Reaching across the table

With his gray hair, radiant smile, erect posture, suit coat and dress tie, he could have passed as an emissary sent by an official to deliver an important message. I guessed he had something to say to me, something urgent it seemed. After briefly introducing himself, he quickly got to the point.

“You know what you are?”

I had a feeling I was about to find out.

I had just finished participating in a ceremony renewing the wedding vows for two of my friends, Tommy and Lottie Robey, who were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. The Robeys are practicing Roman Catholics, but they also attend the church I pastor.  

“We’re Catholic on Saturday and Baptist on Sunday,” Tommy teases.

You might find the Robeys in a Catholic Church on Saturday afternoon and a Baptist one on Sunday morning, but you’ll also find them living their faith the other five days of the week as well.
I’ve never tried to convert them for there is nothing to convert them to; we’re already on the same team.
I wasn't surprised nor did I hesitate to say “yes,” when their priest called and asked if I would participate in a ceremony renewing their vows.

When I arrived at St. Charles Catholic Church, Father Jim welcomed me with open arms and a warm smile before walking me through my part in the ceremony.

I’ve been a participant in weddings and funerals where pastors begrudgingly share the service. But Father Jim included me in every aspect of the worship event, even to the extent of having me stand next to him during his Eucharistic prayer before communion. (It was like having a seat behind home plate at a baseball game.)
A short time later, the Emissary greeted me.

“It’s one word,” he declared.

“Gatherer. You’re a gatherer.”

Recognizing my puzzled look, he continued.

“You bring people together. The world has enough dividers, we need more gatherers.”

I received it as the compliment he intended it to be.

At the reception, I was seated at a table populated with a mix of Baptists and Roman Catholics.

Sitting there among the believers, listening to the banter, I thought of an Anglican whose method

 for evangelism and discipleship gave rise to another body of the faithful, the Methodists. His name is John Wesley. In 1750, Wesley delivered a sermon entitled, “Catholic Spirit.” The Scripture he chose was II Kings 10:15: “And when he was departed thence, he lighted on Jehonadab the son of Rechab coming to meet him: and he saluted him, and said to him, Is thine heart right, as my heart is with thy heart? And Jehonadab answered, It is. If it be, give me thine hand. And he gave him his hand.”

What a beautiful question: “Is your heart right, as my heart is with your heart?”

And I love the invitation that follows: “If it is, give me your hand.”

The kind words of the Emissary came to mind. As much as I appreciated his gracious spirit, I wish I had told him I wasn’t really the gatherer. The Robeys, the priest, the people reaching across the tables, fellowshipping because of the One they hold in common - they were already gatherers.

I was simply there to give them my hand

To gift or not to gift? That’s the Valentine’s Day question

 “Let’s not get anything for each other this Valentine’s,” Lori announced to me.  “We don’t have time to look, and besides, we need to save the money.”

But how do I know she means it?

A man can never be completely sure. Sometimes his Valentine’s underlying message is: “I really want to be wowed but want you to figure that out without me having to tell you because if I tell you it won’t be the surprise I’m totally expecting you to surprise me with.”

Valentine’s Day can present complications.

It was so simple back in 2^nd grade when Valentine’s gifting began for me.

My dad, a dentist, kept a stash of adjustable rings for children to choose from after they had endured the pain of a tooth pulled or cavity filled.

This made Valentine’s easy for me. While Dad was putting in a crown here or a bridge there, I was rummaging through his drawer of trinkets reserved for kids. No one could compete with the wide assortment of rings I could give the girls.  For several years this worked marvelously. I found myself riding a wave of popularity. Indeed, I was the veritable Valentine’s Gift King of Washington Elementary School, thanks to Dad’s pretend rings.

But by 6th grade Dad’s rings were out; they had run their course; girls no longer seemed interested in adjustable faux rings.

My Valentine’s troubles were just beginning.

A box of chocolates and a card for Dana was all my 6^th grade allowance could afford; Edna and I broke up not long after exchanging bracelets in 7^th (Did she think I was trying to mirror her gift?); Trish and I split up a few weeks before Valentine’s (Was it the stress of facing the Valentine’s Day question?); and after that, fearing failure, I conveniently remained unattached during Valentine’s.

It wasn't until my last year of high school that I again found myself searching for a Valentine’s gift. I scrutinized and examined every piece of jewelry in town within my price range and pestered my older brothers for advice before finally settling on a drop with my initials on it, which I proudly presented to Lori.

It was a success; she loved it; and I felt I had vindicated myself as a Valentine’s connoisseur of fine gifts.

But that’s been many Valentine’s ago now, and here I am, caught in a quandary: I want to surprise my Valentine with a gift, but I know it can’t ding our tight budget. Nor can it be a present so stupendous that she would be embarrassed if she doesn't get me something.

Then I read an article about sacrificing as a gift for Valentine’s Day. The idea was to give up a bad habit, say smoking, drinking, or swearing for your Valentine. 

I’m far from perfect, but when it comes to bad habits, I’m a boring guy.

What could I give up?

“Why are you wearing gloves in the house?” Lori would ask on Valentine’s Day.

‘”Oh, I’m trying to break my habit of picking my cuticles; it’s my Valentine’s gift for you. Enjoy.”

This would not work.

Then I read a recipe in the newspaper for preparing Lobster tail as a romantic meal for Valentine’s. “Now that’s what I’ll do: a romantic dinner prepared by me.”

I ran the idea past my daughter, Madi.

“I don’t think Mom likes lobster.”

Indeed, I’d forgotten. That would be a problem.

Stuck again.

And then at once, it came to me.

I could give up my habit of a maintaining a plant based diet, which is at times annoying for Lori, since she doesn't adhere to my nutritional regimen.

Yes, this would be my sacrifice for Lori.

I’ll prepare for her a steak (medium rare), a baked potato (skin crisped) and asparagus (sauteed).  The challenge will be pretending I’m not actually savoring every morsel of that juicy steak, so she will be impressed with my altruistic gift for her.

And if she’s isn't, I can always call Dad.

“Got any of those adjustable rings left?”

Last Prayers

It certainly wasn't the first time I had prayed for my friend, Don Hughes, but I was convinced it was my last.

Our friendship was forged by prayer as he fought colon cancer. Several years ago, Gene, one of Don’s five sons, told me his dad was sick. “Would you please pray for him?” he asked.

And so I went to visit Don Hughes.

 “I thank you for coming,” he said as I left his house. “You’re always welcome here.”

And I was.

He never asked me to pray. He didn't have to; he told me with his eyes.

Don and I had an immediate rapport with each other, as dissimilar as we were.

He was of the “Greatest Generation;” I’m a “Baby Boomer.” 

He was from a rural community; I’m a city boy.

As wise as he was, his formal education was abruptly halted in the 6^th grade when his father became disabled, and Don had to quit school to help support his family; my education extended twelve years beyond high school.

Other than gardening, I've never really worked with my hands; Don, a farmer and a maintenance supervisor, was also something of a master craftsman, an artist of sorts. Woodworking came rather naturally to him.

He was a devout Roman Catholic; I’m Southern Baptist.

His family arrived in Marion County, Kentucky, in the late eighteenth century, helping settle what became known as the “Holy Lands of Kentucky;” I’m an umpteenth generation Baptist from Oklahoma. 

As different as we were, our lives intersected at the point of human pain: Genuine prayer, born out of desperation, leaps over the walls humans build to restrict the fellowship of faiths.

Somewhere in one of those visits, Don heard me mention that I sometimes pray on my knees. A few months later, he called and asked if I was in my office. “I've got something to bring you.”

When Don arrived, he proudly displayed his handcrafted cherry wood prayer bench, a Christmas gift I will forever cherish.

“Let me pray for you before you leave,” I said as we positioned the prayer bench in my office.

Don, paused, hesitated, started to speak, and then pondered some more. I thought I detected tears in his work worn eyes. I listened as he slowly choked out the words, “I haven’t known you for long, but I count you as a true friend.”

That’s been several years and many visits ago.

And then I stood at Don’s bedside for what I thought would be my last pray for my friend.

Death comes for some abruptly, like a thief in the night; for others, it inches closer, slowly and steadily, like a hearse that’s first parked by the curb in front of your house, then in your  driveway, and finally at your porch, waiting for you to board.

For Don, the hearse had finally arrived, and its doors were wide open.

I finished my prayer.

I looked down at him. His eyes were peacefully closed, his chest perfectly still; I couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not. “On my,” I thought to myself, “he died while I was praying.”

“Don?”

To my relief, he slowly opened his eyes.

“Just waiting for you to pray,” he whispered.

I had to smile.

So I prayed again, louder and closer to Don’s ears this time. To make sure he knew I had finished praying, I made the sign of the cross for my Catholic friend. He grinned in approval.

“If I don’t see you again here, I’ll see you in heaven, my friend,” I said as I left.

When I visited him a few days later, he was even less able to respond; cancer had ravaged his once strong body, leaving only a shell.

 “Can you hear me, Don?” I said, trying not to shout too loudly. “I’m going to pray for you, okay?”

He nodded a weak “Yes.”

Don’s escort to heaven arrived a few hours later.

In John’s vision of heaven, the Apostle wrote that he heard “the voices of thousands and millions of angels around the throne” (Revelation 5:11).

They say our hearing is one of the last faculties to go before we die. Don had trouble hearing those last prayers. But maybe that’s because he was beginning to hear other prayers, sung with heavenly voices, around the throne of God.