The Parson Ponders: In the Light of Day

(This reprised Ponders, a little early for Epiphany this year, is dedicated to my friend Paula, who recently had a squirrelly time--- but got de-squirreled a lot faster than me!)

From the very first moment of waking, New Year's Eve morning was a joyous time in our household.  It wasn't because we had made it through what had been, at times, a difficult year for us.  It wasn't because I was thinking of the First Night celebration we were going to attend that night in Akron.  It wasn't because Martha woke me and told me a good joke: she doesn't do that in the morning.

It was a joyous time because I was awakened by rattling in the attic.  It was rattling in the attic as opposed to gnawing in the attic.  Yes, a visitor had decided to hunker down for the winter in our attic.  I had been doing battle with the culprit for about six weeks, searching for the place he might have entered the attic, stapling the suspected hole shut, and wondering if the pesky guy was in or out when I sealed the hole shut. 

I soon found out that he was in, but he was not at all interested in the peanut butter, corn nor walnuts I placed inside my cocked traps to tempt him. Meanwhile, the critter made noises in the attic such that you would imagine a grown man was in the attic with a hand saw.  When I slithered through the tiny hole leading into one of the least accessible parts of the attic and lifted a bat of insulation, I discovered what that varmint was about with all his sawing.  There lay about 50 walnuts, each with a dime size hole in it where the nut had been extracted.  There too was about a half a pail of saw dust from the buzz saw teeth of this monster.

I say "monster," because that is what he became as time went on.  In our minds, the creature began getting bigger and bigger, fiercer and fiercer, meaner and meaner.  We soon began thinking that the roof would probably cave in some day about the time he turned his attention to a roof rafter instead of a walnut.  If not that, then the house would be set afire when he severed an electrical wire.  I began dreaming a recurring nightmare of the creature gnawing a hole through the ceiling of my bedroom and dropping down on me in the middle of the night in order to escape his prison.  Don't laugh, he was right above us, gnawing away, the night we rented "The Shawshank Redemption" tape, and 

that's how the guy broke out of his jail cell!

But you already know that this has a joyful outcome, don't you?  On New Year's Eve morning.  The rattling in the attic was this huge, mean, nasty monster that had plagued us for nearly two months.  He was in the trap.  The small dish of water recently added to the trap must have finally made him let down his defenses.  I bundled up, got a pair of heavy duty gloves, and with heart beating wildly I ascended the steps into the attic ready to do battle. 

What was it that struck such fear in us?  A little gray squirrel, not even half grown.  We had imagined him to be much bigger, much craftier, much more tuned in to the wiles of mankind: a seasoned veteran in outwitting people and wreaking havoc upon them.  In the light of day, he didn't seem nearly as invincible. 

Epiphany is the season of light.  It comes as we begin telling the news of Jesus' birth.  It comes as the light begins growing stronger and the days longer.  Epiphany is the time when the light of Jesus begins casting its rays into the darkness.  Epiphany is the time when we bring our monsters out into the light of Jesus and see that they aren't nearly as invincible as we once thought.  What is it that's gnawing away at you, making you feel as though you are under attack, causing you nightmares and fear?  Jesus has come to shed his light on that very thing.  One of the TV experts I listened to during my ordeal said that if you want squirrels to leave your attic, turn lights on in the attic and leave them on.  The squirrels don't like the constant light and will leave (if you haven't sealed up their escape route.  Now that Christmas is over, leave the Christmas light on.  Let Jesus shine on your fears and troubles.  They'll soon lose their power over you.

The Parson Ponders: Thanksgiving According to the Nail Holes

November 2010

There's something going on at our house in the two front rooms. The wallpaper has come off, and the plaster walls are getting a major upgrade. Paint is coming next, the first paint to touch these walls since the house was constructed in 1914.

There’s never been paint, but there HAS been wallpaper. Five layers of wallpaper coated the walls and ceiling when we took our steamer to it. Peeling back the latest wallpaper layer of pink hearts on white background of the 1980s, revealed the yellow paisley of the 70s, the much loved green Miracle Mart special of the 60s (if you know what the Miracle Mart was, you are a thrifty old timer from these parts!), the brown stripes of the late 50s, and finally, the original white floral and stripes that endured the longest, from the beginning of the house up until the 1950's. That 1914 wall covering still looked pretty good when Martha carefully removed the upper layers to expose some of it. My brothers and I can reconstruct our lives by recalling the aura of each of those layers.

But what really sets the plate for me as I approach Thanksgiving this year is all of the nail holes in my walls. Instead of patching the nail holes before applying another layer of wallpaper, my family simply left the holes and covered them with a new layer of wallpaper. The holes were covered and forgotten. But when all those layers came off, we saw every nail hole that ever was filled by a nail that held some treasured picture. 

Some nail holes were made way back in 1914. Their nails held pictures of family and loved ones, artistic renderings of God's bounty and the beautiful world around us. Some of the now missing nails anchored drawings made by the kids and grandkids, or Christmas and Easter decorations, or perhaps, some biblical wisdom couched on a plaque or card.

In one favored spot on the wall, over where a chair usually sat, I counted 75 nail holes! That's a lot of holes, that held a lot of nails, that held a lot of beauty and memories! But even more, that's a lot of Thanksgiving. To me, every nail driven into that plaster is a prayer of thanksgiving. It celebrates some gift of God that the family wanted to hold up and remember. On that one spot on that wall, at least 75 times, some member of my family, or the other families that lived here before us, went to it, and with their hammer and nail, pounded out a joyful noise of thanksgiving to our good and gracious God!

Maybe there are holes in your walls too, or maybe you patched yours before you tapped in new nails. Maybe there are people, places, and biblical gems you treasure and want to remember that have warranted a nail and a nail hole in your wall. It’s a good place to start your Thanksgiving this year. The nails hold the story of all we have received from God’s hand. There’s a thankful wonder about nails and nail holes, starting with the nails of the cross, which held up our greatest gift! Happy Thanksgiving!

The Parson Ponders: Chooser/Chosen

The following Parson Ponders is a rerun of one I wrote in November 2008. It is shared in thanksgiving for our special kitty-cat named Chooser. We named her Chooser because she chose to spend her very brief 2 year life with us and touched us more than we could have imagined. Today, she was put down because of a mystery illness that was slowly sapping her life.

The Parson Ponders: Chosen!
What happens when a cat -or God - sets his (or her) eyes on you.

We’ve been chosen, Martha and I. Imagine that!

Being chosen is a good feeling.

This “being chosen” wasn’t one of those mass mailings that proclaim “You have been chosen to receive a free weekend at a lake resort!”

No, it is something much more significant than that. We’ve been chosen by a cat, which at this time remains nameless. The little kitty showed up sometime towards the end of the summer, a scrawny black and white kitten. It wasn’t too forward at first, just keeping itself in close but not touchable proximity. But it was always there, it seems. Whenever we went outside, there was the cat. When we went for a walk, there was the cat. When we drove up in the car, it was waiting for us. For whatever reason, the cat decided we were its best bet in life.

I immediately went into my “ignore that it is there mode”. I remember that, when I was a boy, there were a bunch of wild cats that hung out in the barn that was then standing on the property. Some of them came to an unfortunate, poisonous end by visiting the neighboring mink farm.

And of course, there was Fluffy. When I was about ten years old, Fluffy would hop onto my pillow and purr in my ear every morning. With her patches of black and white, she looked like she could have been an ancestor of our current feline visitor. I remember taking quite a hit when Fluffy got run over in the street in front of our house.

So I determined I was not going to hand over my heart to this current tagalong cat. I remain firm in that resolve -- well, pretty firm.

Martha was even more firm about that, despite the flattery and the rush of appreciation that comes from being chosen. With the approaching cold weather, she was talking about taking the cat to the pound.

So, imagine my surprise when, one day, Martha confessed that she had slipped the cat the remains of her hot dog. You could almost hear the groaning and cracking as the wall of her resolve crumpled. The cat chose her, and now she has chosen the cat. (Of course, I was once a pretty cool cat myself who chose a certain lady, and got chosen in return! Or was it the other way around?)

It is a great feeling to be chosen. Someone has noticed you. Someone cares about you. Someone believes in you. Even when it’s a cat doing the choosing, it still makes you feel like somebody.

But think how great it is when God is the one doing the choosing. Jesus made it clear to his disciples: You did not choose me but I chose you. And I appointed you to go and bear fruit, fruit that will last, so that the Father will give you whatever you ask him in my name. John 15:16

The second part of that verse, the bearing fruit part, the responsibility part, is
breaking in upon us now. Since the cat has chosen Martha, and she has chosen the cat, it is time for us to start bearing a little fruit. We will at minimum need to provide some food and shelter, even if it remains an outside cat. It took longer for the reality to dawn upon us that, if we let nature take its course, we could soon have lots more little kitties running around unless we invest in some birth control! The plot thickens.

I think that kitty and God have a lot in common. They both are very good at hanging around, walking where we walk, anticipating our moves, believing in us, and above all, declaring themselves for us before we ever even think about responding to them. They’re always with us, no matter what. And somehow that persistence in being with us, that declaration of love for us is very hard to resist. Sooner or later, we come to appreciate being chosen, and we respond in kind.

It seems to me that there is one more thing that is aching to be done for the tag-along cat outside our door. It needs a name. I’m thinking about “Chooser” for that’s exactly what this cat did: it chose us. Or maybe a more distinguished title is on order, like Wormer, as in Wormer von Heart, for that’s what the cat has done: wormed its way into our life and hearts.

And that’s what the big, big Cat, the creator of this world has done as well. We’ve been chosen. Our loving God is at work at this very moment, worming his way into our hearts. It might be hard to resist. And you might end up bearing some fruit. 

Addendum:

I am happy to report that Chooser -yes that’s the name we joyfully gave her- became a full member of our family. She was never far from our thoughts. She liked to go on walks around the lake with me. I built her a thickly insulated outdoor home which she happily accepted on those cold winter nights. If I had an outdoor project, she always found a good vantage spot not far from where I was working. She remained an outdoor cat, much to the dismay of the mouse and chipmunk population of the area. She seemed to prefer the outside, but she became very aware of our movements inside the house and liked to peer in and watch us. We asked the vet about her being an outside cat. He answered, “Well, outside cats don’t often live as long as indoor cats, but they seem to have a whole lot of fun!” Alas, that was true of our Chooser. She had a great time outdoors, but she didn’t live a long life. She was only with us for a couple of years before she became ill and died. We will never forget that she chose us and brought much love and joy to our lives.

The (retired) Parson Ponders: Sitting with Alex

Ever since last January, when my life began zig-zagging into retirement, an “Alex” Parson Ponders has been jumbling around in my head. I’m sure I would have slept better some nights if I would have just gotten up and committed it to paper so that my mind could come to rest. But I didn’t.

The words might still be careening in my cranium, like an endless game of pong, had not Pastor Corsi offered a gracious invitation to me: “People tell me they enjoyed your Parson Ponders. If you enjoy writing them, how about writing some more for the newsletter?”

Well, how do you turn down an invitation like that?! So, here’s an offering, and we’ll see if the Spirit moves and pushes towards a few more somewhere down the road.

I liked Alex from the very first time I met him. His brother Andrew is a pretty cool guy too. Mom and dad, Shauna and Jamie? They’re tops. And when little Anna came along, I could see that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

But Alex had a way of standing out, and then working his way into your heart. I would say that when I met him, he was about one third ornery, one third bright and engaging, and one third pure, unadulterated joy.

He always wanted to sit next to me at Children’s Sermon time. He always wanted to answer the questions, and sometimes he didn’t want to go back to his seat. One time he tried hiding from his mom behind the altar rather than returning to his pew, and another time, he decided he would just sit on the front step for the rest of the service. I think I may also have a few extra knots in my cincture thanks to Alex fiddling with my rope while I was talking to the kids.

But ornery or not, you had to love him! Always smiling, always full of joy and wonder, always ready to engage. He always made me smile.

A couple of Sundays before I retired, Alex said. “Is it really true that you’re not going to be our pastor anymore?” “Yes, I said, “that’s right.”

Alex seemed to have worked through this and was ready with his next question: “Well, then, when you come back to visit us, will you sit next to me?”

Ahhh!! That Alex! He’s a resurrection kind of guy. He’s already discovered that change is inevitable, and rather than feeling bad and wanting to keep things the same, it's better --it's Jesus like – to look for the new opportunities that come with the change. Hey, if the pastor isn’t going to sit in the big chair up front, then he can sit anywhere in the church! Maybe he could sit next to me.

The disciples, both before and after the resurrection, wanted to freeze time: build a booth on the mountain after the transfiguration, keep Jesus from all harm and with them at all cost, cling to him after the resurrection. But always, he embraced the change, and pointed them to the new wonderful things that lay ahead.

Thank you, Alex. You helped me see things the way God sees them.

Maybe now, you have even helped the people you see every Sunday to think about the good side, the Jesus side, of change. I’ll bet you’re already finding that God has sent a very special person to St. Michael’s named Pastor Corsi. There will be lots of good times and learning with him.

So dear Alex, try not to tie knots in Pastor Corsi’s cincture. And yes, my friend, you can be sure that Martha and I will come and worship at your church soon, and if there’s a seat, and you still want me to sit next to you, I would consider it an honor!