Here comes the sun: Spring is near

“I’ll go ahead and take that 50 pound bag of fertilizer,” I told the proprietor at the feed store, after briefly debating the matter in my mind.

The fertilizer was my deposit for the promise of spring.

It happens every year: From the warmth of my house, I look out my window to the fallow mound of earth I call my garden and ask myself, Should I prepare to plant, or should I let her go?

The toil, the time, the trouble she brings: Why not just stay cocooned in winter’s somnambulant embrace?

For a gardener wavering between a commitment to the task and a relinquishment of duty, the past few months have proven tempting. Winter has stayed around until he has become an annoying, but nonetheless accommodating sleeping partner, a convenient excuse to stay in bed: “Spring is a distant memory,” he entices, “so slumber a little longer; why trouble thyself with cultivating?”

One day when the weather was once again being its fickle self---this time hovering between winter and early spring---having tended to my compost piles, I knelt on bended knee near the heart of my garden and felt for a pulse. Ol’ man winter kicked me in the seat of my pants, pushing me down on all fours, roaring by with a frosty laugh before settling beside me in a frigid pose, grinning in triumph.

“He still has us in his grip,” I told my garden, “But hang in there. He can’t last forever.”

Or can he?

Will spring ever arrive? Will winter’s tendrils forever keep his hold on the dirt, making it cower beneath the blast of his arctic breath?

In C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia, four kids crawl through a wardrobe and stumble into the land of Narnia, a land of splendor that is unfortunately dominated by an evil White Witch. Under her control, it is “always winter,” in Narnia.

Listening to the morning forecast, I wondered, Am I in Narnia?

I had to do something.

Late one evening, with the sun bowing to the horizon, I took my 18 month old grandson in my arms, and with a little help from my friends, began singing “Here Comes the Sun,” to him. (Eli doesn’t care that I’m off key.) And as we danced about the room, he stretched his arm straight out, like someone performing the Tango, and with his brow furrowed, pointed his index finger in the direction of the back door.

I knew exactly where he was determined to go: the garden.

It was time---time to break the spell.

Babies have that sixth sense, you know.

Locking eyes, we danced to the door, while I mouthed George Harrison’s words, “Little darling/It’s been a long, cold lonely winter,” swaying Eli in my arms, until we reached the garden, where I kicked up some dirt with my Red Wings, hoping to wake the frozen ground from the  chill of winter’s spell.

I paused, and clutching Eli ever so tightly, I breathed deeply, slowly taking in a full measure of the cold, evening air.

Then I pointed to the fading ball of fire in the west.

“Sun.”

 Eli nodded his head firmly one time in acknowledgment.

Swirling around full circle with him snuggled to my chest, I sang again, “Sun, sun, sun, here it comes.”

He nodded once, twice, then thrice--- as if he were instinctively responding to my incantation.

“It’s coming to Kentucky, to the garden, and to you, my little Kentucky Boy.”

His smile stretched across his pacifier till it dropped from his lips. His baby fingers pulled my neck to his.

We felt it together, the two of us. It was faint, but it was there: the promise of spring.

The fertilizer is still in the bag, but not for long.

The snow is melting; the sun is shining; the spell is broken: Spring is near.

The Bible’s message is not just in its words

If you were to insist that what makes the Bible a special book is not its outward appearance—whether it’s bound in leather or cloth, colored bright pink or plain brown---but what’s inside it---its message, meaning, and purpose, I would heartily agree.

But then again, the very presence of the Good Book can not only speak to the soul, it even save a life.

Just ask Dayton, Ohio bus driver, Rickey Waggoner. Recently, while making a mechanical repair outside his bus, three young men, presumably in a gang, approached Waggoner and shot him twice in the chest.  Luckily, or more accurately, providentially, Waggoner had a Bible in his pocket. The two bullets, which otherwise would have killed Waggoner, were found lodged inside his Bible.

Waggoner was then able to fend off the assailants who fled. (I always heard the Devil runs from the Word of God.)

“There was obviously some kind of intervention involved in this incident because (Waggoner) should probably not be here,” Dayton Police Sgt. Michael Pauley said.

Don’t you think Waggoner will display that Bible in a prominent place? Picking it up and pointing to the holes left by the bullets, he might say, “Let me tell you about the time this Bible saved my life.”

Waggoner’s story is dramatic and rare. It is more often in less sensational ways that the Bible’s appearance---that is, its cover, the texture of its pages, the feel of the book in the hands--- evokes memories of God’s directive hand in life.

As a child, I saw Dad carry his red leather bound New Testament to church Sunday after Sunday. I had forgotten about that particular Bible until I was helping Dad after his knee surgery last October, and there it was, unobtrusively resting on a shelf in his bedroom. Years of use had worn away the luster on the leather; it was now cracked and faded, and the gilded pages tattered. But that didn't stop me from gingerly opening it, and in so doing, stepping into the past , into the church sanctuary I grew up in, breathing in the smell of the oak pews, listening to the choir sing the old hymns and the preacher exhort from the King James Bible.

“You take it,” Dad told me when I showed it to him at the hospital.

It wasn't until I got back home that I noticed, when thumbing through it ,the quote he must have scribbled during a sermon: “Sin will take you farther than you want to go, keep you longer than you want stay, and cost you more than you want to pay.”

Inside the cover was Dad’s name and a date, 1961.

Dates in a Bible can act almost like journal entries, signifying spiritual markers in life’s journey.

The first Bible I actually carried to church is dated December 25, 1963. It’s a children’s Bible with a sketch of Jesus and the little children on the cover. I was getting to know the Bible as a book of God- stories, mainly about a man named Jesus who loved little guys like me.

That Bible was replaced exactly three years later with a red imitation leather Bible, given to me by my grandparents. Now I was growing up: my new Bible resembled Dad’s.

When I graduated from high school, Mom and Dad gave me a Thompson’s Chain Concordance Bible, my first study Bible, bound in “Deluxe Leather.” A couple of years later, I held that Bible with sweaty palms as I preached my first sermon while doing mission work with my parents in Bangalore, India.

Dates also lined the margins of Mom‘s Bible. Lord help the preacher who warmed up an old sermon from the back burner. Mom had him dead to rights with date and notes of when he last delivered it.

On occasion I come across a Bible whose owner has passed from the scene.  Our church custodian found a Bible tucked in an obscure corner of the building. “Look at that,” Charles pointed out: “December 12, 1913.” I wondered how it managed to go unnoticed for all these years. Did anyone miss it?

And it’s not just the dates that tell a story. You can tell a lot from what’s inside of a person’s Bible. A friend brought me an old Bible. It was filled with sermon notes, clippings, and gospel tracts. How did it end up in a used book store rather than with a family descendant? Was the owner the only one who carried it?

Some Bibles are given an early retirement, no longer available for daily use.

And sometimes that’s not the owner’s choice.

I cherish the little, blue leather New Testament Mom and Dad gave my brother, Dougie. His short life ended abruptly in a head on collision.  Inside the cover, under “Name,” is his, “Dug.” And under “Nearest Relative” are the initials “DW,” referring to me--- his little brother and constant companion.

I wish that little Book could have redirected an errant automobile like Rickey Waggoner’s Bible stopped a speeding bullet.

But my longing plunges us deep into the mystery of tragedy and hope that’s found in “the strange new world within the Bible.”

And for that story, we have to turn its pages and read it.

I want to fist bump your hand

John Lennon and Paul McCartney couldn't have known the danger in the words they wrote with the Beatles first major hit, “I Want to Hold Your Hand.”

“And please say to me/
You’ll let me hold your hand.”

In case you haven’t heard, holding and shaking hands can be hazardous to your health.

According to the Center for Disease Control, up to 80% of infection can be spread through our hands. If you have a virus, and I shake your hand, you will likely transmit your bacteria to me. If I then then rub my eye or scratch my nose, guess what? You've just shared your virus with me.

This is the kind of news I love and hate: I relish information that helps me avoid illness; but it’s also one more anti-bacterial defense mechanism I must manage. It’s the kind of information that is likely to push borderline germaphobes like me over the edge into OCD Land.

Why not just wash hands? That will certainly help reduce the risk, but it’s not always possible to wash after shaking hands. And besides, according to Dr. Tom McClellan at West Virginia University Medical School, “as many as 80 percent of individuals retain some disease-causing bacteria after washing.” Part of the problem is that few of us wash our hands properly. (You’re supposed to use soap and scrub for about the amount of time it takes to repeat the alphabet twice.)

What then is the alternative to hand shaking---that ancient ritual that can be traced at least to the 5^th century BC--- a custom that apparently developed as an expression of peace, showing that the hand held no weapon?

May I suggest the fist bump?

You know the fist bump. You clench your fist tightly, tuck your thumb inside your palm and extend your arm to someone who responds to you in like fashion.

President Barak Obama popularized the fist bump during the 2008 presidential campaign. Just before accepting the Democratic Party’s nomination as presidential candidate, he greeted Michelle with a fist bump rather than a hug.  The fist bump gained popularity.

Even the Dali Lama joined in, or at least he did in 2009, when he met the mayor of Memphis, TN., during a flu pandemic. There is good reason why the threat of flu prompted that fist bump.

Scientific evidence seems to support the claim that fist bumping over hand shaking can reduce the spread of infection. What Dr. Tom McClellan’s research at the University of West Virginia concluded was that the hand shake, in comparison to the fist bump, led to a 400% increase in bacterial transfer. It makes sense: With the fist bump, you have less physical contact for a shorter period of time.

But, I have to admit, transitioning to the fist bump is not easy. What do you do when someone extends a hand for you to shake? Returning a fist bump instead of a hand shake might appear offensive if not downright bizarre.

Yet, I was determined to be a change agent, so I decided to test the fist bump, incognito, of course.

Visiting another church seemed an acceptable setting for my venture. Sitting to me to me was a lady whom I guessed to be in her eighty’s, maybe nineties, reposing in a cloak of serenity-- the perfect recipient for my first fist bump. When the time came for fellowship, I thought, “Now’s the time, be brave, do the fist bump.” Closing my fist and tucking my thumb, I began to raise my hand in her direction.

Greeting me with a smile as innocent as a new born baby's, she offered her open hand to me.

I held my ground, lifting my fist.

Stiffening her neck, she looked gimlet-eyed at me.

Then as if to wave away the confusion caused by my fist, she grinned again—a silent signal that she was overlooking my unusual behavior.  Then she extended her hand once more, this time more aggressively with an added air of confidence. She straightened her back and edged toward me, like a soldier poised for an attack.

It was over, beyond my control: My fist bump morphed into a hand shake, disarmed by her sign of peace.

Her face beamed as she embraced my hand, enveloping my left as well, as if to say, “There now, sonny, don’t you feel better now that you've put away that silly notion of fist bumping?”

And indeed I did---all the way to my car, where I opened the door and reached for the hand sanitizer.

Practicing the prayer of Ruby Bridges

It’s too bad we don’t know the person’s name who said it, for there is much truth in the statement: “What man does not understand, he fears; and what he fears, he tends to destroy.”

Michael Dunn claimed fear was the reason he shot to death the young black man, Jordan Davis at a Jacksonville, Fla., gas station in an argument over loud music. Did Davis point a gun at Dunn, as he alleged? 

No gun was ever found.

Columnist Leonard Pitts, Jr., quipped that Dunn’s impulsive decision to shoot at the young men in the SUV may have been made in a kind of fear, a fear that is “the unspoken but clear recognition that black boys and men are our national boogeymen---they threaten by existing…”

While Pitts’ assessment is on target, fear extends beyond some whites’ apprehension of black boys and men. Our society is riveted with misunderstanding and distrust with the result that whether red or yellow, black or white, gay or straight, we fear each other.

We would do well to remember how little Ruby Bridges dealt with her fear back in 1960, when she was just six years old.

Because of her high test scores, Bridges was selected to attend an all-white school in New Orleans, LA..

When local authorities refused to provide protection for Ruby, President Eisenhower sent Federal Deputy Marshalls to escort her to school.

Years later in an interview with Charlayne Hunter-Gault on PBS NewsHour, Ruby described the first day she arrived at the school: "Driving up I could see the crowd, but living in New Orleans, I actually thought it was Mardi Gras. There was a large crowd of people outside of the school. They were throwing things and shouting, and that sort of goes on in New Orleans at Mardi Gras."

Only one person, Barbara Henry, agreed to teach Ruby. White parents boycotted and wouldn’t send their children to the school. So for an entire year, it was just Ms. Henry and Ruby, alone in the classroom.

And every day the Federal Marshalls would escort Ruby through the gauntlet of jeering people as she arrived at school. One parent repeatedly threatened to poison Ruby, so the Marshalls insisted that Ruby only eat food she brought from her home. Another lady would hold a small wooden casket with a black baby doll in it as Ruby passed by.

Dr. Robert Coles, a child psychiatrist who volunteered to provide weekly counseling for Bridges, was mystified as to how Ruby could apparently remain so well-adjusted throughout the harrowing ordeal.

Ruby’s equanimity was likely the result of something her mother taught her.

Her mother told Ruby that whenever she was afraid, she should pray: “If I’m not with you and you’re afraid, then always say your prayers.”

So each day on the way to school, Ruby would pray.

One day Ms. Henry watched from her class window as the Federal Marshalls escorted Ruby through the taunting crowd. Then something out of the ordinary happened.

Ruby turned and appeared to be talking back to the people. When Ms. Henry asked Ruby what she had said, Ruby insisted she hadn't said anything to them.

“But I saw you speaking,” Ms. Henry countered.

“I wasn't talking to them,” Ruby explained. “I was praying for them.”

Ruby had following her mother’s instructions, but that that day she had forgotten to pray. So, on the steps of the school, Ruby turned to the people and prayed.

And what did she pray?

According to Dr. Robert Coles, Ruby’s pray went like this:

Please God, try to forgive these people. 
Because even if they say those bad things, 
They don't know what they're doing. 
So You could forgive them, 
Just like You did those folks a long time ago 
When they said terrible things about You.

Had Mr. Michael Dunn been half as brave as Ruby Bridges, he would not be facing the prospects of spending his remaining years behind bars, and Jordan Davis would still be alive.

Wouldn't our world be a better place if we would all take heed and practice the simple yet profound  pray of Ruby Bridges?

.

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.