It’s dark outside – really dark, for being a little after 8am.  Truth be told, it’s one of the nicest looking mornings we have had in who knows how long.  You see – it’s going to rain.
I know I have dwelt on precipitation of all sorts over the past number of months, but up here in the Northland, where we are tied so close to the land, rain at the right time makes all the difference in the world.  I’ve said before that Cheri is from a farm family, in the northern part of the Red River Valley, and just Monday they completed the first harvest of the year, which is wheat.  With that all combined and in the bins, a nice strong soaking rainstorm would give just what was needed to help the remaining crops of beans, corn, sugar beets and others grow for the next month like they need to.
Since July 1st, 51 days ago, the total rainfall we have received has been 2/3s of an inch. Take your thumb and forefinger and measure .66 inches in the air – not much at all, and our lawn, our shrub and bush garden and our potted plants all have recognized that, as they have continued to go brown and shrivel, and die off.  Even to water daily doesn’t seem to help them overcome our 90+ degree afternoons.
Now, I know across the country, the weather has been plain goofy.  Out west, the drought is as severe as it is here, with wildfires to add to it.  East and South, now is the time for the hurricanes to come and create all sorts of floods and messes.  I feel bad for their struggles as well, and it all just goes to prove that humans have very little power over the forces of nature.  We can’t make it rain, or make it stop, or make the day a beautiful 78 degrees and sunshine and a light breeze.  Frankly, we just aren’t on that committee…
So what we do, day after day, is wish and wait.  When you think about it, that’s a pretty powerless approach to take, but we simply have no other choice, do we?  There is no magic involved, no force of will, no stomping of feet demanding that it rain, or stop raining, or whatever.  So, we wish that the rains would come, or not come, and we wait to see – not if the wishes come true, but what simply is going to come, or not come.  For 51 days we have waited, almost without hope finally, and then, due to some kind of cold front, or moisture from the Gulf, or who knows what that the weather folks on TV say, then it looks like it might rain.
It’s just gotten even darker, and the rain gauge on my weather station says we have already gotten .06 inches, just since I have been writing.  Wonderful…
Let me say, that as nice as the sound of thunder and pounding rain on the windows is this Friday morning, I am glad I’m not in charge of it all, or that any of us has control over the course of nature.  Imagine what a huge mess it would be, if weather happened by majority vote?  Or whether I picked rain and my next door neighbor wants sun for their backyard cookout?  What an utter disaster if you and I were indeed the boss of the world…  Instead, it remains in God’s hands, as the rain falls, and doesn’t fall all in the seasons.  And, you see, we are blessed with the rain, and also blessed with the sun, and with the wind and the calm, and in a few months, the snow, and then the snow melting as around the earth, all we can do with the weather – is to receive.  And so we wish, and we wait.  Each day, it seems, the best and most honest thing we can do, is to offer our hopes to God, and then stand with our hands open to heaven, and wait patiently for whatever proceeds from God’s blessed choice.
Up to .22 inches so far…
So, the next time you and I are dissatisfied with the weather at hand, perhaps the most faithful and grateful and humble things we can do in the middle of it all, is to wish, and then wait.  And to give thanks that we have shelter over our heads, and electricity to light and heat and cool and cook.  Probably the best approach would be to always remember:  THIS is the day the Lord has made – rain or sun – let us rejoice and be glad in it.
And today, I am glad for the rain – over .27” right now – and still pouring…
 
Saying for the day:  Things turn out best for the people who make the best of the way things turn out.   John Wooden.
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​Just a short history lesson:  the “pie safe,” or sometimes called the pie cupboard or pie chest, was an invention of the Pennsylvania Dutch in the late 1700s.  Of course, the Pennsylvania Dutch were not Dutch at all, but German immigrants who came from “Deutschland” -- or Germany. Anyway, the piece of furniture was invented to do a number of things – it would first of all keep the mice/rats and flies away from the baked good, or other perishables, and it was built with pierced tin panels on the sides and sometimes on the doors.  Later on, it would be built with screens, all of which allowed fresh air to move through and keep the perishables from molding or spoiling.  It was a great, simple idea, so much so that by the mid-1800s nearly every home in America had one, much like we all have microwaves today.
It was in the 1980s, after Cheri and I were married, that I became fascinated with all things antique.  We collected stoneware crocks and early quilts and most everything I could lay my hands on at country auctions and such.  Another place for hunting at that time was the big white house that sat unoccupied on Cheri’s folks’ farm, at one time the family home for nearly three generations.  After Cheri’s grandmother moved into town, it sat, sagging under the weight of non-use.  It seems that when a house stands empty, it almost seems to grow sadder with no one living there, and just continues to fall apart.
In addition to the old house, behind it was the little building known as the summer kitchen.  For those of you who never grew up on a farm – like me -- the summer kitchen was exactly that:  when it grew too beastly hot, in order to keep the house a bit cooler, the ladies (usually) would go out to the summer kitchen to cook and bake and put up canned goods, knowing they could then go back to the house to serve the food or just have it a bit cooler.  Of course, the summer kitchen became a wonderful gathering place for flies and such, which just added to the thrill of preparing meals when it was just too hot to do so.  So, you could also expect that inside the summer kitchen, there would be a pie safe, where all the delicious pastries and baked goods would be kept safe and able to cool properly.
The summer kitchen lost much of its use when the stove and oven no longer had to be wood stoves, and the preparation of food could move back into the house.  However, the old pie safe remained out there, having been painted over and over again with white paint like everything else inside and outside the kitchen.  It was there that I would rummage around, looking for items of age and value to bring back to the new farmhouse.  It was around 1987 that I finally focused on the fact that there was a pie safe in the summer kitchen, and I decided to take it on as a project for Cheri’s folks.
I hauled it back to Grand Forks, where we were living, and proceeded to turn the little garage we had into a refinishing shop.  It took quite a while to carefully strip off the years and years of paint, and in doing so, I uncovered both the tin panels on the side, and a beautiful spoon carved design on both doors, which were completely hidden under the paint.  It was a project of love, as slowly but surely, the safe was exposed as the pretty piece of furniture that would just fit perfectly in a farm home. All newly stained, and finished with tung oil, two drawers on the top and four shelves inside, I hauled it back to the farm, and we settled it into the family room, where it soon became the repository of all of Cheri’s mom’ green depression glass collection.  It sat in the house for more than 30 years, until Cheri’s folks moved to town, and the pie safe and green glass went with them.
One of the nice caveats of the refinishing work was Cheri’s folks’ promise that when the day came that they no longer needed the piece, Cheri and I would be given it, for our home.
Last year, as we began to talk with Cheri’s mom about what she was planning to do with all the “stuff” when she no longer needed it, she said that of course we would receive the pie safe, but that we also had to take her entire collection of depression glass as well. Without a moment’s hesitation, we agreed, believing it would be another ten years or so before that would happen.
However, the changing of time happened far more rapidly than we ever dreamed.  This last weekend, after the funeral, we went back to the townhouse, and wrapped up the green glass, filling five or six big laundry baskets, while the pie safe was carefully loaded into a brother in law’s truck and transported back here to Fargo.  This weekend, we will go back up and get all the glass and a few other items, and bring them to their new home – not a farmhouse, but certainly a place where it will all be cherished and appreciated for the next generation.
I guess that is literally what it means to say that “you can’t take it with you.”  Heaven has no need for pie safes and depression glass.  In the end, we don’t own anything – it’s a matter of being stewards of what is given into our open hands, and we decide for a time whether to cherish or waste it.  Indeed, we will cherish these gifts, not because of their extrinsic value, but more because of the story they tell, of a humble piece of everyday furniture used for decades, and the glassware that was part of so many different family meals and birthdays and holidays.  It now belongs to us to care for it all, which we will, and share with our sons, and their wives someday, the story of the pie safe, and the family that brought it to life and use in different ways.
I’ve said it before, but it is critical that we go through life with our eyes open, our imagination fully engaged, and our hearts humbly ready to experience not only what is to come, but also what has been, as we give and receive, as we live and die, and as we love.
 
Word for the day:  pulchritudinous.  These 15 letters (!) are pronounced pul-kruh-TOO-di-nuss.  Granted, it sure seems like a word created to sound as if you are smarty-pants or something, but it comes from the Latin root, pulcher, which means simply “beautiful.”  When something – or usually, someone, and usually, some woman – embodies not only a pretty face and a nice personality, but who is physically attractive, the long-winded complement would be to call her pulchritudinous, although you had better be ready to explain yourself, since the word as it stands gives no hint to someone’s beauty.  Apparently, pulchritude is in the eye of the beholder…

So, last Saturday morning, we held the funeral for Cheri’s mom.  The sanctuary was nicely filled, perhaps the first time that full in many months, since the congregation has dwindled down to very few members, and rarely a new visitor.  It’s odd that such a beautiful place of worship, built back in the 20s when so many churches across the country were built, would not be able to attract persons to come and worship, but so much of it seems to depend on inertia, and critical mass – even in Grafton, the churches that are growing are the ones who offer worship with meaningful, exciting music to praise God, and strong inviting preaching that opens the door for people to make a commitment and live stronger and more faithful lives, as they work and show love in their community.  For years, this church has been a wonderful community of its own, but without any urgency of bringing in new people, and so finally, the ones that are left are faithful, but not motivated to open the doors and invite. It’s a sad reality, but one that is played out in thousands of churches across our country.
But not Saturday!  Saturday saw the faithful, the friends, the friends of children, the cousins and other relatives, and the other farmers who have been part of Cheri’s folks’ lives for decades come and show their love.  One of her nieces with a beautiful voice sang, and her favorite son-in-law offered the eulogy, and I think she would have been very happy with the service as a whole.
So – as I mentioned yesterday, we went downstairs afterwards to the fellowship hall, and, in the way it had been done for decades, shared a meal together, and lots of chatter and love.  Finally, the hour came for us to end that time, and to head to the cemetery for the committal. Even though the service was at the Federated Church, the cemetery plots for Cheri’s folks were situated at the cemetery that held the three previous generations of Thompsons, adjacent to the country church, now closed except for special events in the year.
The casket had been loaded into the hearse, and the rest of us got into our cars, running to cool the inside down a bit – and don’t forget to turn on your headlights, as we were to make a 10 mile procession through the countryside, and fields full of crops on either side of the highway.  It was so different from a couple of years before, when we played out the same kind of day, to bury my mother.  She lived in Fort Worth, Texas, and so after the lunch at her church, we were told to just meet out at the cemetery on the north side of the city in about 45 minutes – there would have been no way to make a procession of cars through what was less than 10 miles, but full of urban traffic.
So, there we were, in our cars, cooled down, engines running – and nothing happened.  I couldn’t see to the head of the line of cars, but there began to appear to have a bit of commotion, as one by one, the fellows in charge of the funeral were out of their vehicles and trying to solve something.  Finally, the word drifted back to the procession line – the battery of the hearse was dead.
It was pretty ironic, just to say it out loud – “the hearse died.”  We sat and chuckled, and thought what Cheri’s mom would have said over all this:  Oh, for crying out loud!  And laugh, in her almost uncontrollable laugh that she always brought to the room she was in.  In a few moments, we saw the flash of jumper cables, and the look of failure on the part of the funeral directors.  Apparently, their cables were too little and weak to have their van jump the hearse.  Of course, someone had to comment that Cheri’s mom had always driven Chevrolets, and this was a Cadillac hearse, so…
As you would expect, however, living in a land that is dominated by pickup trucks – and monstrous pickups, that were built to tow all sorts of farm machinery, and pull things out of muddy fields, if need be – that before you knew it, there were two or three huge trucks, owned by grandsons and sons-in-law, that came to the rescue.  They decided to use the use the big diesel truck with the double batteries, and the jumper cables meant to give life to dead batteries on tractors, and within a few more moments, we all experienced resurrection – or at least, resuscitation! The hearse roared to life, and was not turned off, even when we hit the cemetery…
We began the slow parade out of town, gathering up cars that were not paying attention to the headlights on, but who quickly darted left or right at the next intersection, so as to not have to go all the way in the country!  We drove along, and realized we were on the same highway 17 that Cheri’s family had driven hundreds of thousands of times – past the beet piling station that would be buzzing with activity in another month, when sugar beet harvest began, and past the empty spot that used to hold the 4-mile school house (the country school, four miles out of town), and then we turned left, at country road 8, instead of right, up a mile to Cheri’s folks’ farm.  Left took us to the cemetery, where we said our goodbyes again, and lavished each other with hugs, as a final goodbye.
It was sad, sure – but we also couldn’t help but smile as we reminded each other over and over again how funny it was that the hearse died that day, and it took the farmers to bring it back to life, just as it happens with every spring planting, after a winter of sleep.
Our lives go on today – Cheri is back at work, and after a nice cool-ish weekend, it will once again be blistering hot.  We are “done” with the holy work of last week, but our memories will remain – even about a hearse – as we come to live a new reality without one that we loved, and who loved us.  Stay aware of the world around you – be alert and intentional about what you see and what you experience.  Let nothing be a distraction – if it grabs your attention, then be sure to attend to it, and then move back onto your journey, as you live in this world of grand surprise, and whimsy, and of love.
 
Word for the day:   concatenation.  Pronounced kon-cat-en-AY-shun.  Doesn’t it sound Latin?  Because it is.  The word breaks down into con, meaning “with” and cantena which means “chain.”  Concatenation simply means the state of being linked together, or more formally, a series of interconnected or interdependent things or events.
Life is full of concatenations – but only seen by those who are intentional in their actions and their observances.  Otherwise, all of life is an accident.  When I am aware however, I begin to see and appreciate the interconnectedness of almost all the world, and how it truly is under the hand and care of God.
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Well, back home and all unpacked after spending the better part of the last ten days driving back and forth to Grafton.  Cheri’s mom died late last Monday night.  You might think that was the end of everything, but I had forgotten that the death of a loved one only triggers an entire protocol of activity that is almost more like a three-act play.
Act one – the first trip north.  Without a real plan, the morning after Cheri’s mom died, she and I headed up to Grafton, along with others in the family in their own cars.  The trip up was filled with lots of stories and remembrances, and unraveling questions that had been politely hidden until then.  Questions like when the funeral will happen, what we need to discuss with the funeral director, what about the service itself, and loads of “logistical” stuff.  We ended up gathering at Cheri’s folks’ townhouse in town, since that became the headquarters.  It was odd for Cheri and her siblings especially, that that was the first day in their lives when their mom’s presence was gone.  It was almost as if the remnant of her life was gathered in the place, with lots of sentimental things set around the place, almost frozen in time.  Even on the dining room table were the piles of crossword puzzle dictionaries, and birthday and mother’s day cards remained displayed on the buffet from month’s past.  It was almost as if she just went out to get the mail, and would be back in just a few moments.  But she never came back.
Everyone headed to the funeral home, where we sat in little uncomfortable chairs while the director asked a million questions from data for the death certificates, to what kind of casket to buy, to how the obituary was to be published to how much it was all going to cost, and when the actual service would happen.  I’m sure most of you have gone through that business, as I have unfortunately now that this was the last of Cheri’s and my parents to die.
When it was all done, we headed back to the townhome – just to chat and to begin to think about next steps, including what it was going to take to distribute everything that filled the place.  Cheri’s sister is staying there for the rest of the summer, so it’s not an emergency, but to look around and see an entire life spread out is pretty daunting, and made me almost want to go home and start throwing and selling things, just to make our own home a little lighter.  Except – those “things” help to fashion the dwelling into a home, and we knew then that this death meant that our home was going to get a bit more crowded as we would bring to our home pieces and parts of the one that Cheri’s mom no longer needed.
We headed home that evening.  Fortunately, Cheri was able to take the entire week away from work, since her focus and thoughts were certainly not on going to a clinic for 8 hours a day.  For the next two days, I really never dreamed that a phone could ring, or a text message signal go off, or an email ding as much as it did on Cheri’s phone, as she and her brother and sisters seemed to be in almost constant communication about details, and just seeing how each other was doing.  Even sleep was restless, as we realized we were only the middle of a job to be done.
Act two brought us back to Grafton on Friday, with the funeral scheduled for Saturday morning, before the summer heat filled the church.  This time we came up for the duration – we got a hotel room, and spent two days going from there to the townhome.  Although we packed some things that Cheri’s mom had earlier left a list saying should go to each of us, more time was spent with coffee and sitting at the table, and still wondering about things into the future.  It was also during that time that we were reminded, apparently, that when someone in your family dies, the rest of the family must be nearly starving to death, because the response in a farm community like Grafton is to every refrigerator of the family to overflowing, most often with salads and meat and cheese trays.  Of course, the counters were then left to sag under the weight of the gooiest and richest bars and cookies ever created – and the food came and came and came.  It was as if the family numbered in the hundreds.  Sometimes, the expression of love and care is nearly overwhelming.
Strangely, but not to unusual, by Friday night about 8pm, we were back at the hotel, and asleep about a half hour later.  Of course, we then saw the clock at 12:30, 2:00, 3:15, 4:20, and finally we got up for good at about 5:45 – not because we had so much to do before the funeral at 11:00, but simply because there was nothing left to go back to sleep for.  The boys came up early from Fargo, and all changed at the hotel, and then we headed over to the church, since the two of them were pallbearers, and needed to help carry the casket into the church and up the 13 stairs, like most all churches have, to the sanctuary.
I had been tapped to offer the eulogy from the family. I guess that’s the hazard of being a pastor in a family – this was the fourth time, on both sides of the family, when I had the chance to paint the picture of someone’s life.  There was music and preaching and prayers, and then downstairs for MORE food for lunch, this time also including potato salad and jello, and lots of conversation from the many friends and extended family.  I’m not sure what was the more worshipful setting – whether it was in the sanctuary, where so many baptisms, weddings and other funerals had happened for the family over the years, or in the fellowship hall, filled with noise and chatter and laughs – I think both are pretty holy places, and both where the Holy Spirit dwells.
We lined up for the funeral procession ten miles out of town to the country cemetery, where the August sun decided to remind us that summer was here, as lots of fellows at the gravesite sweated like crazy wearing the unfamiliar suits of the occasion.  More quiet moments, and then, as it happens in this land, lots more conversations and chatting, and hugs and greetings, almost around the casket, as life is found even in a graveyard.
Back to the hotel, and then back to the townhome, where we truly began to live without the matriarch anymore, and the children become the elders… and we remembered.  Each family has its stories, and each story identifies and claims that family’s place in the world.  Bit by bit, different family sections left to return to their own homes, and we finally went back to the hotel to sleep far better than the night before.
Act three – the new week and the new life began.  More of the house was dismantled, as treasured things made their way into cars and trunks.  We spent the morning with some of that work, and then dividing more of the meat and cheese and bars and jello – a weeks’ worth of feasts went in each car.  Finally, the last round of hugs spilled out into the front yard, as the men went to start the cars and cool them down, waiting while the sisters continued chatting, and saying goodbye (knowing that we probably would be back up next weekend to continue sorting!), and then finally, Cheri and I said goodbye to that time of life, and headed home.
Our history of this past week I’m sure is nothing unusual or even terribly noteworthy – lots of tears, lots of laughter, lots of disagreements about things that didn’t matter, but also lots of incredible and simple agreement over the important things.  This too makes up the textile of a family, some that we are born in, and some that we fall in love with. 
It’s just always good, and important to remember that we need to remember.  We need to claim and hold – not too tightly, or with a panicky grip, but with a firm, head-nodding understanding that even the past week makes us who we are, as will the week to come, and the experiences of the coming years of life, as we anticipate eternal life as our promise and claim.  Blessings to you.
 
Word of the day:  saudade.  Pronounced sew-DA-duh.  It’s a tender word, that is actually Portuguese, but without an easy English translation.  Some believe it arose from the Portuguese voyagers in the long-ago past who went around the world, perhaps for the first time, and had the longing of what and who they left behind.  It’s close to the idea of the “presence of absence.”  It’s a deep emotional state of being melancholy as you long for someone or someplace far away, or long gone.  It’s not a harsh or agonizing feeling – just the feeling of remembering, and for a moment, giving your whole self over to simply being with what is now absent.
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I missed the opportunity to write to you all yesterday, and I probably should confess that there may be other days to come over this next week when I’ll not be able to write.  That’s the reason for today’s column.
Cheri’s mother is dying.  Yes, she was diagnosed with cancer two months ago, after a pretty miserable spring that ended up with her in the hospital for tests.  The cancer, which is such a foul and horrible disease, was not operable, nor even treatable.  The doctor carefully, but firmly, told her that she had at the most, six months to live, and then quietly stated, “And maybe just one or two months.”
He was sadly right.  After half a summer of some discomfort, she very quickly over the last week moved from conversation and light meals, and the ability to get around on her own, to basically bed-bound, not eating, and struggling in pretty strong ways, all the time wishing and hoping that very simply, God would take her home.
We headed up early yesterday morning with Cheri’s sister in tow, and so it ended up that all four of the siblings were together when the hospice folks came to talk about next steps. Once again, the realization came that there is no textbook, no instruction guide to dying. Whatever Cheri’s mom was going to do, from trying to get out of bed when she couldn’t stand up, to the various levels of tears and grief from those who have been, and will always be her children.  The words shared over and over again were, “This is so hard…” and “We just want the best for her…”  No one in the home was hoping or expressing the desire that she remain on this earth one more second than necessary.  Just a hope for peace, and freedom from the struggle, as she stood, one foot in heaven, and one foot on earth, moving between those two realms.
You probably already know that dying is not a predictable slide.  It seems to be a long set of stairs, where the person is on one level for a time, things seem to be relatively the same, and then there is a sudden step down, and medication is adjusted, and more people are in the room for a time, to reassure, or just to be there for some reason.
What’s strange is what happens on the other side of the doorway.  We sat around the dining room table on the same chairs we have sat on at the farm, and then at this place for decades, and like it always happens, we have to talk about something.  However, the human heart and emotions can’t just spend hours rehearsing the very same words about the person’s status – eventually, someone asks a question that leads the conversation away – even away from the house, from today, to another time or another place that begins with, “Remember?....” And a story gets linked into the exchanging of words, and there is even laughter when the story turns funny, or heads shake when they remember that time, indeed.  It’s a truly odd experience, laughing and talking about life and memories just feet away from the room where someone is preparing to leave this life, and find her place in the arms of God.  Yet, that’s how we make sense about all of this – we bring it into life itself, and flavor and color it with the light memories of the past.
As I listened, and joined in yesterday around the table, I realized what a holy and healing time it was.  No, Cheri’s mom is not dead yet, but she’s dying, and the best we can do is to live in her place, to summon up the connections and stories that will become her legacy once she is truly gone.  Frankly, to see the four adult children, caring for her in this way, as they did for their father a couple of years ago, is a tribute, and a healing grace to be offered and received.
So, there is no timeline – we have plans to head back up to Grafton on Sunday, but who knows what will happen in the next 48 hours.  Fortunately, Cheri has no need, and has expressed it, to have to be there when the moment comes.  This will not be a death vigil.  We will come and go, and be there when we can, but she has already cried her tears, and said her goodbyes, and offered her hugs.  Oh, it’s hard, and I don’t mean to be flippant about it – it’s hard, but its going to be ok.
So again, I apologize for missing some days to come, but if I don’t write, you will know that my attention and time are given over to the sacred things to come, and that I’ll be back with you soon.  In the meantime – thanks for your intentional prayers and joyful hopes as we live as the people of eternal life in Jesus Christ.  See you soon.
 
Saying for the day:  Charlie Chaplin once said, Nothing is permanent in this world – not even our troubles.  Blessings.
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​I expect it’s happened to you as well at some point – you are into a week of your life, and a whole number of things start to feel as though they are falling apart.  In our family unit this week, we are dealing with dying, with employment, with even having to get a crown put on a tooth.  It’s possible to have a whole host of other challenges that come forward, that seem to almost invite us to look down, to become frustrated, or even to roll into some kind of funk or depression.  How could things get worse?  How am I going to get out of this mess?  Why is this happening to me right now, right here?  Can’t I go back in time to when my life was joyful and hopeful?
Well, I’d like to offer you three thoughts – three affirmations, as it were, to help you through what you might be going through right now, or at least to keep, and think about when that time comes, which unfortunately, always does come at some point… I think it is helpful even to say these affirmations out loud.

1.  I am going to have a good, strong day.  The quality of this day of life is not going to be dictated by external happenings, no matter how good or bad they may be.  This is perhaps a keystone of what I have written about over the last thirteen months.  In the absence of intending how my day is going to go, I will then leave it up to living accidentally, allowing anything to affect and change the direction of my life, and again, the quality of my living.  This is a key weakness in the lives of most humans – they spend all their time reacting to external happenings, instead of living out of the deep well of hope and joy that should fill their lives.  Once you and I figure out this secret, that we start with having a good strong day, then the “slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune” will not claim our present or our future.
2. I will use today as a possibility.  I will direct my energy, not toward a negative, complaining lifestyle, but toward hope.  What’s the best thing that could happen today?  How well do you exercise the muscle of hope in your heart and mind?  The fact is, in our world today, especially in the news, the social media, and even the interaction with others, we have nurtured a negative, pessimistic view of the present and the future.  Certainly, the economy, and the pandemic, and even the politics of our nation and our world have fed into that approach to our lives.  However, it’s also true that the media seems to run these days on the fuel of finding the worst in the world.  It’s like loudspeakers have been set up to flood our entire lives with negative – again, from disease to politics to race relations to international conflict to economics – it is almost easier to just drown in the deep pool of what is wrong, than to stand firm on what is possible, that truly is hopeful for us and for our families.  Negative thinking is a habit, like biting your fingernails, or using curse words – it’s not necessary, and it’s not helpful, and it’s not something you and I need to spend any time whatsoever.
3. It’s not what happens to you that matters – it’s what you do with what happens to you.  I’ve shared this final affirmation before – frankly, and honestly, as we live our lives, sometimes we get served up a huge bowl of lima beans (I hate lima beans!).  That is, there will always be uncomfortable and challenging, and just bad stuff that enters our world.  The key to living with power and hope in our lives is not to let that overwhelm, or set the tempo or song list for you.  Yes, there will be bad things like death, disease, money problems, or family squabbles, or other things.  However, the core to an intentional, integrated life comes as we take charge in how we respond to what happens to us.  If all we do is live reacting to everything that occurs, then again, it’s as if we get in the car, put a blindfold on, and start driving.  It’s possible we will make it through ok, but more likely it is that we will just keep banging into things, because we have failed to be thoughtful, or respond-sible.  Deep breath, count to ten, go to a happy place – whatever it takes, but take charge of what’s next.  Don’t let it take charge of you.
4. (I’ll give you a bonus…) Maybe the sky isn’t falling, Chicken – maybe it’s only an acorn that fell on your head.  The classic children’ story of Chicken Little remains true today.  It’s possible, with a little bit of effort, to blow things way out of proportion, and to hook others into the same fear, anxiety and reactivity.  Instead of joining the gang of Henny Penny, Ducky Lucky or Goosey Loosey, why not be the one to stand in the way of all that, and invite a thoughtful approach, believing that, indeed, the sky isn’t falling, and won’t fall – it’s just an acorn, whatever that acorn is for your own life.

I do hope and pray that your life right now is full of joy and anticipation, but if you are struggling, or know someone who is, please feel free to at least think about and consider these affirmations for our lives.  The world is good – and so are you.
 
Word for the day:  rhathymia.  Pronounced ruh-THIGH-mee-uh.  Whenever a word begins with “rh,” you can almost bet it is Greek word.  This one is no different.  When you break down the word, knowing that “ia” stands for the state of something, like amnesia, or such, then the other two Greek pieces are rha, which means “easy” and thymos, which means “spirit, mind, or courage.”  Someone who has rhathymia, therefore, is someone who is optimistic, or has a carefree spirit, or who expresses light-hearted behavior.  They are happy, and always are looking on the sunny side of the street.
 

​Well, you can never be certain what it is that wakes you up in the middle of the night.  I always chuckle a bit when I hear that someone “slept like a baby,” since that’s best interpreted as waking up every two hours, hungry, crying and having to either go to the bathroom, or have your diaper changed.  Also, pretty helpless…
So, last night, we treated ourselves and ordered in supper.  It came from one of those “buffalo wings” restaurants, and according to son Adam, it promised to be very tasty.  After perusing the menu, I settled on having a “buffalo chicken” sandwich, medium-hot, with cole slaw on the side.  It sounded good when I ordered it, and it looked good when it came, and it tasted good when I ate it. This actually was an unusual experience, since most of the “ordered-in” meals as of late have been terribly disappointing, at least for me - even the pizza has been a bit off the mark.  Anyway, I munched down the sandwich, and declared the meal a success.
I went to bed around 10pm, and indeed, slept more like a log than a baby, but at 3am, for some reason, I awoke.  Trying to figure out why I was awake when the rest of the non-nocturnal world was sleeping sound in their beds, with sugar plums and such… I then realized that the buffalo chicken sandwich had decided to take revenge on my digestive system.  No reason for that – I had done nothing to offend it that I could recall, but to be discreet, nature called, and my body answered.
After that interlude, instead of crawling back to bed, I decided to spend the last three hours of the night in the recliner in my office.  It’s usually comfortable, and very suitable for an afternoon nap, but last night, it failed me.
I closed my eyes, tried to get comfortable, and then opened them 10 minutes later.  I thought it was kind of stuffy in the room, so I turned the ceiling fan on a little faster, grabbed the blanket, and once again, attempted to find sleep.  It was about that time that a small tawny-colored cat came moseying in to the office.  Remember that nocturnal stuff?  Well, that’s Hermes – he’s a night roamer, and when he heard me wiggling and adjusting to the chair, he saw that as a invitation for us to spend some quality time.  With meows and purrs, he jumped up onto the arm of the chair, dug around for a while, and then walked across my internal organs a few times, just to ensure I would be awake.  After about 15 minutes, he then hopped down, went into the living room, and began his late-night concert of meowing in hopes of waking the entire house to an early start.
3:30am, and I was wide awake.  You know that feeling when you wake up at night, but with a tiny little bit of effort, you find yourself drifting back into a delicious dream-filled state?  Not last night.  I tried almost everything – adjust the pillow, lift the footrest, put the foot rest down, take the covers off, put them on – it was really becoming one of “those” nights, that are fairly rare in my retirement.
So, all alone, I began to ponder what the heck was keeping me from sleeping.  Besides my friend, Mr. Buffalo Chicken, I did begin to recount in my mind a number of stresses that had settled on our home recently.  Some of them you have already heard about:  Cheri’s mom has terminal cancer, and the whole ballet, it seems, of trying to find the best way to care for her had torn Cheri up quite a bit, and that means it tears me up too.  Cheri’s job is always stressful, and I find myself helpless in even trying to offer up suggestions – the most I can do is listen, which is like eating a bowl of lima beans.  Even though there are good possibilities of Aaron being offered a position as a professor, it’s 18 hours away, and no one is there that he knows.  His brother is considering moving and working remotely from his job, but that’s also an investment, and Kentucky is not idea – he wishes Aaron would have been offered somewhere in like Texas, or eastern Tennessee, so that decision is not at all certain. 
I also care deeply about our country, and frankly, it’s a bit messy right now, between squabbling and outright fights between political parties, and threats of lockdowns, and having to put the stupid masks on again – the best word I can find to describe it is a quagmire, with no clear path through the fire swamp.
All of those things rattled around in my mind – I’m sure you have your own long list of “uneasys” that even haunt you from time to time.  So, I reclined there for a while, just indulging myself in cataloging all the situations that were attempting to keep me uneasy myself, as well as keeping me awake on an early Tuesday morning.
As I passed 4am, I’m ashamed to say only then did it come to me.  Very little in all of that anxiety-filling goulash do I have any control over.  I just don’t.  Sure, I can tweak things a little, and offer all sorts of recommendations that often are not heard, or followed, which only adds to the anxiety, or I can do something else.  And I did something else.  After all the sleepless in Fargo settings, God reminded me that I could pray.  It was almost as clear as that – as if God spoke deep in the middle of my brain, and said, “Well?  Are you ready to let this all go yet?  Do you feel like talking with Me about this, or would you just like to fret away until the dawn?”
And so we talked – finally.  Actually, I did all the talking, and trusted that God, at least at this time, was doing the listening.  I peeled off one by one each of the brain and heart-shaking items that have filled my life.  Now, I am usually pretty good at giving the advice to people who are worrying, to take it to God, and then leave the issues there, for God to care for, and to offer hope for what’s ahead.  It was just finally time for me to do the same thing.
Now, I wish I could report that after that conversation with God, I drifted off to deep and peaceful sleep… actually, it was more waking up every fifteen minutes, adjusting everything, and then going back to sleep – for another fifteen minutes.  Now, I’m not beyond believing that Mr. Buffalo Chicken had something to do with it, and sometimes, some nights are less restorative than others, at least as far as sleep goes. 
What was restored early this morning, however, was God’s authority over my life.  Instead of my feverish striving to make it all right, all by myself, at least for this morning, I was able to just let it go.  I was reminded, not that I am the boss of the world, and therefore responsible for everything that happens, but instead, that I am a cherished child of the One who truly is the Boss, who can make all things new, and help us through those dark valleys, those dry bones, and lead us to the still waters.
My hope and dream for you is that you would experience that same realization as you struggle in your own life, whatever the struggles appear to be.  We have a God who is mighty, and powerfully loving, and so it’s good to ask – why worry, when you can pray?
May today be a day of light and hope for you, and one in which you also experience the incredible presence of God, lifting you beyond the mess, and helping you to find a peaceful heart.
 
Word of the day:  tenable.  Simple word, but profound.  Pronounced TEN-uh-bull.  The word stretches back to the Latin root, tenere, which is one of those first verbs you learn – “to hold, or keep.”  When something is “able’ to be held or kept, it is capable of being maintained or held on to even when challenged about it.  Based usually on sound reasoning, or something well-founded or solid, when we act out of a tenable foundation, what we do just seems to make sense, even if others have trouble “holding on” to that truth. 
Our faith should always be tenable – not necessarily existing because we can prove everything, but at least that it is a force that we hold on to, that gives us a firm footing in our world and in our lives.

I’ve mentioned before that a few weeks ago, my Fitbit wrist monitor decided to no longer keep a charge.  In my frustration, I took the plunge and bought a new Apple Watch, which supposedly would do everything but scramble an egg for me in the morning. 
Well, let me say, after a number of weeks (but who’s counting during this unending pandemic?), it’s a nice kind of watch, although as far as watches go, I probably own five or six in various states of functioning.  That seems to be the case in our “first world” – we are over-stuffed, as it is, with more things in little drawers and boxes in the basement, and hidden under clothes that we don’t wear, but still manage to keep in our dressers.  Lots of things that we usually forget we even have, until something requires us to enter into the spaces in our lives that usually just lie there, and we rediscover all sorts of things to fill our lives… until we put them right back where we found them.
Anyway – back to the watch.  I thought it would do the kind of things that my ol’ Fitbit did, like tracking my sleep patterns, or informing me of how many steps I have taken in the course of a day.  I expect it can do that, but I just haven’t found the tiny program somewhere in the watch to keep me aware of my life.  It’s a nice watch face, and it will ding if I have a text message on my phone, which then I need the phone to be able to read the message, along with my glasses, so that little feature isn’t really worth a lot.
So far, I have discovered four things the watch does beautifully.  One, it likes to be charged up at least once a day, which makes a round the clock watch a bit of a fail.  Secondly, it is constantly telling me that there is another new software update ready to be installed, which requires me to take the watch off my wrist, attach it to the charger, set my cell phone right next to it, and wait a half hour, so it can then tell me everything is up to date, as it does the very same thing it did before the update.
I must say these two things are not much help in my daily life, unless I’m looking for a hobby that involves taking my watch on and off throughout the day.  No, I wouldn’t call that exciting…
The other two things the watch does is that one, it constantly tells me to stand up.  It doesn’t encourage me to walk or run or bike or do pushups – just stand up.  For a whole minute, and then it congratulates me for standing up – a whole minute.  Makes me wonder if by accident, I didn’t get the “lazy bump on a log” model.  Really – to stand up for a minute does not require a great deal of exertion.  Try it – see how exhausted you are after 60 seconds.  Really – it’s not much!
The fourth thing the watch does – is that it tells me to breathe. It reminds me of a Looney Tunes cartoon we used to watch when I was little, where two mice are always trying to get cheese or something – one mouse is conniving and thinking of a plan, but the other, rather large and pretty dumb mouse every now and then will be found with his face all turned blue, and the first mouse has to grab him by the collar, slap his cheeks a few times, and say, “Breathe, Stupid – breathe!   You forgot to breathe!”  Always good for a laugh.
And now – my watch seems to be placing me in that same category… it will ding its little bell, and that’s the cue for me to stop anything I am doing, and look at the face of the watch, push a little button, and look as a flower appears.  I’m then directed to inhale as the flower gets bigger, and exhale when it shrinks to about a pin hole.  In doing so, I am breathing.  I get to do this for – guess how long?  Yep – an entire minute!  After which time, I am applauded for breathing, and it tells me my heart rate, which is virtually unchanged every time I take breathing lessons.
So, those are my exciting adventures, even as we move into the 8th month of the year.  I guess the one thing I can take away from all my activities – is remembering to breathe.  No, I’m not getting oxygen deprived, or turning blue, but you and I both know that sometimes, when things get complicated in life, or a solution to an issue seems to be pretty far off, our minds and hearts get so focused on trying to solve things, that even our breathing – that basic part of our existence – can become shallow, and we become either lightheaded, or so full of anxiety that it just isn’t very healthy.  Plus, we really don’t solve anything that way.
So perhaps the watch offers a good idea.  Now and then, even out of the blue – breathe.  Take a deep breath and infuse life-giving, brain-healing oxygen into your life.  Slow things down for a minute – at least – and focus on the basics of life.  Breath, joy, hope, and faith.  When things get hard, or the path becomes thorny and rocky, breathing – simple breathing – can at least give us some strength to follow that path for another mile up the road.  At least, it can help us stand.
Be intentional and focused on your life, your body and the world around you as you live out today.  I expect you don’t even need a watch to do that, and to do that well.  Blessings.
 
Word for the day:  irrefragable.  There’s a mouthful.  Pronounced ir-rah-FRAG-a-bull.  It’s a Latin word, of course, but it breaks down into all sorts of prefixes before you get to the root word.  In/Ir “not, or opposite of” – so right away, the word will turn us from the root to the opposite of that root.  Re “back” – or doing it over again, as in re-try, or re-assemble.  The root is frangere, which means simply, “to break or shatter.”  Therefore, when we pile the word together, it comes to mean the sense that something cannot be broken – or disputed or contested, when we are talking about things of a legal or relational sense.  A Supreme Court ruling is often seen as irrefragable, although the word is only occasionally used in that sense.  It’s very honorable to hold an irrefragable stance on an issue…
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First of all – happy August!  We made it through another month – maybe this new one will bring some rain, hopefully…
 
A couple of nights ago, after watching all the Olympics I cared to watch, I headed upstairs to go to bed.  At the top of the stairs, illuminated only by our small candelabra of tiny little lights, I saw the strangest sight.  Hermes, our tawny colored, ever-busy cat, was sitting with his face to the wall, right next to the little table that held the candelabra.  Just sitting there, I thought – what an odd thing for a cat to do, even having them around for more than 15 years now, and observing the hundreds of different weird things all of the cats do on a regular basis.
As I started to counsel Hermes to not be so weird, and ask him what he was doing just sitting there, I noticed he was focused on something – his head was moving in the tiniest twitches.  It was then I also noticed what was going on – apparently a fly had gotten into the house somehow, and was zipping back and forth around the candelabra, and had caught Hermes’ complete attention.  Flies are the bane of almost every cat’s existence, I have learned.  I’ve watched everything from kittens to old cats leap and twist in mid-air, cackling at a fly on a window, or racing across the room to try to destroy the nefarious, wicked insect. It’s exhausting, and often leads to something getting broken as the fly becomes the prey of the mighty hunter.
I had no fly swatter handy, which normally is what we have to do when there is a fly sighting.  Plus, it was really dark, and I was too tired to go on safari, so I did what most any sensible human owner would do – I shut the lights off, and went to bed.
I had just settled my brain for a long summer’s nap, when all around the room, there arose such a clatter… I opened my eyes, looked out onto the floor, and there in the night shadows, I was able to barely distinguish the outline of a tawny cat, jumping and leaping and twisting and racing around like a bullet all around the floor.  It was as if some wild animal had somehow made its way through a window, and it was up to Hermes to keep the house safe.  Then I realized – the fly was in the bedroom.  That stinking little winged monster was playing Hermes like a fiddle, leading him on a wild chase up and down the wall and across the floor.
Hermes, for his part, was being very quiet, but even a cat creates noise when there is no other noise, as he tries to hunt the mighty beast.  Even though I was tired, I found myself fascinated to see how the game would end.  I could barely make out the cat, and it appeared the fly wore a cloak of invisibility.  Still Hermes persisted, running back and forth in the darkness, leaping and missing…
Until – I think somehow he caught it.  He stopped jumping, and started the routine of running in circles and back and forth, chasing something on the carpet.  What I surmise is that he managed to cold-cock the insect, and sent it spinning to the ground, where it ended up disoriented, and unable to fly.  By the way, when a fly can no longer fly, what do you then call it?
The ground assault kept of for a few minutes more – and then silence.  I hate to think about it, but I’m pretty sure he ate the fly.  That’s life in the jungle, I guess.  Whatever happened, the room remained quiet, and I noticed the back legs and tail of the mighty hunter as he left the room.  The next morning – no sign of a carcass, or anything for the Fly CSI team to follow up on.
Another mission accomplished, and the house was again inspected and found safe for inhabitance – at least until the next “event” comes along…
 
I suppose there are times, now and then, when each of us goes “fly hunting.”  Something grabs our attention, or moves into our lives, and everything else takes a back seat until we are able to either catch it, or it flies completely away, and we wait for another day.  I mentioned Aaron’s prospective job offers and process, and one of the possible twists in the plot is that it could happen that Adam might decide to move with Aaron, and they set up shop and housekeeping in a new state, a new town, a new life.  Adam, it appears, with the pandemic, has a job in which all of his work is remote, so it really doesn’t matter where the “remote” is.  Of course, right now, no one knows which position Aaron will accept or even be offered finally, so the fly chase has begun.  Discussions around the table are a bit more focused, and there are more questions than decisions, and it’s almost as if you can hear the fly buzzing above all of our heads.
The good news is, of course, that eventually, and probably sooner than later – we will catch the fly.  A good decision will rise to the top, and whatever happens we can deem to be a good turn of our lives.  In the meantime, of course, whiffs of urgency, and the fast wing-flapping of a thousand questions zoom by our eyes.  It’s uneasy, and no real way to grab hold of the thing and solve what cannot yet be solved.  But soon, God will show us the way where the way seems dark and cloudy.  We, in the end, don’t have to know where we are exactly – we just need to remember where God is.  And to intentionally follow THAT lead, wherever it goes.
Peace to you in your own fly-hunting.  May you find what you are looking for as well…
 
Saying for the day:  One of my favorite writers, Thomas Jefferson, once wrote:  In matters of style, swim with the current; in matters of principal, stand like a rock.
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