It feels a little out of sync that on a beautiful spring day I would be having autumn thoughts but more and more I am becoming convinced that there are particular seasons in one’s life and this forest dwelling Granddaddy is at the very least in the fall of life, perhaps early winter.  That is not a lament.  It is a thanksgiving.  It was a blessed spring and an exciting summer.  They set the stage for this current season but now the task is to be where I am and to receive the gift of the present.

 

A big part of that gift is that I am reestablishing my relationship with the little spring boy inside me.  He lived a less anxious, simpler life, taking each day as they came.  The planning, striving man of summer is becoming a fading memory.

 

But spring boy doesn’t see as a child anymore.  Autumn has changed him. He sees more widely and more deeply.  He is more aware of the vastness of life.

 

One way to say what I am trying to get across is that I am seeing old things in a new way.  A good example of this is the experience I had the other day.  Via a devotional email, I ran across a quote by Missy Buchanan, from her book, Aging Faithfully and it stuck with me.  She wrote, “Prayer and aging go hand in hand.  An active prayer life provides you a constant source of friendship.  Nothing is too insignificant or too overwhelming to tell your heavenly Father.  Walk closely with God and feel divine goodness all around you.”  Upon first glance, I didn’t think there was anything particularly ground breaking there. In fact, I think we covered it when we sang, “Jesus loves the little children” and “Jesus loves me this I know.”  But, in the autumn of life when loneliness and nagging anxiety can come calling a little more often than you would like, what could more assuring than simple reminders that Christ is present, offering companionship, and that every moment is sacred?

 

A deep peace comes with the autumn of life, if you allow it.  To experience this peace, it requires openness, an acceptance of what is, embracing mortality, and forgiving yourself for the hurts you caused others and yourself.  This can feel hard but it is actually done with the simplicity of a child.  Sort of like when I was a little boy and would get in a fist fight with one of the neighborhood boys; before our parents could work out the peace treaty we were starting a new game of baseball or hide and seek as if bloody noses and fat lips were nothing compared to the joy of playing with friends.

 

Forgiveness.  Not making a huge deal of it, simply forgiving yourself for being human and getting on with life. We might wish desperately to change the past but holding that wish too tightly is a surefire recipe for stuckness.

 

It is true that I have tried hard for some things I didn’t achieve.  I have failed in ways that hurt people who were dear to me.  I have thought I was going to die.  But, in the fall of life I see that these things were my greatest teachers and they have helped me to see more clearly in this present day; this autumn (early winter?) day that the Lord has made.

 

I am starting to see what Jesus was talking about when he spoke of dying to self.  I believe he was talking about the false self; the one that seeks badge upon badge in order to convince itself that it is worthy and winning.  I think when we let go of that imaginary life we are met by true life; true life that is marked by simplicity, mercy, and humility.

 

I am not knocking those other seasons, especially since as I write this, I can look out my window see new leaves starting their time in the sun.  I’m just saying that autumn has a gift and I receive it.

 

It was sixty years ago, as I was trying to make my way through the first grade, that my mother gave me an assignment that I am still working on, “Just be yourself.”

It was around that same time that I was amazed to learn the scientific fact that no two snowflakes are alike. Of course upon the next snowfall I grabbed my magnifying glass and set out to be the kid that disproved that theory, without success.

This morning (Thursday March 22, ’18) as I read the Franciscan priest Richard Rohr’s daily devotional that comes via email, I realized that these two childhood memories are very much related. What ties them together is the word the thirteenth century Scottish theologian, John Duns Scotus, coined, “haecceity.”

Its complete definition is beyond my grasp but essentially it refers to the unique identity in each being. To put it simply, there is only one you and only one me. Or, as Father Richard puts it, “We are not one of a kind; we are one of an eternity.”

If I am on track with what Duns Scotus was saying, my mother was giving me the best advice a human could receive. I have nothing better to do with this one life than to be the person God gifted me, and me alone, to be.

To drive home the point, Rohr blew the top off the parable about the pearl of great price. You remember it. Jesus says that the kingdom is like a merchant that discovers the one pearl that is worth everything so he sells everything he has so he can obtain that one pearl. Father Richard says, “Part of our vocation is to appreciate ourselves as the pearl of great price.” Ponder that a moment. To be who God calls us to be, our true selves, is worth it all. Everything.

Every being, every human, every dog, every honeybee, every daffodil, every snowflake is one of an eternity. A sacred, precious, priceless, treasure.

So you do you and I’ll keep working on being me.

Two questions challenge us after the mass shooting at the high school in Parkland Florida on Ash Wednesday. Both will require courage and soul searching if we are to face them.

The first is the one that haunts us all: Where was God? Or, I guess more to the point, what was God doing during this awful tragedy? It is a good question and one we must wrestle with if we are to walk in a mature faith. I won’t claim to have my final answer to this one, let alone yours. I will only remind us that scripture and experience teach us that God is present in our suffering, never leaving us, and seeing us through the most fearful events of our life. And, I will suggest that God was present in the lives of the teachers that put their students first when evil struck, especially the coaches that didn’t seek cover but protected the teenagers with their very lives.

Where was God? Our God who is not aloof, but is willing to suffer with us was in the halls of Majory Stoneman Douglas High School and just as life was promised on a cross, somehow we believe that good will overcome evil, even in Fort Lauderdale.

The next question is more practical and easier for me to get my mind around: Where will God be next, or what will God do next? This is one we can answer when we decide to act and not just pray.

God will be with:
– The one who makes another donation to Brady Campaign Against Gun Violence
– The member of the school board that seeks ways to secure our campuses
– The one that volunteers at a school in order to be an extra set of eyes for our children
– The one that reaches out to the loner young man that struggles for meaning
– The friend or family member that sees something and decides to say something
– The representative that supports funding for mental health initiatives
– The one that writes their congressman and pleads for them to look at the issue of school safety with fresh eyes and not through the filter of overused speeches
– The leader that decides that leading is more important than grasping power
– The NRA member that realizes that the second amendment doesn’t mean our country needs to be gun saturated, the country with the most weapons per capita in the world.
– And finally, God will be with the one that weeps and the one that weeps with them.

“Not a sparrow falls without your Father knowing it. Even the hairs on your head are all counted.” (Jesus, trying very hard to teach us that God cares for us and we can live without fear.)

Under the heading of things that you learn as a child and then keep on the shelf for sixty years, I never really thought deeply about the hairs on my head being counted. I kept it filed under things you know if you happen to be omniscient. As in, you and God are at a party and someone asks, “How many hairs are on Jim’s head?” and God quickly answers, “126,422. Not too many in the crown area though.” And, everyone is amazed that the Creator apparently has the correct number for over seven billion people. I Told you I hadn’t thought deeply about this.

(Random thought: since there are over seven billion people on the planet and, per google, there are between ninety thousand and one hundred and fifty thousand hairs on the human head, the math would imply that there are thousands of people that have the exact same number of hairs on their head as I do. That never occurred to me. I wish there was some way I could nod at them or give them thumbs up when I pass them at Walmart. Now back to the original point.)

Turns out I had this particular quote by Jesus filed in the wrong place. Jesus’ point is not that God knows everything. Jesus’ point is that God cares about everything. When crisis comes, our fear doesn’t lessen because we believe God knows stuff. It lessens because we believe that God loves us and cares about what happens to us. Think about it. When you are in the ER, it’s comforting to believe that your care giver has a lot of medical information but what really calms you down is when they show you that they care. Jesus wants us to know that God cares. God is paying attention.

I love my wife dearly but when we were separated at the grocery store the other day, I couldn’t remember what color sweater she was wearing. I hadn’t bothered to pay attention. On the other hand, per Jesus, God knows how many hairs are on her head and he knows this not because he is all knowing but because he bothered to count them.

Like I said, I have known about God counting hairs since I was a little boy but this isn’t little boy stuff. The context for Jesus is that there is scary, hurtful stuff in the world and it will likely come our way, but we don’t have to succumb to fear because God is with us and knows what is going on.

Again, don’t miss the point. Jesus is not saying there aren’t things that are fearful. There are. There are tragic things, horrific things, and heart rending things. Even Jesus, in the midst of a torturous death cried out that God had forsaken him. But those weren’t the last words from the cross. His last words were words of trust and commitment. “Into your hands…” He was not afraid.

He was not afraid because he believed that very day birds all over the globe had breathed their last and God was present. He was not afraid because he believed that the God who cares about everything, down to the last hair follicle, would see him through.

That was true then for him. It is true now for us.

There are a lot of tents in the Christian camp. Aside from the myriad denominations, there are other labels such as Evangelical, Social Activist, Traditionalist, Progressive, Fundamental, Orthodox, Liberal, on and on.

I’ve never been much of a label person but the tent I want to dwell in is the one where the Contemplatives live. I decided to make this official when I ran across this quote, “For the Contemplative, everything is important. Everything is sacred.”

The Contemplative way is ancient and its basic practices are:
– Prayer that makes requests known but also listens and is often simply silent in the presence.
– Reading Scripture and other spiritual writings in hope of being formed by them as opposed to simply being informed by them.
– Seeing without judging or grading. Paying attention. Seeing as is, seeking to be aware.
– Listening to the sacred story of others, especially those that often aren’t heard.
– Pondering God’s first language, creation.
– Seeking justice for all.
– Loving kindness, embodying graciousness.
– Remaining humble. Remembering, as Richard Rohr says, that your point view is simply the view from your point in the universe.
– Believing that God is found inside our lives. In our hearts more than in our heads.
– Living simply.

As I ponder this list, two things jump out at me. First, the realization that I am not a very good contemplative, I just want to be one. Second, this way of life does have political and social implications. This way of life pushes one toward nonviolence, restorative justice, doing for others as we would have them do for us on a local and global level, and toward gentle care for the planet.

Yep. I’ve never been much of a joiner and I usually resist labels but I think this is one I want to grow into. I’m guessing the way to do that is practice.

People who study such things say that around 12,000 years ago one of my ancestors (who is probably one of yours as well, Cuz) looked at one of Gus’s ancestors and said, “What a friendly puppy! I think I’ll make it a member of the tribe.” You could say that Gus’s family has been friends with my family for a very long time.

My daughter, who volunteers at the Humane Society, introduced me to Gus back in September. We hit it off immediately even though I had said repeatedly that I would never get another dog. Besides, we already had Lulu, a toy yorkie. Of course Lulu will tell you, “we” don’t have her, she is Kathryn’s. Anyway, when I met my guy I realized that I actually did want another dog and no offense to Lulu, one that weighed a little over five pounds. I wanted one that had a little spunk. One that I could do things with and since my spunk graph is slightly but persistently charting down it seemed like now would be better than later. So, I put in the adoption request, got my new partner and named him Gus, after the spunky retired Texas Ranger in Lonesome Dove. I am being sincere when I say that I believe that God brought Gus to me.

Every dog that has been a part of my life was a precious gift. I, like Mr. Bojangles in the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band song, after twenty years still grieve or five years or forty years, but Gus feels special. Perhaps it is because these days I am more inclined to see God’s presence in all creatures and less inclined to deny that pets can get deep in your heart and become a full member of your tribe. I love my dog.

I believe the feeling is mutual. I have proof of this from the internet. Gus does all the things that iheartdogs.com says that dogs do if they love you. Plus, I have the backing of the popular book, The Five Love Languages. Gus’s love language is clearly quality time. He likes to be with me. He is ecstatic when I come home after being gone just a short time, he dances when we are heading out for walk, jumps in the Jeep like we are going to Disney World when it’s just the recycling station, and tears down the steps to the basement so he can be a part of whatever adventure I’m on when I’m only going to the frig for a beer. Well, maybe it’s not quality time. Maybe it’s just time.

All this reminds me of the saying you’ve probably seen in gift shops or on social media, “My goal in life is to be the person my dog thinks I am.” I like that but I am not sure it actually captures the best part of Gus’s and my relationship. After all, based on the evidence available to him, Gus thinks about all I have going for me is that I occasionally take hikes and like being outdoors. But he loves me anyway.

On the other hand, I have observed Gus to be friendly to everyone, faithful, and constantly saying “I love you” (per Iheartdogs.com). He brings joy to those around him, and encourages exercise. None of this seems to require any effort on his part. It is who he is and he loves being who he is. Maybe a better goal for me is to be the kind of fellow my dog is.

“Am I going to be OK?”

I can still clearly see her face; wide eyed, fearful, yet brave enough to ask the question. It was Kathryn an hour or so before our first daughter was born. She was beautiful, vulnerable, and very afraid. I leaned over, rubbed her forehead with the cool, damp cloth and said something along the lines of “Of course you will.”

I have relived that moment hundreds of times. I think of it whenever I want to ponder the most sacred scenes in my life. I was overwhelmed with love for the woman who was soon to be the mother of my child, grateful that I could offer some assurance when she needed it, and I think for the first in my young, charmed life acutely aware of the vast chasm between “of course you will” and “most likely you will.” I tried to hide it but we were both afraid, both wondering if things were going to be OK. Husband, wife, emerging child, life, uncertainty, fear, hope, no idea what was about to happen, etched forever in my memory.

The other day I was revisiting all this when it occurred to me that I often stop the video in my mind right there. It’s like we had that moment and what happened later that afternoon is unconnected to our time of fear and uncertainty. It’s as if it is two separate days. I guess a baby girl’s arrival is kind of a stand alone event.

But it is connected. It was the same afternoon. We were right on the verge and very soon we would be in a new life, a wonderful life. In one late fall afternoon we would go from fear and uncertainty to joy that literally had me jumping, punching, and shaking when I went to the locker room to change out of my scrubs.

I have come to believe that the memory of that incredible afternoon is my life speaking to me. I think it points to a holy message that is a recurring pattern in our journey with God. The truly miraculous meets us in the scariest places. Read that again. Remember that even Jesus wondered if he was going to be OK when he called out “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”

There are indeed very scary places on life’s path, hard places, heart-breaking places. Sometimes we fall deeply into that chasm between “of course we will be OK” and “not everybody makes it.” But, somehow life and scripture teaches us that those times are not the end of the path, they are doors. Life is coming. Joy is with us even there, even when we don’t feel it. The divine, constant “Do not be afraid,” is present. Our daughter was making her entrance that fear filled afternoon and long ago on that terrible hill the God of Life was about to say, “Arise my Son” to the suffering man on the cross.

Will we be OK? It’s a fair question. Truth is, we may end a particular day not feeling OK but the deepest truth is reflected in that wonderful quote from Julia of Norwich, “All will be well, and every kind of thing will be well.”

Perhaps when we are most afraid it is a signal that birth, new life, is about to happen.

As I ate my hot grill cheese sandwich in a little café in upstate South Carolina, I told a couple of my friends about a man I met when I was the pastor for a church in downtown Columbia. At this particular church, often during the day, people congregated around the front steps or sat on the stone wall along our driveway. At night they slept in shelters, tents, or sometimes behind the HVAC unit of our sanctuary. Michael was one of those folks.
One hot summer afternoon Michael knocked on the door of the office building with a simple request. He didn’t want money, food, or a ride anywhere; he wanted to know if I would let him take a nap on our porch because its cement, in addition to the porch’s overhang, was shaded by old oak trees and was “so cool.”
I thought about it for less than a second but I’ll confess that in that split second I wondered how it would look to potential church visitors as they passed and I remembered that choir practice was going to start in just a couple of hours but still, I quickly said, “Sure you can Michael. I’ll just have to wake you if you are still here when the choir members start coming.”
“No problem Rev. It’s just so hot and I am so tired. I just need a few minutes.”
He put his pack down, fluffed it a bit to transform it into a pillow, lay down on the concrete floor and closed his eyes. I quietly closed the door and went back to my desk.
About an hour later I figured I better check on him. I snuck up to the window, parted the blinds, and saw that he hadn’t budged. I looked at him for several moments, his matted red hair, thick auburn beard, worn army boots, and stained clothes. It occurred to me that there had once been a day when someone held young Michael in their arms and said things like, “It’s a boy!” “Oh look, he has red hair!” “He looks just like you.” “We are going to call him Michael.”
Perhaps a minister, standing in front of the people of God, held him, placed a hand dripping with water from the font on his forehead, slowly traced a cross, and said, “Michael, I baptize you…” He was beautiful. I wanted to kiss on him on his forehead and tell him that he was a wonderful child of God. I gently opened the door and told him it was time to wake up.
Michael was on my mind because two days before lunch with my friends I went to a Bible study at Haywood Street Congregation in Asheville, NC. When I walked in the lobby of this church which strives to be “a witness to include the most excluded,” there were three people lying on the floor because the recliners in the room where people often come to rest were full. I was glad for them. The mountains have started taking on a late fall chill and I imagined a dry, warm place to rest safely was no small thing.
I told my lunch friends about that and I told them about Michael. I told them that I had shared this story about me, Michael, and my epiphany in more than one sermon but I will tell it no more. Now it makes me sad. A little ashamed.
Now days I ask myself, why did I tell Michael that he would have to leave when choir practice started? Why would church members coming to sing about Jesus be a reason to cut short a child of God’s welcome rest? Why did I not ask him if he wanted to nap in the conditioned air that the HVAC unit provided? I have answers to those questions but none of them are particularly good.

Perhaps heard around more than a few holiday tables this time of year:
“Good lord, how much weight has she gained since I last saw her?”
“Do I think he drinks too much? Let’s just saw his ‘one day at a time’ is going in the wrong direction.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I love him and all but don’t you think things are better when he doesn’t come?”
“Before this last election I thought she was pretty smart.”
“He lets that girl walk all over him. It’s pitiful.”
“If she brings that woman, her so called wife, I’m not coming!”
All this and more said by folks whose hearts are wondering why their family can’t be more like the family in the Thanksgiving picture they saw on Facebook. It was twenty-first century Norman Rockwell. Every single person in that photo was beautiful, educated, employed, and kind to animals. Why can’t our family be like that?
Well, there may be a picture on Facebook like that but there ain’t no families like that. We’re all flawed, wounded, and hard to understand. Gerald May, the late Christian psychiatrist and writer, said, “A good definition of a sane person is someone you don’t know very well.” In other words, if we limit seating at the table to sane folks, it will be an empty table.
But if we invite and welcome the ones we need to be there, the table becomes full again because the mystery of it is that we all need each other.
We need our crazy uncle. Not just because he can fix the dishwasher but crazily enough, we need his crazy to make us, us. He was put in our life to teach us something and if we shut him out we will miss it. We will become a little more unbalanced ourselves because we didn’t figure out a way to make him a part.
Sure there are people who are not just irritating but hurtful and we need boundaries. But, compassion gives us the strength to resist dancing to their tune and it helps us hear and dance to our own.
It’s called life. It’s messy. But it is what it is and when we receive it as it is becomes deep, rich, and full. Real.
Happy holidays!
Oh, and a glass of wine may help.

I am not sure of the exact wording but it was something along these lines, “Your scans look good and you are five years out. Congratulations, the chance of this cancer recurring is now less than ten percent.” When I heard my oncologist say that, it put a smile on my face; for three reasons.

First, it tickled me that my guy just can’t let go of doctor speak. “The chance of this cancer recurring” I get it Doc. All those other cancers are still out there and you aren’t guaranteeing anything. I understand that I’m not going to live forever. One day something is going to get me but I promise I won’t tell my family to sue you if anything bad happens.

Then there’s that business about being less than ten percent. Everyone always says that like it should feel like a sure thing. Not really. That’s what they said the first go round and it came back. Less than ten percent just ain’t as little as it used to be. You want to play the less than ten percent game with me? Let’s say I tell you that you have to be in your house tomorrow night at seven. You can be in any room you want. You can stand, sit or lie down but at exactly seven I am going stand in your front yard and shoot a high powered rifle through your house. Hey, don’t worry, there’s a less than ten percent chance that I’ll hit you. Still feel like a sure thing?

Of course, aside from my dark humor, brought to you by metastatic melanoma, the man did say, good scans, five years out, and the truth is my chances are good enough that if I were playing Texas Hold’em, I’d to go all in. Smile indeed.

So, it seems now is a good time to look back and acknowledge a few things I learned the past five years…

1) I learned to stay a little more in the present day. It’s cliché but all any of us truly have is today so don’t let it slip away due to worry about the past or the future. This came home to me one morning as I rode down the road wondering what my chances of survival were. Suddenly it dawned on me that perhaps the one certainty of my day was that I was not going to die from cancer on that day. There was nothing to say I was going to make it to supper but it wasn’t going to be cancer that got me. So, I decided to put my hospice orientation weekend on hold and be where I was, in the here and now. On that day I loved some people, tried to do good work, and said thank you a lot. Got up the next day and did it again.

2) I learned that I actually wasn’t afraid to die. (except when I thought about it too much) Mostly, I was just sad because what I realized is that I love being alive. I love my family. I love laughing. I love loving. So I put in an official request. I asked God to let me see my youngest grandson graduate high school. Kathryn gets mad at me about this one. She says my negotiating skills need honing and seventy-eight (in case he fails a grade) is too young. I tell her I’ll take an extension if one is offered. I’d love to talk to my grandson about whatever he chooses to do with his life, I want to meet his children, I’d like to go on vacation with a whole gang of grands and greats (on them). But a deal is a deal. If I can see him graduate I’ll go without whining. If it’s before then, I’ll trust next chapters to God but I’m still going to file an official complaint because I love this life and the people in it.

3) I learned that being brave isn’t much like bravado. It’s being able to keep moving. It’s caring about other folks, smiling, and doing your job. Mostly, it’s keeping an outward focus. Cancer wants to suck you inside yourself. It wants to scare you and make you focus on yourself and the lousy cards in your hand. The best way to fight cancer is to fight that. I learned this from the guy in the treatment room with me who may have weighed one hundred and twenty pounds and could almost walk. One day he shuffled past me as I lay there with some very expensive chemicals dripping in my arm. He smiled, shook his head, and said, “Hang in there.” In that moment his soul touched my soul. His path was much rougher than mine but he was encouraging, and by that I mean in couraging, me on my path. There were lots of folks like him along the way. I tried to be like them and as I did, I grew stronger. I grew braver.

4) Along with this I learned that we do get strength from others. You can feel prayers. Prayer shawls, meals, hugs, pats on the back, and listening ears impart super powers. Special sources of hope and comfort are the fellow survivors and their families. Over the course of five years the cancer family grows. Not everyone makes it. All become precious to you and transform your life.

5) Thanks to cancer I have become more grateful, more appreciative, more aware of the gift of a new day. That’s not to say that I don’t still piss some time away. I guess that is one of the banes of the human condition but it’s less, way less than it used to be.

6) Finally I learned a little bit about miracles. I don’t mean the miracles of medicine and prayer that wipe out cancer cells. Those are wonderful and they are real but I’m talking about deeper and more profound stuff. I have learned that God can take something as awful as cancer and make it a teacher, a blessing even. You see, it’s when we are at the end of our resources, when health, willpower, and even our human faith are depleted; that’s when the whole thing gets turned around and becomes a true conversion experience. That’s where we have the opportunity to discover that God is still with us and will never let us go. Never.

All of this is not to say that cancer is particularly fun. But if you have to go there, you may as well learn something. You may as well come through seeing a little more clearly, loving a little more dearly, following a little more nearly.

All in all it’s been quite an adventure.

Postscript: There is such a thing as survivor’s guilt. Like I said, some of my fellow travelers, people more talented, people who were needed more than me, didn’t make it. I carry them in my heart and have filed a complaint on their behalf.