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.