if my possessions had somehow been irradiated, they could replicate in a more mad-multiplication, cells-out-of-control, cancerous fashion? The stuff I own seems to be engaged in wild metastasis, and I think you know what that means. It means that the possessions I own are well on their way to either owning or overwhelming me. I’m afraid that I struggle to think of a venue of my life that is not over-cluttered and over-stuffed with stuff.

In my study/office at church, the first items that would catch your eye are the books. I have many of them, and I’m mostly unrepentant. Bibles and commentaries. Books by well-respected authors on many subjects. Devotional and inspirational books. Books about faith and prayer and worship. Histories. Biographies. Novels. And so much more.

I confess to owning a ton or two of books that I’ve never read, and probably won’t, but still don’t want to part with. I also confess that once, decades ago, I opened the door to that room and discovered a literal avalanche of shelves and books. My death by book tsunami would have been nothing but just. Unscathed, though, I shored up the shelves and the procuring of bookish possessions continued, even after I carted a big bunch of books to the church library.

I’m cluttering this column with too many stacked up words and thus won’t have time or space to adequately report on my garage, the motto of which is “I might need that thing, tool, whatchamacallit, widget.” Years ago, I installed there a dartboard that my family and I have very much enjoyed. But the first problem was that no bare wall was available. Even then, I needed a possession proliferation workaround, so I engineered a “drop the dartboard down from the ceiling” arrangement.

Oh, and I should mention my home office (more avalanche danger), my shed/greenhouse (more “I might need that”), and my closet (quite cluttered). I will say that, just as I was writing this, my wife called me toward that latter space and reported finding a bunch of now-again-wearable jeans and pants that I’d thought we’d long ago given away after a period of my personal expansion. So, it’s good to have at least one sentence here pointing to something positive related to possession proliferation. But the fact that those were lurking in the inner recesses of a closet we’d already searched doesn’t say much praiseworthy about our stuff-stacking tendencies.

It’s small comfort, but I’m sure we’re in good (or bad) company in a society where lots of folks have way too much stuff. Maybe that’s good news if you own a storage business. You’ll work hard, but you’ll never run out of customers.

But the bad news for most of us is that what we own can quickly own us, that much of what we own isn’t really worth the trouble it takes to own it, that a lot of what we own is junk, and that having all of the spaces of our lives cluttered is literally depressing. And those are just a few of the very real problems associated with possession proliferation. We really should consider some moves toward non-proliferation.

A few simple words of Christ are far better than all of mine: “Watch out! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed, because one’s life does not consist in an abundance of possessions” (Luke 12:15).

Honoring Those Whose Work Honors Christ 

I have often found myself in need of a clever quotation and am happy to report that the internet usually makes such a search relatively simple.

If one is looking for a pithy turn of phrase, a quick search for G.K. Chesterton quotes will dig up gold with very little difficult mining needed at all.

Want words wonderfully crafted to make us think about faith and promote digging more deeply into the foundational truths of the Christian faith and how to live it out in our lives? My own “go to” list of such authors is so lengthy that I hesitate even to begin to share it. I immediately think of names like C.S. Lewis and George MacDonald. Some of my favorite wordsmiths in this category are even still alive. Something good can always be found from the pen of Philip Yancey, Max Lucado, and many more.

But my most recent search was a completely new experience. I was looking for some words from practitioners of a very honorable and essential trade. If you need a brain surgeon, you probably need one very badly. But I suggest that in more usual and everyday situations, most of us might more likely find ourselves in urgent need of a plumber.

My search leads me to believe that most plumbers are far too busy with their very useful business to feel a need or have leisure to write much about it, though I bet most of them have some great stories to tell. From a financial standpoint, too, practicing such an essential trade is a more reasonable pursuit than lining up words. Very few folks dial the phone in a feverish rush: “Quick! I’ve got a problem at the house, and I need an English major to write a 1000-word essay to stuff into a leaking sink drain!”

All of this aside, I think you’ll likely search in vain for quotations from famous plumbers. Most are too wise to desire to be famous and too busy with their truly exhausting work and crazy calls-at-all-hours schedules to spend a lot of time on other pursuits.

So, I changed my search parameters a bit and quickly discovered—no surprise—that plumbing practitioners are by no means lacking in good-humored witticisms.

“A good flush beats a full house.”

“We’ll repair what your husband fixed.”

“Professional, affordable, and we always leave the seat down.”

“If it weren’t for us, you’d have no place to go.”

“Plumbers have pipe dreams.”

“We’re number one in the number two business.” (Sorry.)

What, you may ask, has sent you exploring the drains in this direction?

Well, if I were a pagan, though I’d not be at church, I’d say that at ours we’ve evidently offended the gods of plumbing. Not being a pagan, I simply believe that the warranty (if there ever was one) on our old plumbing in our old church building has evidently expired, and it’s time to pay the piper. (Note the subtle reference to pipes.) This or that little leak, a stoppage and over-flowage, a trap or two that have quit trapping water, and even the discovery of a mysterious drain all add up to be no fun. Could it be worse? Oh, yes, but let’s not talk about such.  

But the plumbing siege has brought up in my mind some realities that are always true but worth mentioning.

I’m reminded that in our communities, we are blessed when we have people whose very different talents and expertise we all need. 

I’m reminded of how much genuine respect I have for anyone who is a master of a trade and probably has forgotten more about it than I will ever know. I honor that.

And I’m particularly thankful to have friends in my community who capably ply all sorts of trades and professions but who do so with good will and integrity. I may not like the situation (leaky pipes are just one example), but I respect my friends whose genuine expertise is matched only by their character. I may not be happy about the situation that’s forced my call, but I know they’ll tell me the truth, be fair with me, and do very well the job I need done.

The Apostle Paul told us long ago, “Whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus” (Colossians 3:17). What a sweet blessing to know so many folks, many friends, who, whatever their job, do exactly that and honor their Lord. That makes me happy to honor them, and I do.

“In the Bleak Mid-winter” 

“In the bleak mid-winter / Frosty wind made moan,” writes the English poet Christina Rossetti in her 1872 poem.

The poem, which she called “A Christmas Carol,” is one we usually call by its first line, as we do the song(s) written upon which to hang her sweet lyrics. I love the lyrics and the melodies, particularly Gustav Holst’s tune that was paired with the words a few decades after Rossetti penned them. (It’s fun to check out various versions and recordings on the internet.)

The poet praises God for the Incarnation and goes on to paint word pictures that morph in my mind into images even better than those boasted by the most beautiful Christmas cards. Stables, complete with oxen and camels. A manger-crib with a blanket of hay. A sky filled with angels and archangels.

All of Heaven, including “cherubim and seraphim,” join amazed shepherds in adoration. Mary tenderly worships her Baby, her Lord, “with a kiss.” What a sweet gift!

Most of us have at times almost battered our brains trying to think of exactly the right gift for a family member or friend, and the speaker in this poem laments facing that difficulty in the extreme. She knows who this Baby is. She sees the worship and the worshipers. She wants to join them in giving. She longs to give exactly the right gift, but what, in her poor circumstances, does she have to give?

For shepherds, she says, a lamb would be most fitting. We know, of course, that such would be utterly appropriate and filled with meaning. “Behold,” John the Baptizer would later exclaim, “the Lamb of God!”

The speaker is certainly aware of the Wise Men who will come bringing precious gifts. They brought gold and frankincense and myrrh. Were she numbered with them, she opines, she would be more than willing to join them by “doing [her] part.”

But she’s not a shepherd. She’s wise, I think, but she is not an “official” Wise Man. So, what, given who she is and what she possesses, is her part, her gift? What from her could ever be a fitting gift for the Baby, God in the flesh?

Does she make a long search? Does she scribe a lengthy list of possible presents for the Christ child? Or does she just suddenly know exactly what the perfect gift, the most truly appropriate gift, the most precious gift must be?

What can she give him? She knows. And she pledges. She will give her heart.

The season of Christmas has passed. Even if you enjoy observing the whole twelve days, well, it’s over. One more year, as the decorations have come down and been relegated to boxes in the attic or under the stairs, I find myself bemoaning what, without sparkling lights and heartwarming songs and more-than-usual good-spirited cheer, is a post-Christmas mid-winter. I admit that “bleak,” to me, is not too strong a word.

The weather is working to do its part, as temperatures are dropping, wind is blowing (I find that part particularly bleak), and record-setting cold is testing our infrastructure and maybe even, to some extent, our spirits.

But again I turn to a precious thought embedded in Rosetti’s sweet poem portraying a “bleak mid-winter” complete with “frosty wind.” In this life, we understand more than we wish about “bleakness” and moaning. Of course, we’ve just celebrated Christ’s first coming. But part of the deep joy for people of faith is looking forward to the time when he comes again “to reign.”

The first coming. The second coming. Yes, thank you, Lord! But, for anyone at any time willing to give the most precious gift, their very heart, the Savior’s “reign” begins right now, right here. And what Christ gives his people makes all the difference in the “bleak mid-winter” and what can be a cold world.

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