Children

Why and how does God pick the children to send to us? This is all rambling speculation, of course. Who would dare think such a thing and hope to know for sure. There is my disclaimer. Now, permit this foolish mind to wander. As you very well know, children come in all sorts of sizes, shapes, and personalities. No two are alike. We place our order for the normal sort and hope for the best. But, alas, some funny things happen on the way to the forum. One of my favorite songs reflecting this truth is taken from the stage play, “The Majestics.” Two neighbors commiserate about their children and the one who loves to garden complains, “You plant peas, you get peas; you plant carrots, you get carrots, but with children, you never know what you are going to get.” True, they do end up looking like various elements of the family tree with noses and eyes, ears and toes, hair and skin that reflect everyone from dad to a maternal great grandmother. But after that, the reflection pales quickly. Engineer types end up with budding artists, farmers beget physicists, teachers give birth to future plumbers, and neat freaks awake with horror at the presence of a complete litterbug in their family nest.

There is the heart and soul of my question. Is God in charge of picking out and sending us these un-returnable gifts that we cannot possibly let go of but that turn our carefully arranged worlds upside down? Now even I know that there are some limits to be observed in picking out gifts for my unique family members at Christmas. My wife does not appreciate the mystery and magic of a power tool. Grandma has no use for a new bowling ball. Our family, like yours, has seen some strange gifts at Christmas time. I got a full-size Pizza Hut delivery sign for the top of my car once. And then there was the flying pig wind catcher for the front lawn. Gift giving is challenging, and I certainly have had my moments of madness in trying to be “appropriate” as much as anyone. I take comfort at the long lines of folks returning things after Christmas knowing that I am not the only one who sometimes gets it wrong. But God surely must know who we are and what would really make us happy. Right? How could He possibly get things so screwed up at times. Was this the child we ordered or had in mind?

I am afraid of the theology that says that it is all mere chance, potluck, a roll of the dice, that brings into our lives such momentous change. Somehow, I can’t quite go there. And yet, how do I make sense of the wondrous packages that arrive in my life that so befuddle me and bring such perplexity to my otherwise comfortable mind? Could it be, oh please, that God knows what we need as well as what would make us happy? Dare I think that He would send a child into my life that would challenge me at my weakest point? I have to admit that He seems to give mates that both attract and challenge one another. I am certainly the better for having married one so unlike myself.

And did not God send His Son into our world in both form and fashion that would shake all of our carefully crafted pre-conceptions of what God would look like in human flesh? He ignored all customary protocols of royalty. He arrived, the embarrassment of a virgin. Shepherds were His heralds and strange foreign stargazers His witnesses. He soon fled, a fugitive of destructive forces He could have crushed with a whisper. And in His life, He was rejected, a man of sorrows, homeless. There was no beauty in Him that we should desire Him. Finally, accused, betrayed, and crushed, He died condemned a criminal. And yet, He was everything we needed. Everything we were not. The best gift ever. May you cherish anew all the gifts given into your life. They are all good, you know. Even the ones you can’t figure out.

Dear Jane

Dear Jane:

I am trying to imagine the bittersweet process with which you labored over the 40th anniversary cake you made for us last weekend. On the one hand, I know your love for us and how you would desire to rejoice with us in celebrating this milestone in our lives. That is just who you are. And you showed that through the skilled work of your hands and heart in crafting one of your signature cakes with all the flourishes. Our anniversary was one of those events we wished to celebrate with a “Jane ------” cake.

On the other hand, I know that this must have been painful to craft such a celebratory gift all the time knowing that you would never receive one. Your husband of many years has left and abandoned you. You will never experience the joy of a 40th anniversary. I hope you did not think it cruel of us to ask you to do this for us. I trust instead that you took this as a compliment of your craft and evidence of our belief that you still desire to rejoice with those who rejoice. Yet, I am searching for words to extend thanks, praise, and hope to a wounded soul.

Life comes with no guarantees other than the promises of God’s word. So I turn to that as you surely have done in these past dark days. I know you have asked hard questions. Was marriage worth the risk of such great pain? Did I make one great mistake or many small ones? How could I have known? All such questions are unanswerable, but they nag the soul like pestering flying insects that will not go away. These things we cannot know. But what can we know when standing in the midst of ruin and disaster?

First of all, we know that “a righteous man falleth seven times, and riseth up again (Pro. 24:16).” You will rise again if your heart is steadfast. Though this has been a grievous fall, you will once more become a strong tower of refuge for others. I believe this. I trust you can believe it as well. Secondly, we know that those who plant themselves by the rivers of living water will not wither and whatever they do shall prosper (Ps. 1:3). I cherish this promise more and more as I grow older for it says that whatever, yes, whatever turn I take in life or is forced upon me, I can still see fruit blossom forth and witness productivity flowing from my life. It is the miracle of a Moses fleeing a felony, an Abraham surviving his own fearful lies, or a Joshua succeeding in spite of being married to a rebellious and unbelieving people. Thirdly, I know that you have a special place in God’s heart for “He upholdeth the fatherless and widow (Ps. 146:9).” He will establish your borders (Pro. 15:25). And like the divorced daughter of the Levitical priest, you are entitled to return home and eat of your father’s bread (Lev. 22:13).

My prayer for you is that you will be able to tell your children that your journey was worth the pain, that lifetime marriage is still God’s perfect plan, and that love risks everything or is not love at all. To do so will require a heart of mercy on your part, but the promise is that the merciful shall obtain mercy. You are in line to obtain much.

Blood

The time was 8:00 AM in the morning. I had been sitting on the edge of those familiar woods since 6:00 AM grateful for the extra layer of warm clothing I had chosen to wear. I watched the stars fade from the sky and the horizon grow light with the usual anticipation of the hunt. Then I sat for over an hour of full daylight with the same field of view that hadn’t changed a bit since it was first revealed in the full light of day. My eyes would sweep left and then right across the rolling pasture, stare at the sky or occasional bird, and then be tempted to close in a temporary doze. Anticipation was giving way to resignation that perhaps that morning would be like many others I had known; full of stillness and barren of action.

I chose that early morning hour to break the boredom with a cup of hot chocolate from the thermos. It felt good but was a pale substitute for a live target. I finished and put the thermos away, saving the rest for later. At that moment my emotions experienced a rapid shift as a pair of twitching ears caught my attention. Action! Stage right! Range: 50 yds! Here they come! One deer, then two, and finally four come over the hill slowly and suspiciously picking their way along. The lead one was looking straight at me, and I dared not move. She stooped to graze, and I swiveled to face them. Another look and I froze. We played this game for a major minute until I was able to raise my gun on target. By then the last one stepped out and presented a perfect profile, standing erect and looking straight in my direction. It was all I could do to calm my nerves and slowly squeeze off the one perfect shot that a muzzle-loader will allow.

By now, I had learned to just leave the gun, grab a knife and run. You have to chase after them to see which way they run just to be able to find your kill, if indeed you made one. This one had not run far before she fell in a skid between some logs. I looked at this good-sized doe and experienced the same rush of emotion I had felt occasionally before. There was the thrill of a successful hunt, and the exultation that all the patient waiting and preparation had paid off. But there was also a good deal of sadness as well, to see this beautiful creature who was once gracefully running free now brought down and slain by my own hand. And blood. She left a trail that would have been easy to follow.

Taking the knife out, I knew that there was more blood to follow as the field dressing now commenced. It is never my favorite part but all essential to the whole process. I felt a keen sense of the price of life itself. This one must die so that I might live. Without the spilling of blood, there is no meat on the table: no venison, no beef, no chicken, no pork, no fish. It may sound a bit strange, but I felt genuine sorrow for this animal who I had killed and was now yielding its body to me. Its very heart had been pierced by my bullet; a clean and quick kill. I was glad for its sake.

At the same time I felt the harsh price tag for my physical life, I sensed again the price of the spiritual life I possess in Christ. There, too, the cost was high. There is no remission of sin except for the shedding of blood. That verse was echoing, yea, pounding through my soul out there in the corner of that field that morning as my hands were fully stained. It is one thing to read that verse sitting in my Sunday best in the light of a beautiful multicolored glass window streaming forth a crucifixion scene. It was quite another to see actual blood upon my hands, my shoes, my truck. I rose up thankful anew that the deaths of innocent animals were no long necessary to atone for my sins; but even more thankful for the Lamb of God, poured out for the sin of the world, one time, for all. Nevertheless, blood is the price of my folly …and yours.

Shootings

Still another school shooting. America is not lacking for enemies abroad, but here, in our heartland, in the most pastoral of settings, among the most humble and God fearing, violence stalks the young and the innocent in a most brutal fashion. Within the hour, word travels along the hallways of our little world of insanity loosed and lives ended. The outrageousness of it propels the news even faster and causes us to cringe at the knowledge that those we love are equally as vulnerable. Never before would a mother pray that her children would hurry, grow up, and graduate so that they would be out of harm’s way. Now it is so.

The riddle of predicting these increasing spasms of violence is unknowable. In fact, it seems to happen in the places least expected. The innocent become victims more often than those for whom any shred of reason could reveal cause. It would almost seem that the days of Isaiah are upon us where the valiant ones cry, the ambassadors of peace weep bitterly, the highways lay waste, the wayfaring man ceaseth, the covenant is broken, and there is no regard for man (Isa. 33:7-8). We can no longer nurse the false hope that what we are witnessing are isolated and unrelated incidents. The insanity has become and,indeed, is nationwide, commonplace, and endemic to our culture.

So what do we do? Americans are notorious for wanting to fix things. It is rooted in our heritage of Yankee ingenuity. And now, refined by layers of education and technology, we want to find a cure for everything. There will be much reflecting in the days to come and a few will even dare to propose preventatives. But the most notable thing about this phenomena overall is the prevailing sense of helplessness that most folks feel; politicians and policemen included. We know deep down that there is little we can do as a society to deter the determined.

Isaiah describes in lurid detail his world gone mad and upside down. But he also knows the fear that grips the righteous and speaks to their anxiety. Amidst the destruction of all that they had known and relied upon for security and well-being, he speaks for God and tells the people that “wisdom and knowledge shall be the stability of thy times” and “the fear of the Lord is your treasure.” I do treasure the reign of law in this country and also the general sense of Christian values that still linger on in our culture even when their source is denied. I treasure the commitment of law-abiding citizens and policemen who are ready to lay down their lives for my safety. I treasure my rights guaranteed by my government and a free press to expose evil. But when all those things are trumped by a madman with a gun (or a madwoman exploiting her underage male students), I realize just how little stands between myself and utter chaos.

It is then that I must come back to learn to treasure the fear of the Lord. It is He who will one day rise and be exalted as the great judge and devouring fire. It is He who will burn the peoples as thorns and strike fear into sinners and surprise into hypocrites. Those that are far off will hear and those who are near will acknowledge -- His might. But who can live with a God of such awesome power? He that walks righteously and speaks uprightly; he that despises the gain of oppressions and does not take bribes; he who does not plot the spilling of blood and who shuts his eyes from seeing evil.

In this world, we will have tribulation, but we know a power that has overcome this world, and nothing or no one can take that from us. Our destiny and that of our children is fixed. Pass the word.

Average?

I don’t always get to, but I always enjoy hearing the latest news from Lake Woebegon where “all the men are strong, the women good looking, and the children are all above average.” Or are they? And if I were to write the news from Lake CFC, would I characterize our children as “all above average?” Would I even want to? Certainly, it is a truth that no one wants to be known as “average.” That would be a great stigma dropping from the sky likely to spook the Chicken Little in all of us.

For some reason or other, we have had a lot of conversation lately about how fast our children should be progressing. Are they at or above grade level? Are they exceptional children who should be challenged to go even faster? Are we, as a school, ahead of the pack and setting the standard? I even had a teacher ask point blank last week if CFC has aspirations to be an “elite” school. And if so, would that be by virtue of our clientele or, instead, a conscious choice on our part?

If you must know, the word “elite” makes me just as nervous as the word “average.” It exudes an exclusive quality that implies a sense of superiority and narrows one’s goals and admissions policy. Some folks love the label and strive with all their might to earn it. I run from it. To be an “elite” school says that we are here to serve a certain spectrum of student and have consciously chosen to do so. We would harness our wagon to those who want to excel in a narrow range of academics that others could not hope to attain.

On the other hand, excellence is a Godly virtue that we exalt and hold high. Whatever our hands find to do, we are to do with all our might to the glory of God. Slothfulness is to be condemned and shunned. Mediocrity is never an acceptable sacrifice.

So what is CFC to be known for? Accelerated academics or other intangibles? This may sound like a broken record but Scripture says that wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom. Jesus did not pick his motley set of disciples based upon SAT test scores. Nor did He minister to the educated elite of his day. Jesus’ ministry to children was not to tell them that their future hope lie in a college diploma. We live in a culture that is obsessed with knowledge and education. A high school diploma is viewed as a cure all by our government. The only key to prosperity is to be a player in the information age. I would caution that we not accept unquestionably the popular values of our age. Even secular experts are now saying that self-discipline in children is a bigger indicator of future success than IQ or test scores.

If CFC is, indeed, “better than public schools,” I trust that it will be because it is a safer place, a more caring community, and infused with kingdom values. Those values include doing one’s best but also means that there is a place for every child; even “average” ones. If in God’s house there is a place for the sparrow, that most common of birds, to build her nest, then surely there is place and time for the most average of students to progress at a most average of pace within CFC. For after all, the race is not to the swift nor the battle to the strong.

Grace

How much of History is interesting only because we can study someone else’s mistakes? Just think of all the books written about Napoleon’s ill-fated invasion of Russia. Or how about the gallant but disastrous quest of the Confederate States of America? Not only can we entertain ourselves for hours contemplating all the ruinous decisions of the southern politicians, but countless books have been written describing in wretched and gory detail the needless waste of lives by incompetent northern generals. Perhaps one reason the Bible itself makes such fascinating reading is because it is full of stories about imperfect people. Yes, we love to tell the story of David and Goliath as a story of triumph of a young man full of faith and spirit, but it is the story of David and Bathsheba that bonds us with this giant figure of history as a man human and flawed as we. Look at what sells at the supermarket. I would guess that the tabloids that hawk the sins and private griefs of the rich and famous outsell the “local-boy-makes-good” stories ten to one on any good day.

Political history books are compelling to read only because we can glean lessons from the errors of others gone by. Success stories just do not have the staying power to hold our attention in reading a book of 300-500 pages. Error, ruin, calamity, destruction, and death are the ripe and, nay, essential counterpoints of any good and successful history book. Without them, we classify any such biography especially as a one-sided whitewash job, a piece of family propaganda, or a piece of political hack. We know that behind every great man there are little known closets that contain either evidence of weakness, doubt, and fear or skeletons of outright scandal. Churchill and Lincoln suffered from acute bouts of depression. Nixon fell because of paranoia. John Wesley had a disastrous marriage. Augustus Toplady, author of “Rock of Ages,” was capable of venomous attacks upon fellow believers.

Our fascination with weakness is endemic to humanity itself. Numerous theories probably abound. Most likely is that each of us knows that we are deeply flawed ourselves. It is hard to identify with others in their strengths but comforting to know that we share their weaknesses. But to dwell on the failures of man is morbid and leads to depression. To crusade against sin and weakness is tempting but results in legalistic cruelty. To condone it results in compromise and permissiveness. To analyze it results in an endless psychological maze. There is but one solution: grace. It is the one distinctive that Christianity gives to the world.

We are all crippled. All are in need of grace every day. Communion speaks to me of that truth: His grace - as necessary as our daily bread and drink. Without it we can’t live or move or have our being. Marriages can’t function without it. Nor can administrators or schools or teachers. Your children need it as well. Daily doses. Free and unmerited. Do we sanction sin and failure? No. We face it squarely, and overcome it with grace, the ultimate white-out that enables us to face another day. Receiving grace humbles the proud and heals the brokenhearted. Giving grace does the very work of God. May you be blessed in both the giving and the receiving.

Remembering September 11

“…choose you this day whom ye will serve…but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.” -Joshua 24:15

This has been a traumatic week as we have relived the horrors of Sep. 11, 2001. I knew the anniversary was coming. It did not take me by surprise. But yet the reawakening of the emotions stirred again something so very sickening and grim within me that I found it disturbing. And now it was complicated by all of the frustrations of the last five years of a nation floundering to find its enemy and of those who still had no idea just who the enemy is. Part of me did not want to see the video again, to see the tributes, to watch the docu-dramas and listen to a President struggle for the words to make sense of it all. It was too big, too tragic, too vicious for processing in the spare change of my spare time.

I listened to a preacher try to memorialize and summarize last weekend just what we needed to remember. It is a most difficult job because it was such a multifaceted event. And there is still little agreement as to what actually happened. I sat with the announcement board that hangs out in front of the school and struggled as to what to write after the date, Mon. – Sep. 11. What do we say? How do we grieve? What is it that we should remember?

We grieve, of course, for the innocent victims, both good and bad, saved or lost. They deserved far better. We grieve for those in government who have to live with the “if only’s” of their missed chances. We grieve for a people enslaved by fanaticism who glory in their call to make war in the name of God. They are ultimately the biggest losers for their single eye towards destruction and subjection has rendered them unable to build viable societies or economies. We grieve for those who have sacrificed life in seeking retribution for the outrage of 9/11 and for those who struggle even now in the fog of this frontless war. We pray their sacrifices are not wasteful and without effect.

Some are finally awakening to the epic proportions of the ideological dimensions of this global confrontation. For this we can be thankful. And, in part, we can take some small comfort in that the soft, feel-good philosophy of inclusive relativism has finally met its match. For too long, many have frolicked barefoot in the tall grass of “no absolutes,” no right or wrong, each to his own, do your own thing. And now their soft toes have met an iron stake driven deep into the ground called Islam. The impact is painful and riveting as true believers are willing to come to our shores and die for the sake of “Truth” that will not compromise itself with pluralism or diversity. We, as Christians, have known all along that what you believe matters. Ideas are important. Words have meaning. There is right and wrong. Much of the world has forgotten. In the aftermath of 9/11, we have a rare opportunity to inform our world that there are choices to be made and stands to be taken.

Let us make sure to begin with our children. Black and white still exist. ‘Yes’ still means ‘yes’ and ‘no’ still means ‘no.’ The world is either flat or round but cannot be both. What we believe determines what we will do. What we sow is what we will reap. Our theology should determine our morals and not the other way around. The ten commandments are not the ten suggestions. Truth does not change with time. Absolutes still are those things which are true at all places, at all times, and with all people. There is a heaven to be gained and a hell to be spurned. There are many false gods but only one true one. And which one we serve makes all the difference.

Wonder

“…the earth is filled with the goodness of the Lord.” -Ps. 33:5

Consider the lowly cabbage. It never has gotten much respect in life. To be called a ‘cabbage head’ is definitely not a compliment. I have seen statistics and documentation dismissed as just ‘so much cabbage.’ The cabbage has not even made “Veggie Tales” status, to my knowledge. Yet I learned in 7th grade science class the other day that the juice of cabbage leaves possesses a unique power unknown to any other plant or vegetable. Filter paper soaked in cabbage juice and then dried can be used to distinguish between acids and bases. Simply watch for a color change when you dip this ‘cabbage paper’ into an unknown liquid and it will instantly tell you if it is an acid or a base. Amazing! First of all, there is the miracle of sensing these infinitely invisible free radicals, the positive hydrogen H+ ion or the negative hydroxide OH- ion, in solution. The cabbage knows. Then there is a second wonder of color change in which a chemical reaction takes place that then absorbs all light rays except the green or pink rays, which ever the case may be. It is nature’s natural litmus test. Having worked in a laboratory a number of years, I remember the finicky nature of expensive electrodes and constantly calibrated pH meters. Measuring pH accurately can be one of the most difficult of all laboratory procedures. But the cabbage knows instantly which way the cookie will crumble, acid or base. I was impressed with the vegetable itself and excited to learn something new.

This world is filled with wonders that keep expanding my vision of “the goodness of the Lord.” Woodworking has opened a world of wonder to me as I learned just a little of the incredible variety of wood and the characteristics of each species. Persimmon is one of the hardest woods available when dried. Cherished for golf club heads because of that, it also is one of the first woods to rot and decay when it hits the ground. It’s specie name means ‘food for the gods’ and was given because of the wood’s high sugar content. Every bug in the forest is drawn to feed upon it as soon as it dies. There is a story behind every wood that is uniquely written into its DNA. Each tree has its own unique fingerprint when its end grain is examined under a microscope. Each wood has its own strengths and weaknesses when used for various purposes. The variety is incredible, especially here in East Tennessee. And to think that they swim in a sea of pollen from all the trees of the forest, but each retains its own uniqueness over the centuries.

The insect world is filled with wonders. The writing spider eats its own web every night. Doodle-bugs hollow out sand traps for ants. And the preying mantis is just simply impossible. Then there is the animal kingdom of which I know so little. Add to this the wonder of the stars and light years of space. And then we can turn inward and stand awestruck at creation at the atomic and sub-atomic levels. The world of magnetism and electricity can consume a lifetime. A drop of pond water can contain enough life to fill books and books of descriptive text. The enormity of life that exists at the bacteriological level is astounding. Then there is the miracle of life itself. A single strand of DNA can stretch for several feet and contain enough information to fill a complete set of encyclopedias.

Do we stand back and communicate the wonder of creation enough to one another and to our children? It is one thing to teach the facts and facets of creation. But can we ever communicate well enough the sheer wonder of it all? The earth is filled with the goodness of the Lord. The more I fill my heart with wonder, the more I sense the glory and greatness of God. We don’t have all the answers here at CFC. I just hope we can frame the questions in terms writ large enough across the sky to do them justice.

Blog author at site of the first murder at the first of the September Massacres, St. Joseph des Carmes, Paris. Over 200 persons were bludgeoned and killed here including 114 priests to ensure the pre-eminence of "The Rights of Man."

For all those who endure, a golden crown ...

Who can know the power of a dream? Columbus had a dream of discovering a new world. Henry Ford had a dream of building an affordable automobile for the working-man. The Wright brothers had a dream of a flying machine. Many powerful and beneficial ideas have sprung from the imaginations of creative and visionary people over the ages. Educators, politicians, and guidance counselors make speeches out of this; so much so that it has become clichéd. Follow your dreams! Be all that you can be! Somewhere over the rainbow, etc. There is some truth there. We are made in the image of a creative God who has given us dominion over the created world. We are free to join Him in this on-going work both in gracing the world with works of beauty and discovery and also in redeeming part of what was broken in the fall. The creative impulse stirs from the very core of our being, a signature mark of the Creator, Himself.

Not only is it a natural outgrowth of who we are, but God also works in mysterious ways to kindle visions of service through the gifts and promises given to individual people like you and me. Abraham’s vision of being the father of nations was a promise of incredible proportions. Joseph’s visions of sheaves and ladders propelled and prepared him in ways he could not imagine. And Moses had a sense of destiny in looking upon his oppressed brothers that was linked with his privileged position. A superficial wish would be that we would be so blessed with same-such dreams and visions. I am not so sure. Dreams and visions can be very troubling things. Abraham waited and waited for the fruit of his promise to appear. And when it did not, he foolishly tried to bring it about on his own. Joseph shared his dreams with his brothers and was sold into slavery for his impetuous kindness. Moses slew an Egyptian and then fled for his life into self-imposed exile. In each case, the vision had to die before God could give it life.

Living with such dreams and visions can be a painful thing. And the temptation to force them into reality is constant. Such is the tragedy that stalks Shakespeare’s Macbeth. He becomes a self-made victim of the prophecies as he lends them his helping hand. On a slightly smaller scale, I happened to see a visionary on TV who had sacrificed his family and plunged into years of indebtedness all to follow a dream of a silly invention that had absolutely no merit. Not only was the bargain he had made a complete debacle, he stood pathetic and shamed before a TV audience with the sudden reality of it all. Many are the victims of following a dream to the exclusion of everything and everyone else.

David awoke one day and asked himself why he should dwell in a house of cedar while the ark of God dwelled in a tent. This vision of building the temple was one which grew in his heart and was to be the crowning achievement of his life. It was his dream. And it was a good thing. But God said, “No.” It would be built by David’s son, Solomon, instead.

Many of us have had dreams and visions of what we would like to accomplish in our lifetimes. They need to come with a warning label. Hazardous: handle with care! Giving them the Isaac-on-the-altar treatment is always good, preventative medicine. We must be willing to let them die so that God may resurrect them in His time. And let’s not forget David. We may never fulfill our dreams but instead enable our children to live them. Not all dreams are fulfilled in one generation. Especially great ones.

Sundays

"…and God rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had"

Finally, after the crush and rush of the first full week back to school, a Sunday dawned with ‘normalcy’ written all over it. Thank God for Sundays, that blessed provision from the foundation of the world for the sake of tired humanity. Some folk chafe at its proscription against labor. I revel in it. Maybe its because I am just such a shirker. Anyhow, when God says rest from your labor, who am I to argue?

Sunday can be such a day of refreshment. Rising early from force of habit, I find the house is quiet, time to reflect on the Word with no blast of hurry. Then there is the sweet music afforded on a radio station that prepares one for worship. Old favorites are mixed with a casual breakfast and the Sunday funnies. After church finds us gathered around a family dinner table for a home cooked meal and enjoying lively conversation ranging from the funny to the feisty. A soft couch brings a nourishing nap after which there is still time to write an overdue note, clear some clutter off the desk, make a long distance phone call, or just get some time to reboot one’s mind and spirit. And to think that it is a totally guilt-free experience. Sweet! The lawn can be as tall as ever, but it is Sunday! The garage still needs painting, but it is Sunday! I relish the change of pace, and can feel myself drinking up the refreshment to my body, spirit, and soul.

As idyllic as that all may sound, it was not always so. Sunday is the one day of the week our enemy loves to destroy. And it is not that hard to do, especially for young families. I well remember the sourness that would suddenly come out of nowhere on a Sunday morning and some resultant very quiet rides to church. Once, we never even made it. Expectations would clash, kids would lose a shoe, keys would turn up missing, or impermeable stains suddenly appear on clothing in between the house and the car: any one of which could drain a morning of all spirituality in a moment. The absolute match-to-dynamite in this morning scenario would be if one spouse or another was putting together a last minute Sunday school lesson. The odds for conflict would rise exponentially. And Sunday morning conflict can begin a conflagration that consumes the whole day and singes the whole week.

We learned we had to fight to preserve the sanity and sanctity of Sunday. The learning curve for dads is especially rough. I had to get lessons done ahead of time. I had to learn about expectations for shared responsibilities of prepping children for public display. Why don’t they teach you this stuff in manhood 101? But it seemed that no matter how much I made myself helpful, we were always finding ourselves in that last minute Sunday school charge. ‘I would NOT be late AGAIN,’ and, yes, I occasionally committed Sunday suicide by honking the horn from the driveway (men – do not try this at home, ever!). It took awhile, but I finally figured out why we were always running late: we were sleeping in until the last possible moment. My patriarchal instincts kicked in, and I wanted to proclaim a new time for rising and shining, but wisdom said this would be just another horn-in-the-driveway approach. I then discovered a secret weapon: bacon. The smell was irresistible. It was accompanied by eggs, pancakes, fried potatoes, etc. etc. Armed with these formidable weapons, I drove my family from their beds another whole hour earlier than what was usual. And, get this, they all thought I was great! We were up, fed, and then had an extra hour to get it right, strolling out the door, actually early. Tension was replaced by unexpected joy.

May you find and keep joy in your Sundays. At times you will have to fight for it, but it is there.