The Lessons of Loss

 There is a line in 'The Wreck of the Edmund Fiztgerald' that goes like this, 

"Does anyone know where the love of  God goes, when the waves turn the minutes to hours?"

It's an overarchingly soulful tale of loss of hope and loss of life. And one that you are likely familiar with on some level. Lightfoot doesn't try to answer that existential question - he instead reminds us that all that remains are the faces and names of the wives and the sons and the daughters. Memories are precious little replacement for laughter, the feel of a hand in your own, or tears of joy. Of seeing success and struggles, and love and loss.  But there is only so much loss we can hold in our heart. 

I've been thinking on this since the almost unbelievable events in Texas over the past 24 hours.

What if I were a parent on that ravaged and raw creekbank with a missing daughter? What if I were looking at debris hanging in trees and catching phrases from workers about the devastation? What would I do? What can be done? Where is the love of God? Why did my child deserve this? Why pour out the blessing, just to rip it away in one wet Texas night?

We read Job in retrospection - like all of us in the Bible belt. We use it as a construct for loss. To learn the lessons of loss. It's so easy to miss the message. And that is this: God reminds Job who he is - and Who He Is. I don't always see it. I for sure don't always understand it. I often don't like it. The question is - Do I Trust Him, whatever happens? Because whatever will happen. 

That's easy for me to say. I'm not standing in the Texas mud. Oh, that there were someone who could lay a hand on us both. 

But God knows something about loss. And He knows all about Hope. Hope is the great, mighty enemy of loss. It is the deceiver that whispers despair into our eager ears. But Hope stands beside us, weeps with us, prays with us, pulls us up off the ground, and is there every step of the time that is given to us. 

"We walk a while, we sit and rest - we lay it on the alter,

I won't pretend to know what's best - but what I have I offered.

And I pray for a vision and a way I cannot see

It's too heavy to carry and impossible to leave." ~ Sara Groves

The greatest that remains is indeed Love. Love is frightening in its strength and unpredictability. But Hope abides. It holds our useless hands and reminds us that tomorrow is a new day.  That this is not the end. We will open our eyes wide - wider. Further up and further in. 

For JMB with Gratitude

 

This is a remembrance of  my first boss in the real world. He left a lasting impression of a commitment to excellence and an unwavering respect of engineering. I have not been in contact for many years, but think of him often.  He died in September of 2024. I've altered some names out of respect. 

In the spring of 1988, I walked into the office of D_&D_ in Marion for my initial interview. I was escorted to the office of Bobby L_ and recall vividly sitting across from him in the front office. After a little friendly conversation, Bobby picked up the phone and called Joe to come up and tour me through the office. Bobby hung up the receiver and looked over at me, smiled and said, “Joe’s a little high strung like most structural engineers I’ve met.”

I few seconds later Joe’s head popped through the door to my left. His hand shot out and we headed back to the structural corner of the office.

It’s important to note that, despite my Virginia Tech degree, I was woefully unaware of what a structural engineer actually did.  I didn’t know how to work the copier – let alone competently work on projects. At that time, there were several guys in the department.  Iraj, David (P_), David (A_), and John. I remember Joe pulling out a 4 inch thick binder of hand calculations on the Mining Building at Southwest Virginia Community College and plopping it on the top of a bookcase. I was dumbfounded and I think he could tell. I remember him laughing at my shocked look.

Sometime during the visit, Joe got a call and I started chatting with David P_. He gave me some of the best advice I ever received and have shared countless times. He told me ‘The answers are usually pretty easy – the hard part is asking the right question.’ I often wondered if he got that from Joe. I wouldn’t be surprised. It is succinct, true, and paradigm shifting.

A couple weeks later I was the new guy in the group. My initial desk was a six-foot table with a dilapidated chair (I mean ridiculously dilapidated), in the hallway. Joe had me use my school calculator for six months before trusting me with a programmable HP calculator (which is still here at my desk as I write this). I learned the super-power of listening to Joe with one ear, and to a contractor on the other end of the phone with the other ear. I swear that they could talk concurrently, and my brain figured out some way to piece them together.

There are far too many stories to recount. Some jarring and gut-wrenching.  Some were hilarious – Joe had an authentic laugh, always earned. Some were insightful and caused us all to recalibrate how we did business. And others were heartbreaking. They didn’t seem so at the time, but these hard-won lessons and experiences were chipping off the rough edges and exercising muscles I didn’t know I had. I cherish them all.

A few months later, while working on a long-forgotten project, Joe asked me about some particular subject. Maybe it was whether something had been checked – or what a contractor planned to do. I told him what I thought was the right answer. Well, I happened to be over at another engineer’s desk later that morning and he informed me that, the answer I had provided to Joe was not correct….   I remember dropping my head, knowing that two things were going to happen.  First, that I had to tell Joe. I had to suck it up, turn around and fess up. And the second was that I was sure he would take my head off.

But that didn’t happen. When I told him about my error, he kind of smiled – or nodded and said ‘OK’, and that was it.  He wanted me to be straight up and he wanted me to be honest. He wanted me to do the right thing.  Since then, I’ve had to make many dreaded phone calls or difficult conversations. But I learned from Joe that it usually isn’t as bad as you think – and it has to be done.

More than once, when I was stumped or uncertain how to proceed, Joe would sketch out the bones of an elegant solution. He had an innate ability to see the best way to resolve a problem. For anyone who says that engineering isn’t an art, I would suggest that they had never seen Joe at work. I say ‘bones’ of a solution, because he seemed to always leave something for me to fill in. To learn from. He didn’t just do it for me. He showed me the way. He forced me to be better.

Joe wasn’t always the kindest boss in the popular sense. But he was loyal and honest. Those are, in truth, foundational to kindness. He wanted what was best for me, even when I didn’t know what that was.  His kindness to me was profound.

When Craig broke the news to me last week, I was stunned and heartbroken. I didn’t think of Joe every day, or every week, that is true. But he comes to mind so very often when I am working. The foundational mindset and approach to what I do were laid by Joe in those months and years.

I want to pursue excellence for a lot of reasons; it’s expected as part of being an ethical engineer whose work protects lives, to represent our company well, to provide for my family. But there is a part – and there will always be a part – that does it because Joe B_ expected that it would be done that way. For a backward, and insecure young engineer, meeting his standard and approval was all that mattered. He’s still over my shoulder asking those questions. And that’s the important part.

With great sympathy and profound gratitude,

Allan

 

 

 

 

Beautiful Gratitude

I was recently asked to put together a few words to share at a company picnic – this is the result.  Our work involves the preparation of Structural Engineering plans and specifications. The mention of ‘Rhett’ in the text is to a new-born in our little group.  You can check us out here.  Happy Labor Day!

Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.

There are two words that of late I have been coming back to.  Or perhaps they are coming to me. They

are very familiar words – and you will immediately recognize both.  But unfortunately for you, you don’t know their meaning. As in fact neither do I.

The first word is beauty.

We have a common, Westernized interpretation of this word that what is pretty is beautiful. And that is true. Unsurprisingly when I Googled images for ‘pretty’ and ‘beautiful’, my screen was filled with models – mostly female – with perfect hair, makeup and attire. But that is the lesser form of beauty. It is indeed an exploitation of the idea – taking our predilection for the beautiful and turning it into a marketing ploy. We are called to higher things.

Higher things in this case are common things. Because beauty is in common things. It’s around us always – not just sometimes. Beauty is in the ordinary. Because there are no ordinary things. We are surrounded by the extraordinary. I was thinking about this idea when I left work one day this week.  As I topped the hill on the interstate, and glanced to the sunset in the west, I gazed upon a towering cloudbank with shafts of light piercing iridescent edges. It was truly magnificent. But it’s just airborne water vapor being highlighted in the visual spectrum by a ball of hydrogen fusion 93 million miles away. No – it was beautiful.

Take dandelions. If dandelions only appeared in our yards once every 25 years or so, we would have dandelion festivals. We would plan family events, vacations and work schedules around dandelions.  We wouldn’t mow the yard for weeks.  We would name our children ‘dandelion’.  But just because they grace us every spring, and dot an otherwise monochromatic green yard, we see them as common and a nuisance. See them for what they are – beautiful.

So is what we do beautiful? Is assembling drawings and plans, sections and details beautiful? I believe it is. Personally, I lament the loss of the hand drawing. Because in those cases, one could get a feel for the effort and craftmanship that it takes to assemble a great set of plans. I say ‘that it takes’ – rather than ‘what it took’ – because it still takes effort and care. It’s just displayed differently.  When our drawings are unrolled (or opened) 25, 50 or 100 years from now, someone (maybe Rhett’s children) will see our initials, our seals, our effort. Like it or not, they will make a measure of us based on what we produce – and the beauty of our work.

Roger Scruton puts it this way:

“beauty is an ultimate value—something that we pursue for its own sake, and for the pursuit of which no further reason need be given. Beauty should therefore be compared to truth and goodness, one member of a trio of ultimate values which justify our rational inclinations.”

At funerals, we are reminded that we are dust. But God makes beautiful things of dust.

The other word is Gratitude. I think that beauty and gratitude like to take long walks together and hold hands.  Gratitude opens the door for beauty.

Because deep seated gratitude has the power to transform our lives.

A while back I heard a terrific story.  A man who was suffering from depression had one of his physicians suggest that he write a thank you note to someone who had made a difference in his life.  He chose to write to one of his elementary school teachers, who had inspired his love of literature and writing. A week or so later he received a letter in response. The teacher, long retired, said that in her 30+ years of work, this was the only time anyone had taken the time to put their appreciation in writing. She said she would cherish the note until she died.

Gratitude has that power. And being grateful – even for difficulties or difficult times – is the key to happiness and a fulfilling life. It really is as simple and as difficult as that. Because true gratitude – like true beauty – takes opening our eyes wider and seeing what’s already there.

Today we live in a land that is free of the perils of warfare and hunger. You and I have been inoculated against Polio and measles, which struck genuine terror in parents for generations. Our water is clean, the lights turn on, the shelves are stocked (or largely so), and we live in a freedom and much of the world still envies.

And we can be grateful for good work. The work we do has a nobleness to it. I would encourage you to be grateful – not because you must – but out of a sincere desire to be a grateful person. That’s what I hope to be remembered as.  Life is too short to not be aware of the blessings and the beauty that all around.  And all around here now.

Walk the Way the Wind Blows

The old man leaned on his staff and placed his other hand on the walls of the building lining the the street. He walked alone, slowly and with purpose. His hip may be wasting away, but at least he could still see well enough in the dark to navigate this unfamiliar place. He could still hear the laughter, arguments and cries of children as he went. Thanks be to God that he could still do that.  

His colleagues were not all as fortunate. Some old ones were losing sight or hearing, but he was amazed at their still-nimble minds. Together they walked down familiar paths of memory with no staff to feel the way. Their heads would lean back and they would look heavenward as they recited verse upon verse. Tears would stream down as they recounted ancestors, persecutions, victory and betrayal. He had to laugh to himself recounting their endless circular arguments. Pointed fingers and raised voices, stroking beards and wagging heads. They were his friends and his life for so many, many years. They had helped shape his thoughts and find the way.

 The way. 

So if he knew his way, why was he meandering down this dark street on a summer night to meet with someone who turned another way? That was always a problem with him wasn’t it? Too quick to consider new ideas and leaving the door open a touch. Well, some wouldn’t say so. Some wanted him to bend much more. New wine in old wineskins. Still, he carried weight himself. He had convinced more than one or two. He was not without authority. 

Now his shuffling steps kicked up the dust and grime to leave it layered on his sandaled feet. A dog came yipping at him, then sniffing, then oblivious in predictable stages. The owner of the animal came out and the old man asked a couple questions for direction. “Just over there,” was the reply, “see the light?”. Yes – he smiled and replied he could and thanked the man before heading across the open and unbraced street. The man leaned against the door jamb and watched the old man teeter toward the light wondering what business his kind had in this neighborhood.

As the old man approached the doorway – he hesitated. Was this wise? What did he hope to gain? If his friends found out, he would be berated and endlessly questioned. It could get contentious even for a man in his position. He couldn’t reconcile it in his mind. He was compelled to come. For an instant he felt as though he would go; should all his mind and body resist and cry ‘no’. 

He knocked upon the door and waited. He could hear movement. He was about to knock once more just as the door opened and revealed the faces of two un-smiling young men. One towered over the old man. The shorter man was stripped to the waist and held a bowl. The larger man looking over and past the old man half expecting to see others. “Yes?”, questioned the younger.

“Ah – you see. I was in the temple yesterday morning. There was…”, he chose his words, “…a commotion.” The smaller man gave a knowing smile. “Yes – there was a commotion.” He said this directly – not with pride or sadness. Or even as a matter of fact. He said it as if it was inevitable. He might just easily have commented on the sun rising. “Why yes, the sun did rise…“. 

“Are you alone?”, asked the larger one. 

The old man replied that he was.

“And you want to know what happened – or why?”

The old man told the truth slowly. “Not exactly. But I won’t deny that’s one reason I’m here. Or the cause of it. I … I’ve heard things. Things that are as dangerous as they are intriguing to me – and to others.”. He paused, “I don’t know why I’m here. But here I am.”

With that he slouched a little. The walk had started to take a toll and the younger man could see the weariness. 

“Please Rabbi”, he said, “enter.” And Nicodemus walked inside. 

*****************************

Yesterday the man before him had been enraged. It was difficult to believe it they were the same. He had watched from behind the columns. The man had upended tables and pushed over tills of the moneychangers. The scramble for lose coins and free money drew the attention largely away from the man and his shouts – but Nicodemus had listened. In the commotion, the man had picked up a whip and started in on the proprietors. To Nicodemus what he was shouting was nearly as astounding as his actions.  He had seen false-messiahs in his time, but nothing like this. 

Now the same man leaned against the wall next to the window and smiled. He invited Nicodemus to sit; which he did with some difficulty. The space was small and their knees nearly touched as they looked one another over. The lamp light was pushed by the soft breeze through the open window between them. Perhaps the most extraordinary thing about the man was his lack of being extraordinary.  Nicodemus wasn’t afraid. But he certainly wasn’t at ease. It was like being in the presence of a mighty workhorse tied off with slender twine. The presence of the twine was only at the pleasure of the horse. 

The man said, “I will tell you the solemn truth Nicodemus, unless a man is born of water and spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. Don’t be amazed that that I said, ‘You must all be born from above….'” and at this the summer air pushed the thin curtains. Nicodemus would remember that later – he would remember that always. The man turned his head to acknowledge the breeze, close his eyes and drink in its sweetness. 

“The wind blows wherever it will, and you hear the sound it makes – but you don’t know where it comes from….. or where it’s going.”  He smiled again and looked into Nicodemus. “So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit”. 

Their minds wrestled for more hours. Nicodemus wanted to understand. He needed to understand. But the man had parried each turn and with his questions, shaken Nicodemus. Perhaps like the wind, he did not where this came from or where it was going. But he knew that his imagination and heart were forever bound now. New things were expected of him. He had always been a man of hope – but now the hope burned.

Upon standing at last to leave, the overly large one who had so gruffly welcomed Nicodemus hours before, now insisted on walking him back to his house. During the long conversation, he had come and gone – finally staying for a long stretch as he could see the old man struggling in sincerity. Now morning was not that far off and the old man and the big man walked mostly in silence back into the better part of town. The big man could tell that Nicodemus was still deep in thought and so he kept silent.  Still, they covered the ground quickly. 

Eventually they arrived at the door and Nicodemus turned to say good night – or good morning which was closer to the truth. 

“Thank you for your hospitality. I must say I didn’t know what to expect – and I wasn’t disappointed.” 

The big man laughed and said, “Yes – I know what you mean. It is hard to resist. He does that.” And he turned to walk away.

“Oh – and Rabbi. I remembered you left your staff with us. I’ll bring it around later today…”, smiling he said, “…perhaps your need of it won’t be as great from now on.” 

An Exceptional America

Alabama Auburn - Stephen Fry

A few years ago, Stephen Frye toured America and produced an Englishman’s guide to the States. Perhaps sometimes we think that America influences the cultures of other countries to their deficit. Or at least that is what we are told to believe. And yes, like all neighbors, we have dirty laundry on the line. But this little clip is priceless. Frye, who I suspect has pretty much seen it all, is dumbstruck. He is left grasping for words to describe what’s taking place around him. We are ridiculous – and wonderful. What a great country. Hope abides.

Please stick through the ‘circus’ music toward the middle and get to the money shot near the end. It’s priceless with a flyover that really delivers.

No fan of the SEC (Go Hokies!), but our southern brethren delivered the goods on this one.

Citizen Trump

This is a fascinating video of Donald Trump critiquing Citizen Kane – the iconic film on wealth and moral corruption.  It’s a little surreal watching a much younger Trump wrestle with the meaning of the movie. Even his body language seems to pull the curtain back a little. “Perhaps I can understand that…” when talking about the distance growing between a husband and wife. Sad — and I mean that in the most sincere way.

The President is a lightning rod for all sorts of commentary.  Friends have been lost and families upended over his administration.  But lost in the media maelstrom is the simple fact that Donald Trump is a man like any other. He does terrific things — he does reckless things. He talks about being isolated and the need to “have your guard up, more so than if your didn’t have wealth.” He’s a man that understands walls.

Like us all.

Born That Man No More May Die

“I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year” ~ E. Scrooge

 

We have arrived at December at last; I trust we can all agree that Christmas music is at now acceptable. For me it started in the summer. My Pandora commonly shuffles over to ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas’ station and I find myself humming ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ in July. My long-suffering family must bear with ‘Silent Night’ and ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ on long car trips to the beach.

Thus it is and thus it shall ever be.

I am not ignorant to the excesses of Christmas. Nor to its sometimes pettiness. But in the main, it is the Best Time of the Year. If the malls are packed – what of it? Those folks are shopping for others. The neighbor strings those gaudy lights? He’s engaging his community on some level. There’s something to be said for that. Stressed about giving the right gift? Hug ‘em and tell them you love them and mean every word. We need that every day. Screw the gifts.

As a boy of 10 or 11, I remember clearly the thought that my favorite thing about Christmas was having family pile into our house. I wasn’t too interested in gifts – but games, and football, and jokes and fun. Just pour it on.

Easter it seems to me is about Victory. Christ steps triumphant from the tomb. Spring has arrived and we are reminded that God reigns forever. But Christmas is about Hope. For a world that was (and is) impossibly mangled, Hope is found in the most unexpected of places. Wrapped in rags in a barn. Tears spring to my eyes at the thought. How fragile is Hope – how mighty is Love.

25 days – count them down. Then only 365 more.

The Good, the Better and the Best

The Danish Symphony Orchestra _ The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

Sometimes we run across a little slice of art that bridges cultures while at the same time defining culture. Music has that power. Sounds can be defined drearily by the engineer as waves and pulses (see ‘yanni vs. laurel’). But no scientist can explain what’s going on in the heart by great music. How the heartbeat can quicken or tears spring to the eyes with just a few evocative notes. Like smell, one may be transported to another time and place in an instant.

I wish I knew more about music – but I don’t. I joke that I can barely play the radio. And I never had a music appreciation course – the engineering curriculum didn’t really encourage that unless (as mentioned above) it involved frequencies and amplitudes. I look at guitars and violins and wonder why they are called ‘instruments’. The ought to be called ‘magic’ – because that’s a lot closer to the mark.

Still I listen to magical music – this piece written by an Italian and performed by a Danish Orchestra about a time in America over a hundred years ago using ‘waa – waa – waa’s’ and whistles and it works. It’s freakish. When the soprano comes in around 3:40 you think this can’t get any marvelously weird and wonderful. The whole thing builds to a feverish set of sounds that defines the American west. I love it. When my daughter and I started our podcast, we selected Yo-Yo Ma’s version of this same music – since we were talking mostly movies. It was perfect.

I believe that God in His grace provides us all with gifts. We call it a tragedy when we see those gifts wasted. That’s exactly what it is – tragic. I hope that heaven makes up for that. That we will spring forth with gifts of music – or art – or words – that give rise to the soul. And honors Him from whom all blessings flow.

P.S. – and check out the ear rings!

Writer's Block

“This is how you do it: you sit down at the keyboard and you put one word after another until its done. It's that easy, and that hard.”   ~ Neil Gaiman 


Here’s a secret about me; when I get those annoying security questions that are intended to protect my digital footprint, I always answer the favorite teacher with the same name. Chapman.

In the early 1980s, I was a nondescript and thoroughly uninteresting teenager. Lacking any vision or, in my defense, any encouragement, I bounced from class to class equally happy and unhappy with mediocrity. Yes, I was on the college path – but I found that path to be as dry as I was.  In the absence of a better plan, it at least provided a path. Our high school was large by Southwest Virginia standards. As I would find out later, it paled in comparison to the classes and resources of our northern Virginian cousins. 

When We Become Ourselves

I just finished Neil Gaiman’s “The Ocean at the End of the Lane” for the second time.  And I am left wishing that I could un-remember it as the protagonist does in the story.  This is just about as high-praise as I can give.  I want to forget the whole thing so that I can live through it anew once more.  I want to walk down the lane and through the fields of memory and hold Lettie Hempstock’s hand again.  I want to encounter the loathsome and sensuous Ursula Monkton again and see her meet her match.  I want to see goodness and light.  I want that all again for the first time. 

Both times I visited this world, it was through the audio-book version.  Gaiman’s measured and melodic cadence of voice smoothly unshackles ones imagination.  If he tells me that there are two moons in the sky – well, then, haven’t there always been?  I’ve listened to a lot of books during my work commute and I know how a reader can make or break a text.  He is completely comfortable in portraying a range of characters and masterfully handles dialect and accents.  So right out of the gate, this is something special. 

The writing is sublime.  Restraint is the watchword.  In a magical story like this it’s so easy to overplay a hand.  To dive in too deep or paint with too much color.  But Gaiman’s deft hand (and I suspect wise eyes reading drafts and offering constructive criticism) knows how to move the pieces so that we’re constantly wanting to know more about the characters.  Again, one would usually see that as a fault.  But really – how much do you know about anyone?  Everyone has hidden depths and characters in a novel are no different.  Gaiman’s characters are anything but two-dimensional.  They are three or sometimes four dimensional.  They move in and out of reality as naturally as setting the table. 

But it is the story that shines. 

Serious spoilers ahead.

There is a moment near the beginning of the book that sets the course for the remainder.  In it, two children are unexpectedly faced with an overwhelming and fearful presence.  All I have ever known – all I have ever read or seen tells me that the children need to get away.  They need to run.  Or hide.  Or use some clever way to disappear or perhaps trick the evil so they can make it to the next chapter.  That isn’t what happens.  Instead eleven-year-old Lettie lays down the law.  Unexpectedly and frankly incredibly, it becomes slowly apparent that Lettie has complete control.  She has authority and dominion over this thing.  It is a great scene.

And one can’t help but being left with the feeling that Lettie, her mother and grandmother are in a fashion, the Son, Spirit and Father.  I don’t think Gaiman was aiming at that analogy.  It just happened.  The three of them are ancient and new.  They milk cows and have an ocean in their pond.  They see the wreck people make of their lives and nudge them in a new direction.  They throw themselves between the guilty and the justice – because they are love.  And those who benefit from their sacrifice can barely remember it and don’t truly appreciate its breadth even when they do remember it. 

Grownups really are a lot like children as Lettie’s Gran tells the boy.  They look strong and play tough.  But at the end of the day – or end of their lives – they yearn to laugh and play.  They desperately want to believe the unbelievable.  Serious mindedness gets in the way and we forget what grass feels like between our toes.  But one clear morning the façade of this world will be peeled away and we will be ourselves - true and free.

Michael Card - an overdue thanks

Very early in my marriage, just over 25 years ago, my bride plunged cheerfully into contemporary Christian music.  At that time, I was still squarely in the Jimmy Buffett phase of life and looking forward to many years of carefree, escapist music.  In college (Go Hokies!), I had finally been exposed to some new sounds that my small town’s K-Mart didn’t carry, and didn’t intend to carry since pickup trucks were not represented prominently in the lyrics.

So it was with a condescending tone that I smiled and offered a less than heart-felt “Thank you” to my wife when she returned home from a concert and placed in my hands a twin-CD of Michael Card’s ‘The Ancient Faith’. 

Ah well – thanks honey.  I’ll just file that over here by the dog-food and paid bills.  It was a sweet thought.  It was well intentioned. 

It changed my life.

That CD currently rests on top of a stack of CD’s on my desk here at work.  Its edges are worn.  The cover is faded.  The style is perhaps somewhat dated.  And having handed out copies through the years, I know it’s not for everyone.  All I can tell you is that the themes and passion for God got a hold of my insides – heart and soul.  To me, it’s an amazing work.  It paints the Old Testament with colors I didn’t know existed.  I’ve listened to it for those 25 years and still discover facets that I hadn’t heard before. 

The work is strong across the board – but particular favorites include:

‘Asleep on Holy Ground’ – recounting Jacob’s dream.  “He limped away on holy ground, awakened from the dream.  Having learned his costly lesson from the ways of the Nazarene.  That pain’s the path to blessing, Love will fight us to be found, and God remains a dream to those, who sleep on holy ground.”

‘The Way of Wisdom’ – on Proverbs.  “The Way of Understanding lies in not how much you know.  For the Pathway is a Person that you come to love and so you can stop pretending that it all depends on you.  For it’s not how much you love, as much as how much He loves you.”

Over twenty years ago, on a bright August day, we welcomed our first child into the world.  After literally being up all night, I drove home in the morning from the hospital to collect some things for my lovely wife.  On the way, Michael was on the cassette player singing about the Song of Songs.  “Set me like a seal on your heart, for love is unyielding as the grave.  The flash of it is a jealous fire no flood can quench for Love is as strong as death.” All the world was right and hopeful.  I was a dad and God was in His heaven. 

On returning to the hospital, I learned that newborn Hannah’s breathing was labored and they wanted to air-lift her to Roanoke.  I had to make another run to our house this time to gather clothes for my trip with her.  And this time, Michael’s words were from Job and they hit me with such force – “Oh Lord send a Comforter now to my door, so that this terror will frighten no more!  A Counselor between us, to come hear my oath; Someone who could lay a hand on us both.”  It was a rare moment, when I felt God was saying to me, “Remember who you are – and who I Am.”  Tears spring to my eyes even now on the thought of it.  How good is God.  How weak and fragile we are. 

And it’s not too much to say that outside of the Bible and friendships, Michael Card has had as large an impact on my faith as anything else.  This little essay isn’t intended to get you to listen to his music – although I wish you would.  But to say a long overdue thank you to a Brother.  I know your sacrifices have been great – and the load heavy.  You have kept the faith.  Thank you.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sklJ2vCgVtU

 

 

The Architect & Builder

After the Great London Fire of 1666, the English architect, Sir Christopher Wren (1632-1723) was commissioned to rebuild most of the cities churches.  That enormous task involved designing over 50 buildings throughout the city and culminated in the design of St. Paul’s Cathedral – his landmark masterpiece.  For his efforts, he received a knighthood and was essentially given charge over all government building projects. 

A legend has grown up around a site visit that Wren made one day at the construction of St. Paul’s.  Not being known personally by the laborers, he could mingle among them incognito.  Approaching one stonecutter, he asked him what his task was.

“Cutting stone”, replied the man who dully returned to his work.

Moving on, he asked another the same question, “What is it you’re doing?”

“I’m paid three and six each week to cut and place this stonework”, was the reply this time.

Finally he approached a third man and made an inquiry about his work, “What is it you’re doing?”

The man straightened from his task, turned and looked the architect straight in the eye and said, “I’m helping Christopher Wren build this magnificent cathedral.”

It’s easy to become distracted from our purpose of a task.  That might sound silly – after all the purpose of taking out the trash is to, you know, take out the trash.  But little things make big things and there is a purpose behind them all.  Yes, I crawl out of bed in the mornings to go to work and provide for my family.  But I hope that there is a deeper purpose.  One that is abiding and even eternal.  Eternal in one sense that, like my father, I pass on a work-ethic to my children.  But eternal in another sense that God has put me here to be a part of His great work.  He is the Architect and Builder.  We are in this together. 

I am a structural engineer by trade.  When I do my job right, no one ever knows.  Beams are hidden by ceilings and walls conceal columns.  My work is simply a part of a greater work.  My life is part of a Greater Life.  And in Him, there is satisfaction and the greatest purpose of all.

The Sun Also Rises

As I write this, there is a thin blanket of snow on the ground and the sun is just rising.  It’s rising near the crossing of two ridges in the distance that form a ‘V’ and creates a landmark that is very close to the point in the sky that the sun dips at solstice.  The sun goes that far – but no further.  It has now (happily!) started its rise in the other direction and each day is a bit longer.  I can sit at my table and literally watch the earth move.  It is perhaps a sign of age that the psychological pendulum is moving once again in the other direction.  Spring is coming as fast as it can.

That is some comfort in these times.  All of our work for good or ill cannot change that action that God has set into motion.  If we sought to set up dictators or cast down kings, the sun would rise in the morning with pinpoint accuracy.  His ways are not our ways nor His thoughts ours.  As the singer Kendall Payne relates,

“He won’t say the words that you wish that He would

Oh, He don’t do the deeds, you know that He could”

So I tell this to myself.  I am a long time political-junkie but have found myself taking it too seriously. It is important.  These are serious questions.  But the sun rises.  Peoples basic needs remain.  The seeds in the ground will break the earth in April.  I need to keep perspective.  That is hard to do in this information age.  

Thus ever that God is love.  That message has (I hope) started to change me.  People recognize counterfeit love.  If it’s not genuine and true – they know.  If I am loving them because I have to – well that ain’t love is it?  I hope I do more God-centered loving in 2017.  And do it with recklessness.  Scripture says I am supposed to come like a little child.  When my kids were young, they would jump from the steps into my arms.  They knew that even though the distance was great, I would not let them fall.  I need to jump more.

Happy 2017

 

Mongrels - Fear Not

Ps 56:4  In God I will praise his word, in God I have put my trust; I will not fear what flesh can do unto me.

Sometimes it’s important to remember who you are.  In our part of the country, we are mongrels. It’s important to remember that.  We Appalachians are a soupy mix of predominantly Scots-Irish-Germans that were kicked out of Europe, kicked out of Ireland and kicked out of the Northeast of America.  Our forefathers slunk down the spine of the mountains and settled on lands that – truth be told – no one else was much interested in.

Our standard-bearers no doubt came from all sorts of dubious circumstances.  Otherwise why would they risk life and limb travelling across the ocean with only the clothes on their backs?  They scraped out a living in these mountains and built a life that improved each generation.  Yes – we’re a hard-scrabble people and we have our faults.  But we have a history of being magnanimous and generous to the weak and oppressed – irrespective of race or creed.  (For more on this, I recommend Sen. Jim Webb’s excellent ‘Born Fighting: How the Scots-Irish Shaped America’).   We are not an arrogant people.  Or at least we didn’t used to be.
 

Charlie Brown - On Perseverance

I grew up in an ancient time called the 1970’s, when America was a land of mystery and confusion.  Fresh off the end of the War That Shall Not Be Named and deep into Nixon’s throat, there was little to be excited about or hopeful for in the Land of the Free.  

Dodge gave us the Dart and my dad coasted the truck as much as possible in order to avoid the lines at the pump.  Throw Jimmy Carter into the mix and it’s not a far stretch to imagine America as a dystopian wasteland.  It was worse than that actually – there were bell-bottoms. 

In 1972, I was 8 years old.  I wasted time watching Hee-Haw reruns and despairing over Redskin losses (what goes around…).  There was a small saving grace: it usually came in the form of the Sunday funnies.  Most notably the colored funnies, and especially catching up with the round-headed kid – good ‘ol Charlie Brown.  Having sprung for the Weekly Reader book club offers of a wide variety of Peanuts paperback classics, I knew the whole gang and all their proclivities.

Teach Me

Is. 1:17 Learn to do good


Being good is not natural.  The way of goodness is not my inclination.  Once we perhaps were all good.  But upon the Fall, our best goodness was not good enough.  Sin is now my long constant companion.  I can feel its weight and know its face.  As I drift away from Christ in the busyness of my days, its face becomes clearer.  But we can learn to do good.  It is a conscious act.  We can make good things happen.  Yes - they may remain tainted with sin and bear the dirt marks of pride.  But the paint-by-numbers art is still cherished by the Father.




Being in the image of God carries with it a desire for justice.  To see justice, rebuke the oppressor - defend the fatherless and plead for the widow.  Is that how we learn?  God grant me the your eyes to see injustice and the courage to confront it.  God grant me the heart to drive out sin and cleanse my spirit.  God teach me and let me learn.

It's a dangerous business...

After considerably longer than it should have taken, I am down to reading aloud the final two chapters of the Lord of the Rings to my daughter, Sarah.  We began our journey well over a year ago and Tom Bombadil and Ring Wraiths are distant memories.  All that remains is taking care of business in the Shire and then goodbyes on the shore.  I am certain tears will ensue as we approach the end – as they did when I finished reading to my son.  They will be mine.

I don’t know why I buy in so much.  I read the books first in high school – now more than thirty years past.  As an awkward and insecure young man, there was something in the story that held sway against a seemingly dead-end future.  More than just an adventure, the books drew me into a world that where the lines were cleanly cut.  In our fallen world, we struggle with decisions, not knowing what the ‘right’ thing to do is.  We get caught up in keeping up appearances.  We set aside higher ideals for the mundane – often because we’re just worn out at the end of the day. 

Hip Check

This is the fourth night in a row that I have spent sleeping on a hospital sofa just a few feet from my mom's bed.  Last Thursday I picked her up at 6 AM and by 11 AM, she had a new hip joint installed.  After 80 years and 4 months, the cartilage was shot.  Countless articulations of the joint had eventually created a condition that was simply no longer tenable.  She had been walking hunched over for months and we'd all held our collective breath waiting for the fall and subsequent broken bone.  Thankfully, we've avoided that.

Today she tooled around the hall test driving the new connection.  That is pretty miraculous.  This little hospital on the side of the hill in Marion does a couple of these operations each week.  Extrapolating this across the country would have to tally to thousands each week.  Like many procedures now, its practically a drive-thru operation. 

The thing is that I can't shake the whole industrial approach to medicine.  Its not that I am not grateful for the advancements - I am.  And the staff here has been excellent.  But it comes down to the numbers.  Vital signs, drip rates, blood tests, schedules, etc. all lead toward mobilizing bodies toward self-support.  And I am sure there are loads of statistics that drive care and procedures.  And don't even get me started on the lawyers. 

I guess I am weary of our misplaced faith.  Its a fine line I know.  And I am trying to take care in selecting words (recognizing that I'm tired and need to tread cautiously).  But if God is sovereign - which I believe He is, then I need to see Him in this.  He has allowed our illnesses.  He weaves our sores and cancers into a tapestry of suffering that glorifies Him - or can if we will let it.  The seeds of death are planted deep within us and will in time blossom.  I wish I was bolder in a faith that set God in the proper place - that of the center.  Jesus healed.  Jesus touched and spoke and raised up.  He hasn't stopped doing it.  But when I pick up the phone and call for an appointment before I raise up a single prayer - well, then what does that say of my faith? 

One day, not long from now, it will be my turn.  I hope that when I get the call with the bad news that my first thought is one of joy.  Joy that Christ is leading me.  Joy that there need not be any fear.  Joy that any suffering I will face will bring me nearer to Jesus in a mystical way.  Beyond understanding.  Until then, may God bless the suffering.  May He guide the surgeons hand.  And may I never doubt His grace.

Steady

I recall a wonderful story from my youth concerning a British military school for young men.  As it goes, there was a bit of a coup in the ranks  - and the cadets had actually taken control of the buildings.  [Bear with me.  I know that sounds implausible, but for the moment, let's roll with it].  Anyway, the cadets pretty well had secured the perimeter and were calling all the shots.  Needless to say, the (former) administration and some more-than-interested parents were ready to storm the gates.  One of the cadet's father was among a group that was selected to meet with the young men and negotiate a resolution. 


The meeting was set to take place within the walls of the school.  The emissaries were escorted into the room and were set to lay down the law in no uncertain terms.  When the young men entered the room, the father recognized his son, rose and walked across the room.  Upon striding up to his son, he looked into his eyes, rested a hand on his shoulder and issued a one word directive - 'Steady'. No condemnation, no judgment.  Just a reminder to remember who you are, what you can do, what you cannot.