NOT A GAME OF PERFECT

Imperfect Cross, Bethlehem, Israel

A pending Duke Theology graduate and friend shared his learning experience in the Holy Land last Thursday at a breakfast and thoughtfully presented everyone with an olive wood cross that was made in Bethlehem. As the bag of crosses was being passed to me I noticed an odd shaped cross through the clear plastic which I selected. This imperfect cross is slightly out of balance as the horizontal beam leans to one side, unlike the perfect being that willingly sacrificed himself for us on such a cross. There were a lot of crosses in the bag that were more perfect than this one, but it reminded me of the shells that I now pick up at the beach. When we first arrived in the Carolina’s and went shelling on the beach, I would seemingly walk forever to find the perfect shell that was not broken or misshapen or contained any flaws from days of being tumbled in the surf. Then on a much later beach trip, I began to notice the beauty that is in those shell fragments that are broken and polished by the constant pressure of the waves and the storms of life. That was the day that I began to collect those treasures that the bearer of the footsteps ahead of me had left unclaimed.

Our Creator and Savior doesn’t leave us unclaimed either. He created us humans with imperfections in a broken environment and gave us the free will to choose how we live and grow in our lives.

I’ve had two knee joint replacement surgeries and open heart bypass surgery in between them. God has taught me through my shelling experience on the Carolina beaches that the remnant zipper scars from those surgeries are not abhorrent but artistic character lines that were earned in the trenches of this broken world! And many of life’s scars are not visible, but all can be celebrated when God walks with us or even carries us on the beaches of life and helps us emerge safely on the other side of the island.

I know many of you have dabbled in the game of golf over the years and I’ve played the game on and off since I was in college fifty years ago. And one thing that I’ve learned through all those hours on a golf course is that the game of golf imitates life in so many ways. Perhaps that is one of the subconscious reasons so many of us are drawn to the game. It’s also one of those games that can never be mastered, although there are occasions when you pull off a perfect shot and can feel like you are indeed playing in the zone. Life can be like that too!

Over the years I’ve read a couple of the books by a sports psychologist, Dr. Bob Rotella. I find that he has some pretty astute observations on the game of golf and life. One of those quotes I particularly like is that:

“Golf is about how well you accept, respond to and score with your misses, much more than it is a game of perfect shots.”

And there are plenty of times in life where it seems we have absolutely no control over the adverse circumstances that we’re encountering. But we always have one very important control that we need to remember and that’s how we choose to respond to a situation. We always have a response to the hard shanks of life by communicating with our Savior who understands the suffering and pain we humans can encounter in this temporary mortal life. I don’t think it’s possible for any of us to go through life without experiencing pain and suffering. We have a lot of misses in life. It’s not a game of perfect. But when we have a solid foundation of faith based on the Word of God and the promise of His priceless grace and presence for us, we can respond with strength and the sure knowledge that He has us in the grip of His loving hands.

GOIN’ HOME

Open Door, Bethlehem, Israel

Ever since I can remember I have set a clock radio to the local NPR station to civilly wake me for the new day. For those of you that listen to public radio, you know that the BBC covers the late night hours until early morning. Today I was rising early and was awakened by a soulful, haunting melody that was being broadcast from Brittan before the baton was handed off to America. The music somehow resonated in the depths of my subconscious, so I stayed and listened to the radio.

The melody was simply being whistled in the early morning hour. And one of the accompanying poignant stories was of a man who was being interviewed after spending time in solitary confinement in apartheid South Africa. He had maintained his sanity by walking in the windowless cell and whistling this celebrated melody from Antonin Dvorak’s Symphony 9 in E Minor, OP 95, From the New World; II LARGO. This second movement had been translated into a popular spiritual titled Goin’ Home by one of his pupils. The Czech composer created this symphony while in America as director of the National Conservatory of Music at the turn of the twentieth century. Dvořák’s main goal in America was to discover "American Music" and engage in it. He stated that he used elements from American spirituals and Native American music in this work. Both venues incorporate the pentatonic scale in their music. The prisoner had found great solace when he heard a faint echo of the whistle coming from a distant cell in the building. Later, he met the stranger who also took comfort in the music and learned that they were both passionate about anti-apartheid and Dvorak.

Another story was about a group of British women that had been living in Singapore at the beginning of Japan’s WWII invasion. They ended up in a soulless prison camp, but found salvation and a reason to survive by slowly creating a women’s choir that practiced singing the melody in small groups. When they finally coordinated their combined voices, she recalled that “freedom had ascended into the heavens from the hell hole of our existence”. Another story revolved around the memory of a now adult man who was in a high school orchestra. He recalled that they had progressed enough to prompt their music instructor to have them attempt the second movement. It did not go well initially and the students became discouraged. Then the instructor confided in the students that he had selected this piece because it held significant meaning in his life. Early in his music career he had been unemployed and broken-spirited. He had pawned his viola for a suicide gun. Then he told them that he heard this music and it saved his life, “so may we please continue?” The student reflected that testimony became a turning point for everyone and they went on to a lasting bond culminating in a wonderful performance.

Some music goes straight to the heart, some resonates with the intellect. This music pierces the soul. “From The New World” is the most popular of Dvorak’s works and has been performed more often than any other symphony at the Royal Festival Hall, London. If the music seems familiar it may be because it has been widely used in all media venues such as films and advertisements. I don’t know if the distressed folks in these stories knew the words to “Goin’ Home” or the music simply was apt, but the ending words to the song certainly applied:

Morning star lights the way
Restless dream all done
Shadows gone, break of day
Real life yes begun

There's no break, aint no end
Jus' a livin' on
Wide awake with a smile
Going on and on

Going home, going home
I'm jus' going home
It's not far, yes close by
Through an open door
I'm jus' going home

Going home, going home

If you’d like to jar your memory, here is a link to a few minutes of the second movement on YouTube:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aYl4Xb4cDQ8

RIDIN’ WITH GRANDPA

1940 Plymouth Sedan, Internet Domain

A switch in the receding recesses of my memory cells was tripped this week by a headline story about a young boy that called 911 to report his father had ran a red light. He had actually made a right turn on red. Isn’t it amazing how many small incidents and daily routines occur in the course of a life that will forever go without recall? But then there are a chosen few that seem to stay on a shorter leash and occasionally bubble up to the surface. Sometimes it only takes a similar incident to make the connection and transfer an old memory to your present consciousness.

I grew up with a large extended family that included a dozen cousins. Summertime was always filled with sun and fun, with the exception of those boring rainy days when you constantly hassled your mother about having nothing to do. We never had any problem finding something to do outdoors, however, and that’s where I spent most of my childhood days.

My grandpa Davis and grandmother lived next door which was nice. So we grandkids had lots of occasions to interact with them and share the love. That was another time in America as we were transitioning from a rural to an urban society and families still lived relatively close together. The 911 story prompted me to remember a summertime day when a number of us grandkids were riding in the spacious back of my grandpa’s old four door Plymouth sedan. I can’t swear that it was a Plymouth or even what year it was, but that’s the hazy image that still resides in my aging grey matter. I do vividly recall that we had ample room back there to stand up and jump around without the contemporary constraints of seat belts, child restraining seats and child door locks.

My grandpa Davis was literally smoking down one of the grid streets in our small central Kansas town (he always had that ubiquitous Roi Tan cigar poking out the side of his mouth and unfiltered smoking wasn’t a concern, let alone second hand smoke for children). Air conditioning involved rolling down all the windows. As we approached the main thoroughfare that dissected the town he blew right through one of the stop signs that lined every street that intersected the road. Everyone in the car except my grandpa seemed to notice the sign and we all yelled and screamed. He didn’t miss a beat as he took a puff on the shortening Roi Tan and calmly said with a smile, “There’s no cars coming.” He had lived all of his life on farms where you pretty much took a common sense approach to life without the need for governments directing how you moved around.

That memory has also surfaced every once in a while when I hear the story about how “a guy wanted to leave this earth just like his grandfather who died peacefully in his sleep—not like all the people yelling and screaming in the back seat!” And you can bet your bottom dollar that if one of us grandkids had a futuristic cell phone on that long ago summer day, we would NOT have called the police. I do believe that we had a good time telling HIS children though!

SOUNDTRACK OF A LIFE

Beach Sounds, Wrightsville Beach, NC

Have you ever stopped the music, grabbed the nearest chair, put your life on rewind and just reflected about the soundtrack of your life? As life moves along we’re exposed to a plethora of sounds and many of them become woven into the tapestry of our being. They’re as much a part of our life as the familiar places and comfort food we enjoy. And all of the non-verbal sounds including instrumental music are part of the universal language in everyone’s life.

The obvious first impression is all the music that has shaped who you are and who you will still become. Early childhood music and songs still ring with nostalgia when you attend a children’s choir performance. Then there’s the popular music that became an obsession during our teen years. I grew to appreciate the Beach Boys, Bob Marley and James Taylor much more after we moved to the Carolina’s. That was followed by possibly more reserved jazz, classical or even alternative sounds. Our senior years hopefully are filled with a wide variety of music including the recall of old hymns to complete a life well lived. That certainly includes listening to the comfort music that conjures up many of our milestone moments and experiences of the past. In fact, last year marked the first time in U.S. history that catalogue albums out sold new releases. Nostalgia is in the air waves!

Then there are the voices of the past that always give us pause to reflect. Voices such as television anchors that we listened to for years and years during the dinner hour. Familiar voices of movie stars that we enjoyed watching in a variety of roles and emotional situations become as recognizable as those of close friends and family members. Actually, we still have the opportunity to listen to those voices that have been archived on celluloid film even more than those of folks that we actually knew in real life. Popular sportscasters were people that we also spent a considerable amount of time watching and listening to on radios and televisions. These people never knew us, but we were very familiar with them and their voices. Have you ever finally met a radio personality that you listened to for years and found that they didn’t look anything like the image you had in your mind?

The sounds of nature can be very unique to a time and place. I’ll always have an imprint of the piercing screech of a golden eagle soaring over a Rocky Mountain canyon, the taunting caw of a flock of crows hassling a red tail hawk in a grove of walnut trees, or the plaintive call of sea gulls as they glide along the edges of a windswept beach. I will always recall the lonesome sound of a loon at evening time across a placid moonlit Minnesota lake in late spring. Then there’s the distant gathering cries of migrating flocks of geese overhead on a chilly late autumn night as a cold front drives them south on a strong northerly wind. And I still have vivid memories of listening to coyotes calling from hill to hill around the family farm on a humid summer’s night in the central Kansas Flint Hills.

There are even inanimate sounds that enter into our lives like a comfortable pair of blue jeans. Who cannot feel nostalgic when hearing the distant whistle of a train in the dark hours of the night? And the sound of rain gently falling on a windowpane can really leave you in a melancholy mood. Water rushing down a rocky mountain stream and waves lapping onto a sandy beach never lose their calming effect. And neither does the sound of wind moving through the tall grass prairie or high country pine needles and rustling aspen leaves. The approaching sound of ominous thunder in the distance as it gains momentum always stirs up long forgotten fears buried deep within our prehistoric DNA.

We consciously and subconsciously find comfort and solace in all of these sounds as they complete the unique playlist for the soundtrack of a life.

CREATION HAIKU

First Day Lily, Jamestown, NC

The Day Lily has only one day to live,
but that is time enough.

Dawn breaks in the East.
As the linen sky glows pink,
swelling buds respond.

The light signals life.
Sunbeams pierce the horizon,
and darkness recedes.

The flower opens.
Photo cells begin to charge,
and colorful petals furl.

New life is revealed.
As DNA is released,
the circle closes.

FLOWER OF REMEMBRANCE

Red Remembrance Poppy, Jamestown, NC

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow,
between the crosses, row on row,
that mark our place; and in the sky,
the larks, still bravely singing, fly,
scarce heard amid the guns below.
-- In Flander’s Fields by John McCrae

“Honor the Dead by Helping the Living”

Memorial weekend is a great beginning to the summer beach days in the sun with outdoor grilling and good times culminating with Labor Day to bookend the season. But the blooming poppy in my backyard garden on this overcast day with a tropical storm on the doorstep gives us all pause to remember the reason for the holiday. Memorial Day was created to remember the men and women who died while serving this great country while Veterans Day celebrates the service of all military veterans. It also gives us all pause to remember those loved souls who have gone before us.

Whenever I see a poppy flower I’m always reminded of my grandmother who all of us grandkids called Mom. She proudly displayed a gold star in her front picture window like many others in our central Kansas town. The practice was started in World War I when families hung Service Flags in their windows. A blue star on the flag represented any family member serving in the military during a conflict and it was replaced by a gold star if that loved one died. My grandmother and our family tragically knew that grief along with Grace Seibold of Washington, D.C. who lost her son in WWI. Grace realized that self-contained grief is self-destructive, so she organized a group consisting solely of those special mothers whose sons had lost their lives in military service and named that group the Gold Star Mothers.

The Gold Star Mothers held regular meetings which we would call support groups today. I distinctly remember my grandmother dressing up and never missing her Gold Star meetings. I didn’t understand the full meaning of those gatherings, and her profound grief, until much later in life. And I remember my sister and me standing on a Main Street corner with Mom passing out VFW Buddy Poppies to shoppers. These small artificial flowers are made by disabled and needy veterans in VA hospitals and other locations. You do not sell them, but the donations from those that accept the poppies are returned to these veterans along with widows and orphans of veterans. I do believe that Mom suggested a five cent donation when we were asked, however. These red poppies were inspired by the WWI poem In Flanders Fields. We always looked forward to accompanying Mom on those ventures, never suspecting that she was modeling a lifetime of partnering with others to help heal the world and us too.

And she was also modeling a behavior of partnering with our Creator to always try to bring something good out of a tragic situation when a loved one does not emerge from one of the devastating storms of life.

WEATHERED COUNTRY HAY BARN

Hay Barn, Summerfield, NC

These hot and dusty bad boys can teach a young man a great life lesson in the summertime--stay in school and store up your treasures between your ears!

This old storage barn and its contents reminds me of the parable Jesus taught of the rich man who had not learned the life lesson that “a man’s life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions”. When the country gentleman had a bumper crop his only thought was how to keep his hold on it, instead of sharing his great blessing with those in need. So he tore down his barns and built bigger barns to hold the great harvest. His plan was to lay back, eat, drink and be merry. But that night his life was demanded of him.

What a sad legacy. His great harvest was left for his heirs to divide and his legacy was that of greed and gathering for himself instead of gratitude and gracious sharing.