Waffles and Dignity

This morning at work, I took a few minutes while the dishwasher in the Daisy kitchen was going through a de-liming cycle and sat with some residents who were having a late breakfast. The conversation is almost always pleasant and I enjoy the interaction.
One elderly woman who was sitting opposite me was served a waffle on a plate. The aide that was attending the dining area offered to butter the waffle, pour the syrup, and cut the waffle for her. Although she accepted help getting the syrup lid off of the container, she refused all other help, stating that she wanted to try to do it on her own.
Cutting the waffle was almost agonizing for me to watch. She started first with the side of her fork, but when that didn’t cut all the way through, she picked up her knife and used it and the fork to complete the cut. She then cut off chunks of waffle that were the right size to eat and after several minutes got to eat some breakfast. She seemed pleased with herself that she could do these things, albeit with difficulty, on her own.
I haven’t a clue how much her arthritic fingers, elbows, and shoulders hurt during this time. I do know that she watched her hands intently while working with her breakfast, as if willing them somehow to do her bidding. I also know that she maintained a good attitude and even joked a little about her ordeal while I was there.
I almost felt guilty as I slid the chair back, got up (more or less effortlessly) and walked with my coffee cup over to the pot to get a refill, then on to the dishwasher to see if it was working correctly.
Older people sometimes think they are useless…that they have no more to give. I learned a lot today about dignity, independence, attitude, and fortitude. And it came from a woman cutting a waffle.

House?? Home??

It’s one thing to have a place to live. It’s quite another to call that place “home”. As of now, we have a place to live, but it’s not quite yet home. Many of the old familiar things that make a house a home, we no longer have because we’ve given them away or sold them when we moved to the children’s home. Some of the things we still have are yet in boxes, so we can’t see them or use them.
The house we moved to came with appliances, and we’ve bought new furniture for the living room and family room. We also bought a new bed mattress and box springs. So a lot of what we see when we’re there is new and is taking some getting-used-to.
However, a home is more than just familiar furniture. A home is an attitude…a mindset and a way of thinking. .One can live in the same house for thirty years and it never becomes home. Still another can live in a house for but a few days and immediately begin to feel the hominess of the place and see the concept of home growing and attaching itself.
As my wife and I continue to empty boxes, throw away trash and arrange furniture, we also put our marks on the place that was (and still is) a house and begin to make it a home. In a way, doing that is more work and takes more energy than just moving and unpacking. Where the move is physical labor, making a house a home exacts an emotional price that can’t be measured in dollars.
There comes a time when, if there are too many moves and the payment of the emotional price that comes with establishing yet another home, we become reluctant to invest any more of that capital into the task. We are content to live in a house for a time and not do what is required to make it a home. We are fearful that we will have to uproot yet again and do it all over, so why expend the energy?
I fear that my wife and I are becoming like that…moving so much that we are reluctant to put down roots. I know I am reluctant to do that. Maybe that’s why, as I’ve said before in this blog, I long for the day when I’ll have a home that I’ll never have to leave…where there will never be any cause for eviction. This life is too uncertain to bank on it here. I’m looking to the next life and the home that is promised to the children of Yahweh. I long for that stability.

Moving (Again)

Since the last blog, we have moved to our new home and are now living in the City of Wichita. We moved all of our stuff yesterday (Saturday) and are unboxing and unpacking things today. Pat will continue tomorrow as she doesn’t work until Tuesday. I will do what I can in the evenings.

This is a nice place. It is a large bi-level in a quiet neighborhood. The house is only five years old and the back yard abuts Pawnee Prairie Park. We’ve already seen deer, turkey, and squirrels. The house has a walk-out deck off of the second floor which overlooks the park. We intend to spend a lot of time out there.

One of my family yesterday said I need to change my blog from “The View From Here” to “The View From the Deck”. I’ll take that under advisement, but it’s not a bad idea since, as the family member said, I’ll probably write a lot about what I see out back.

We are humbled and grateful for all of the help these last several months. Pat and I talked some about it this evening. We are blessed indeed to have family on both sides that cares and is willing to help out. My family provided a lot of things these last several months just because they are closer, but I know that family on either side would have done whatever was necessary.

In the coming days, I’ll probably write some about my thoughts during this time of “homelessness”, the moving adventure, and some other thoughts. But for now, I’m tired and hungry. So I’ll sign off for now and hope to come back here shortly.

The Old Man's Visit

Well, the old man struck again. I know, I know, he’s busy all the time. But sometimes he gets a little close, and sometimes when he works, the result of his work seems to loom large with the knowledge that things will forever be different from now on because of him.
So much of what he does is hidden from our knowledge. We can’t see, don’t know, and can’t possibly know everything that he does and when he does it. Sometimes we just don’t care as long as he does his job somewhere besides here…where we are. But there are times when he’s in the neighborhood. Then we can not only know, but if we are personally acquainted with our neighborhood, it can become very personal to us very quickly.
And there’s one more thing. We all know, don’t we, that one day the old man will pay a visit to our neighborhood. But instead of stopping by one of the neighbors, he’ll stop by our place. And one day, he’ll ask to see us. And things will be forevermore different from the way they were before he came calling.
I guess that’s what this being a “little close”, as I said before, really means. When we move away all of the fluff and all of the niceties, we see his handiwork for what it really is; evidence of the working of the evil one, the fallen creation and our need for redemption.
Because we know that one day, death will come to see us. And we know that we’re not prepared to deal with him on our own.

A Challenge

In my last blog, I quoted something that Billy Graham once said about proving the Bible to be true. Although my last blog was not meant to be religious in nature, the one I am now writing will be thus. I want to continue Dr. Graham’s quote.

He continues from the quote in the last blog, “I felt as though I had a rapier in my hand (his Bible) and, through the power of the Bible, was slashing deeply into men’s consciences, leading them to surrender to God. Does not the Bible say of itself, ‘For the Word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any tow-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart’ (Heb. 4:12-ff)?”

“I am not advocating bibliolatry…I am, however, fervently urging a return to Bible-centered preaching, a gospel presentation that says without apology and without ambiguity, ‘Thus saith the Lord.’”

I have been a minister of the Gospel since 1983. Although I have not held a formal position in a church for very much of that time, I believe that God set me apart, and to that end I continue to read, study, and ponder the depths of God and His message to humanity.

One of the things I have wrestled with over the years is the Bible and its, shall we say, bald-faced assertion that it is indeed the message of God and has the ability to perform acts upon humanity that no other instrument has ever had. “How presumptuous,” I sometimes would say of what I see in that collection of writings. Other times, I would marvel at the beauty and teaching that transcends the ages and reaches to the depths of the human soul.

Dr. Graham is perhaps the most successful gospel preacher in modern times. He has preached live to over 215 million people during his career and many millions more by means of television, radio, and other media. I don’t know what you think about the man, but there’s something special at work in a life that has touched the lives of so many.

For a man like Billy Graham to accept the Bible as the Word of God “without apology and without ambiguity” is but to heap upon that book yet one more validation of the specialness and the uniqueness of it. To discard what the book says about itself as well as the combined voices of those who have attested and continue to attest to its uniqueness is to do something very, very dangerous.

I challenge you to look again at the Bible. Study it. Take it in. See for yourself.

Values

Billy Graham has said that in 1949, toward the beginning of his career, he learned a secret to preaching that stuck with him throughout his time in the pulpit. He said he learned to quit trying to prove the truth of the Bible in his preaching. Instead, having settled in his own mind that the Bible was indeed true, he preached on that basis…on that authority. Consequently, his preaching was authoritative and effective. Possibly the most prolific and best known preacher of extra-biblical times, Dr. Graham has hit upon something that many of us have not yet really settled in our own minds.

This isn’t going to be a religious blog, however. I say the above to say that there is indeed value in core beliefs and values which don’t change with the winds of time. Whether those values are embodied in our religion, the Constitution, or in our experience and knowledge, they must be immovable and impermeable as we hurtle down the road of life.

Sorrow and loss often come when we compromise what we know is right and good in favor of temporary gain or immediate comfort. Inevitably, that gain becomes loss and that comfort becomes sorrow. To compromise our basic core principles and standards to fit the here and now, or to try to smooth things over, or to weasel out of a situation is to compromise who and what we are at our foundations. And when that foundation is shaken and cracked, the whole structure suffers.

Sometimes we have to pay a price for our steadfastness. Sometimes we lose a friend, a job, or financial resources. But later on, when we look back, we can say with confidence that we were true to our values and are not ashamed of what we did or the decision we made.

Mankind has always had the desire to “get along”. Sometimes that attitude is the better thing to do. But when it involves compromise of what we hold dear, then the desire to get along becomes selfish…the desire to avoid pain.

Sometimes we must examine what we hold dear in the critical light of greater truth. It is indeed a fine line at times to know whether we are compromising or whether we are gaining the greater truth.

Life isn’t easy. If it was, it would be nothing but drudgery and boredom, devoid of meaning. Life was meant to be lived. As Auntie Mame said, “Live! Life's a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death!” There’s more truth to that than we’ll probably ever know in this life.

I like to cook. I like to go to the kitchen and fix something that I think sounds good, especially if I’ve never made it before. I’ll usually dump in some of this, a little of that, and maybe some other things. I usually don’t measure anything, preferring to taste as I go. Many times, the finished product tastes rather good and I want to make it again. But I can’t because I haven’t written it down and my memory forgets better than it remembers.

Tonight I made smothered burritos. I know there are probably a million recipes for them, and most recipes are just about like mine. But I didn’t consult a recipe and just made them from what I had on hand…and tried to make it very easy by using mostly canned things. They turned out very good. However, this time I wrote down the recipe. I’d like to share it with you.

Smothered Burritos

8 to 10 frozen burritos

10 oz can tomato soup

10 oz can diced tomatoes & green chilis (Rotel or other)

10 oz can chunk chicken

15 oz can ranch style beans

15 oz can chili (no beans)

8 oz shredded cheese (your choice)

½ t chili powder (or more or less to taste)

¼ onion, chopped (or more or less to taste)

(Optional) ½ t crushed red pepper (or more or less to taste)

In a mixing dish, dump in the tomato soup and chili. Pour off most of the liquid of the ranch style beans and dump in the beans. Dump in the diced tomatoes & green chilis after pouring off most of the liquid. Pour off the liquid from the canned chicken and put half of it back into the mixture. Dump in the chicken, chili powder, onion, and red pepper. Make sure the resulting mixture is not too watery. Add back some liquid from the cans if necessary to get a decent mixture. If a spicier mixture is desired, add back the liquid from the tomatoes and chilies. If a milder mixture is desired, add back the liquid from the chicken or perhaps the beans.

In a 9 x 13 pan that has been sprayed with non-stick spray, place frozen burritos in a single layer. Either allow to thaw, or put into the oven for 10 minutes at 400 degrees to begin the thawing process.

Once burritos are thawed (or warmed in the oven), cover with the chili mixture. Bake covered at 400 degrees for 40 minutes (375 degrees for a convection oven). Uncover and bake another 5 to 10 minutes. Let it bake uncovered a little longer to boil off some liquid, if it appears too sloppy. Top with shredded cheese. Let cheese melt some from the heat of the burritos. Serve.

Moving (Again)

Two weeks from today, hopefully, I will be writing in my blog from our new home in west Wichita. The deal will have been done, the papers will have been signed, and we will have moved what little personal property we have left (after giving/selling/tossing various personal property the last three moves, in order to fit into the new digs) into the home. (To some of you who are family and friends, I’ll send the new address via email. Let me know if you’d like to have that information and aren’t sure if I have your email address.)

This also means that we will have to begin purchasing some of the stuff we got rid of in the past few years, because we again will need them. We have some things, but will need cooking utensils, a toaster, a microwave, glasses and cups, pots and pans, and many of the routine things that people normally already have. We gave up a lot of that when we moved to the children’s home, since all of that was provided. We’ll also have to purchase some furniture, as we sold/gave away most of that before we moved to Wichita.

I’m not sure I like this idea of accumulating “stuff” again. I know that most of it will probably be necessary, but I intend to do what I can to see that we don’t accumulate stuff just to have it…it needs to have a purpose and fill a need. We won’t have a lot of extra money, and we need to be careful anyway as stewards of what God has provided.

And it’s not just that my wife has given up a lot of her stuff. I’ve given up a lot of things that I had at the place in south central Kansas when we moved to western Kansas. I’ve continued to give up those things in each of the moves we’ve made since then. My garage “stuff” now occupies a much less percentage of room than it did several years ago.

One thing I’ve carried with me all this time, though, is a homemade wooden bin that has maybe 75 compartments in it. It stands about five feet high and the same width. It’s heavier than the dickens, and I have it filled with various miscellaneous things that I may need some time.

The reason I have it still is that I remember this bin when my uncle (Jess) had a business in my hometown. This bin held various kinds of pipe fittings (the business was a plumbing and heating shop) and Dad and I would go to the bin and grab what we thought we would need when he had a plumbing job to do and I was his helper. We’d get various elbows, pipe nipples, and other assorted parts and throw them into a box to take to the job. I can remember that to this day.

This bin also has Dad’s initials penciled on the wood…in the form of his old cattle brand. He would do that at times and in places when and where the urge suited him, and this bin was one of those places. I bought this bin in 1984 at an auction of stuff that belonged to the man who bought the business from my uncle. I’m glad I did and hope to will it to someone in the family willing to take on the weight and cumbersomeness of it.

My brother complains that he’s helped move that thing more times than he cares to remember…he’s gonna help me move it one more time, apparently, in a couple of weeks. That and my workbench that Dad built for me way back in the 1960’s will be coming to the new home. Maybe this time it can stay there awhile.

Rethinking

Last Monday, I did as our minister had asked the day before, and asked God to show me His glory. Taking a cue from Moses on the mountain as he dealt with God and asked the same question, I too asked God for that favor. If you read my blog of a couple of days ago, you know that my morning didn’t turn into much of a glorifying experience. Fixing the page system, cleaning up a urine-soaked carpet, and boiling my coffee were just part of the things of the morning that didn’t turn out as I had planned. I began thinking again, as I have many times past, that God either doesn’t care or just doesn’t do things like that anymore.
However, as I think about my Monday morning and the times I said “Lord, show me your glory,” I have to think that maybe God answered in the affirmative that day after all.
Ephesians 3:21 says, “To Him (God) be glory in the church through Jesus Christ…” The glory of God is if I read this verse correctly, in the church; that called out group of people that God has set apart (sanctified), reconciled to Himself (justified), and which now and forevermore in eternities both past and future (the eternal present) is glorified and glorifies through the operation of the Eternal Son (Jesus Christ).
So what did it take for God to sanctify and reconcile us? Basically, God had to clean up the mess that we made. We all have made a mess of our lives and our relationship with Him. We have sinned (fallen short of the mark) and we have estranged ourselves from our Eternal Father and Eternal Family. The justice of God demands that a price be exacted from each who sins. “For the wages of sin is death,’ the great Apostle Paul says.
That Great Apostle John says, however, that “God so loved the world that He gave h is only begotten son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” God provided the payment for our sins. God provided the means to clean up our messes. God did all that needed to be done to be able to present the church to Himself as a bride is presented to a groom (Revelation 21). God’s glory, which I asked Him to show me, is His cleaning up of my messes and my sins. It was dirty, stinky, awful work, to say the least. But it is done.
I now am left with but a question: When I cleaned up the mess made by that resident on the floor that Monday morning, in the midst of all else that was going on, was that God showing me His glory? “I came not to be served, but to serve.”

"Lord, show me your glory."

“Lord, show me your glory.” The first day of the work week started with my pulling into the driveway of the nursing home where I work, recalling the request that preacher Rick made the day before. Just as Moses boldly asked God to show him His glory, we too this week were to say that from time to time, asking for a glimpse of God’s glory during the week and let Rick know what happened.
As I came in the door, preparing to go to the kitchen for that first cup of coffee, Julie asked me if I was going to clock in. I said that I was, and she told me she needed help. It seems that the resident wandering system was giving a false alarm to the pagers that the nursing staff was carrying, and they couldn’t stop them. Pagers were going off about every minute, saying that someone had wandered away, but no one was missing. Obviously, staff had better things to do than squelch pagers every minute. After a phone call to the service company and some work on our end, we found the problem and got the alarms to work properly. “Lord, show me your glory.”
Since we had let our housekeeper go a couple of weeks ago due to a slower than anticipated start-up, as Director of Environmental Services it was my job to see that the building was clean. I started immediately following the alarm problem to clean the bathrooms, thinking that coffee at the end of the cleaning session would be a good motivator. One, two, three public restrooms and the employee break room needed attention. I was in the process of finishing that chore when one of the aides came up to me and told me that one of the residents had soiled the floor in his room, and could I clean it up, pretty please. “Lord, show me your glory.”
By now, it was 9:45am and I still had not had coffee. As a bona fide coffee drinker for more years than I care to count, I was feeling the withdrawal. My back hurt, I was tired and perspiring (nursing homes are usually notoriously hot…residents are more comfortable that way) and I was longing for the taste and smell of the coffee bean. But something else was now demanding my attention.
While I was on my way to the room that had the soiled floor, my phone rang. I answered and the alarm service company wanted me to do some reprogramming of their system. I told them that I’d have to call back in a few minutes after taking care of the floor emergency. What I didn’t tell them was that I also was going to have that first coffee before I placed the callback. “Lord, show me your glory.”
Gloves, disinfectant, cleaning water, wet vac, housekeeping cart…now I could attend to the soiled floor. I cleaned up the mess, then cleaned the wet vac, put away the cart, and set a small fan in the room to help dry the floor. I took off my gloves, washed my hands, and went to the kitchen for that first cup of Joe at about 10:30. Pouring my cup and taking the first taste, I quickly discovered that the pot had been on a burner that was turned off. The coffee was lukewarm at best. Returning to the kitchen, I put my cup in the micro zapper and promptly boiled it. Drinking it anyway, I relished the time with my cup and the disappearing pain in my back. “Lord, show me your glory.”

The Call

We've been reading these last couple of days about an accident in Ulysses, Kansas that claimed the lives of four teen girls and injured a fifth. It was an auto accident that happened in the community, a tragedy that is touching the lives of countless thousands of people.
When I was the administrator of the hospital out in Western Kansas, we would be called upon from time to time to provide care in similar situations. I also wrote a continuing column for the Hays Daily News while we lived out there. One of my articles talked about a time when I received a call from the hospital to come and help out with an auto accident. The story is true. The article is reprinted below.

The call comes at about 4:30 this morning. I stumble out of bed, fumble for my glasses (to see the caller ID) and make my way to the phone. I was laying in bed awake anyway, as I all too often do, at about that time of morning. "Logan County Hospital", the caller ID said. I answer and Paula tells me that we have six teen-age victims of an auto accident coming in to the hospital, and could my wife (an RN) and I come in and help? I don't say so, but it seems that whenever I get calls like this, Paula is on the other end of the line. Does she work all the time?? I say, "Sure, we'll be there in a few minutes." I hang up and wake my bride and tell her we're needed ASAP.

We struggle to find clothes, shoes, and to more fully wake up. Since I was laying awake in bed anyway, I was more ready to go than she was. I started her car for her and left in my pickup because often, I must stay over while she can come back home. On the way to the hospital, I pass the ambulance garage/fire department and see all the vehicles of the volunteers who responded to their pagers a few minutes ago. As an active (although I seldom can take call now) EMT, I know and understand what they are doing and thinking right now.

I arrive at the hospital and go to the nurses station to check in. They have already called in most of who are needed. The providers are all there, and several nurses and nursing staff are there, along with a housekeeper, a business office person, medical records, social services, maintenance, and of course lab and x ray. I ask the unit clerk to call in Dietary as it is 4:30am and we may well need to feed some of the staff and volunteers.

The first ambulance pulls in and I help unload the three victims who came in on this unit. The providers quickly do triage and the second ambulance comes in a little later. We do the triage again with the other three. I make the rounds just making sure that people have what they need, and that families who come to the hospital are as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. I bring up a carafe of coffee and cups for the families in the waiting area.

We had plenty of help this Sunday morning and I really wasn't needed to any great extent other than to help smooth out some rough edges and make some phone calls. The providers and staff at the hospital do so well with these things. They've grown considerably over time, and I couldn't ask for better people. I sometimes stand in the hall and just watch as they go about their business in a controlled chaos mode. I marvel at the competence and compassion of those in my charge and breathe a silent prayer of thanksgiving for them, as well as petition the Almighty on behalf of the injured and families.

Regrettably, the above scenario becomes somewhat routine in health care. Some of those we treat are more severely injured than our ability to care for them, other than stabilization, and we ship them to Hays, Wichita, or Denver by air ambulance. Some we treat and release. Some are admitted to the hospital for further care. Some wait in silence in a room off to the side down the hall until the mortuary car can come pick them up. The number of victims can be anywhere from 2 to 32, depending on whether it's a car, van, or bus.

Too often, the victims are the innocent. Often, alcohol is involved. Often, speed is involved. Often, it's a gravel road somewhere out in the county. Often, it's after midnight. Often, we know the victims. Often, someone either dies or has to be shipped to a trauma center for life-threatening injuries. Rarely is it a no-fault accident. Rarely is no one injured.

Later, after the chaos has died down, several of us are in the staff dining room munching on food prepared by Dietary. Paula says, "Maybe this will wake up some people and they'll see what they're doing to themselves."

I tell her, "Paula, we say that each time this happens, and it continues to happen."

Mary says, "They think they're invincible."

I say, "But maybe some of them will see what happened here and learn from it."

However, much as we want to do so, we are impotent to truly stop what has happened, and we know it. Whether those who are hurt are innocent victims or the cause of the accident, the results are often the same. People will continue to drive too fast, fall asleep at the wheel, become distracted at the wrong time, or drink and drive. They will have accidents and die and cause others to die. And we know that we'll all do this again, maybe tomorrow, maybe six months from tomorrow. But we WILL be here again.

Thanksgiving and Humility

I ate at the local Dillons today. They have a salad bar in most stores, and I went to the one down the street and got some greens (and reds and other colors). I came back to eat it and decided that this too was a rather miraculous thing.
Now, hear me out. I don't necessarily think everything is a miracle. But just think about it a minute.
This salad bar must have had at least 20 different kinds of fresh vegetables and fruits. Everything from spinach to fresh pineapple was on the bar. There were four kinds of leaves...spinach and three lettuces, at least three different kinds of tomatoes, snow peas, water chestnuts, garbanzos, and who knows what else.
There were strawberries, grapes, pineapple, and several other fruits. In addition, there were salads, cottage cheese, pasta, ham, turkey, and other meats. Besides that, there were grated cheeses, bleu cheese crumbles, bacon bits, and other condiments.
All of this was the right temperature for safety, was clean, sanitary and available, and cost only $5.00 a pound. Now, I don't know about you, but for us to take that kind of thing for granted and just expect it seems to me to be the height of arrogance and selfishness. I'd rather think that thanksgiving and humility are more in order.

Buying Into the Story

Yesterday I called my sis and we visited for awhile. Now, there’s nothing much unusual about that since telephones have been in service for well over a hundred years. What was unusual was that she was on a train parked at a station somewhere in Illinois and I had on the PC in front of me an aerial shot of the place where it was parked.

While visiting with her, I pointed out the water tower, the depot and museum. When she told me they were starting to move again, I told her that she should be starting a right curve, which she validated.

Additionally, since we were in the Wichita area and she had a Wichita cell phone, I dialed a local, seven digit number and her phone rang on a train in a small town in Illinois.

I don’t know how much awareness you have of the incredible technology that makes all of that possible. I don’t know either, but I have had electronics training (years ago), and have some dim, dark idea of the complexity of the systems that make things like cell phones and instantly available aerial photos available on demand.

The data packets that constituted my voice could easily have taken a route to Illinois via California or Canada. Those that made up my sister’s voice very well may have come to Wichita via an entirely different route, and those routes could have changed many, many times in the course of the five minute conversation. Fiber (optical), landline (copper wires), microwave, satellite…all those methods and more may have been involved in getting an ordinary phone call to and from where it was supposed to be.

Some years ago, the number 1,000,000,000,000,000 (I think that’s correct…One quadrillion) was given as the amount of bits per second that the human brain could process. An older number in the same article was given as ten sextillion bits of information. Whatever the number, it is incredibly high and belies a kind of design that fits it all inside a rather smallish mass of skin and bone, with corresponding connections and energy supply (blood). I don’t know but what we will eventually develop computers that will process faster or store more information. If we do, that’s OK. What matters is that this brain has been around for many, many thousands of years and there are some seven billion of them on the planet even now. Someone greater than these brains had to be the one who designed and built it.

This weekend we celebrate the foundational moment of the creation of Christianity. The moment when, we believe, the only Begotten of God conquered death and destruction and paved the way for all of us to do likewise through the power of the Living God. Fantastic as the Easter story sounds to ears not accustomed to it, it is even more fantastic to believe that our brains came into existence by chance and that we are products of an inanimate process which happened to end up with all that we see and know now.

I don’t know about you, but I’ll buy into the Jesus is risen story any day over the existence by chance story.

Grudging Acceptance

We’re still looking for homes to buy. This is a process that I certainly don’t enjoy, especially knowing that it probably will be one of the largest purchases I will ever commit to do. Additionally, one who buys on credit bares his soul to the lender down to underwear size, it seems. Then there’s the “how are we ever going to pay for this?” silent conversations one has in one’s brain after the deal is done.

Actually, we have one picked out and we’re trying to find financing for it. In this market, that’s not a piece of cake. We don’t have much money for a down payment, so have to rely on high-percentage financing, which is even worse. The market is still good in the Wichita area, and the local economy is still pretty strong and growing, but because of the national scare stories, the lenders have gone into hiding.

But the thing that I really don’t like is that I feel guilty each time we do this because I know that the vast majority of the world’s population lives in a cardboard box, mud hut, or refugee camp. They haven’t a clue what clean water is like, and when they have to use the restroom, they just do it wherever. Good food is non existent and clothes are at a premium.

I feel like a heel, sometimes, spending money on a place that is larger than we need, has more amenities than we need, and looks nicer than we need. If I had my “druthers,” I wouldn’t have such a place. But in this society…in this day and age…it comes down to safety, ability to be a person (to have a real identity, one needs an address), and security for family.

I’ll grudgingly go along with this, but long for the place one day where none of this will matter and everyone who loves God will have a place to call home forever.

Sundays

This was another Sunday. It’s toward the close of the day, now, and things are winding down (yes, winding down) toward the first day of work for this week.

Sundays are always a big day for me. Not only do we attend church, we re-connect with people we haven’t seen for at least several days and renew acquaintances. We also take time to rest, refresh, and generally regroup for the work week ahead. Sunday is a big day.

I think of all of this, the re-connecting with others in our church fellowship rank right up there with the best. I don’t even now know all the names of the people that attend our church, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that we all show up on the same day at the same time, as a family. We visit, catch up on each others’ lives, share common faith and values, and sometimes take a common meal together. We laugh and sometimes we cry. We share successes and sorrows. We rejoice in the good and are concerned about the bad. We choose to become a part of the lives of others and they choose to make us a part of their lives. It’s a good time.

Most of all, we make a connection with our God. Somehow, some way, we not only refresh our relationships with others; we also refresh our relationship with our Creator and Maker. Our singing, listening, praying, communing, and relating with one-another all come together to make our relationship with our God something real and thrilling. We find something greater than ourselves, which gives us strength to carry on through the week to come.

I know that many folks don’t have Sunday be any more special than any other day, or consider it just another weekend day that they can sleep in or go to the lake. That’s OK. It’s not what I would do, but to each his own. I do think, though, that those folks are missing out on something that would give their lives more meaning and fulfillment. My faith is not a crutch; it’s a vital part of who I am. I’d be lost without it.

Thoughts About Blogging

I try to blog mid-week, but didn’t get it done this time. It’s difficult for me to sit down after work and make the words flow onto the computer screen. As I’ve said before, it seems that I do better at that in the morning hours.

I’ve observed a lot this past week, and thought several times that what I’ve seen might be worthy of a blog entry. However, by the time I sit down to write, those things seem to be not nearly as important as they were when they happened.

Let’s see. This week I thought about blogging regarding poor customer service at a big box home improvement store, poor customer service at a chain hardware store, the fact that my debit card doesn’t work and no one at the bank can seem to tell me why, and the way drivers sometimes do crazy things on the road.

I’ve thought about blogging about the clerk who put a smile on my face when I checked out, a funny situation at work, the warming weather, and the dinner we had last night with the family and a new “friend” of one of my nephews.

I’ve also pondered blogging about our house hunting experience so far, the inexorable march of time into spring and summer, my lack of energy to do anything productive during the week except work, and various political situations (the Air Force tanker deal, Barack Obama’s minister, etc).

None of that, however, seems worth the time and space this week. So I suppose I’ll just forego blogging today in favor of taking care of some other business, such as getting my debit card to work and continuing hunting for a home. Maybe I’ll have something to say when the day is done.

God and Communication

I am attending a class at church on Sundays where we are looking at the life of Abraham, the father of the Jewish and Arab races. The account is centered primarily in the book of Genesis, beginning with about chapter 12. The thing we concentrated on today was the notion that Abraham left the comfort of a “home place” to go somewhere that he had never been before because he believed that God was sending him there. We talked about the uncertainty that might cause, and the fact that Abraham had faith in God and a hope for the future.

The teacher opened up the class for anyone to tell of a time when they believed that they too did something because they believed that God was asking them to do it, not knowing what the future would hold. One or two spoke about their experiences. The teacher then asked us how it is that we hear God. If God communicates to us in some way regarding what we should do, how do we perceive what He is saying to us?

Our church is a rather conservative group. We normally do not believe that God appears to us as a ghostly image floating in the corner, or that He speaks audibly to us, or even that He sends angels to us. We normally give answer that God speaks to us “through His word,” which means that we understand what God wants us to do by reading and understanding the Bible. We then talked about how we think that God speaks in ways that we don’t readily understand or have difficulty perceiving. That answer, however, doesn’t seem to me to be adequate to explain things in their entirety.

I find it incredible that we would believe that God formulates His communications to us in ways that are difficult to perceive and difficult to understand…that we somehow have to decipher, decode, translate, interpret, and work out the otherwise unintelligible something that God uses to communicate to us. It’s almost as if we believe that God intentionally codes His communications to us as a kind of a game where if we manage to crack the code, we somehow win (but we don’t win very often).

I would much rather think that the God of the universe as I know Him is such that, if He desires for us to know something, He will make it so plain to us that we can’t help but understand what He is trying to tell us…that it would only be through our own ignorance, selfishness, or lack of desire to understand which would prevent us from hearing our God with clear understanding.

I believe that I am an adopted child of God…that I am a fellow-heir to all that God has along with all others who are children of God and with God’s only Begotten and Eternal Son. I believe that I belong to a community of believers called the church, and that we all are children and joint-heirs with the Son. God has not, to my knowledge, communicated with me audibly, except through the words of human beings as they taught, preached, or read the Bible aloud. But I must say that, as any father worth his salt communicates with his children, so God communicates with His children, and in ways much more understandable than even an earthly father would use. I can’t believe that I am so dense that, as God’s child, I cannot perceive and understand the communication from my Father to myself. I can’t imagine that God my Father is playing some sort of cruel game where He forces me to guess what He’s trying to tell me about my life and life choices, then punishes me somehow when I don’t figure it out.

No, I believe my Father’s communication with me is clear, concise, and true. I believe that He tailors His communication with all His children in various ways so that each one can best understand what He’s trying to say. And I believe that it’s my weaknesses and my failures that prevent me from hearing (with understanding) what He is saying, whatever method He is using to say it. It’s not my job to try to decipher God’s coded messages, because He doesn’t use code. Rather, it’s my job to have my life arranged in such a way that God’s communication can not only get through, but that I can understand it like He intended.

Two Stores

Friday evenings are not a good time to put thoughts into words for me. I’m tired from a week of work, and my brain just wants to zone out to somewhere besides the computer screen. However, I also know that I need to not be lazy and keep things active, so I’m attempting to make something here that is somewhat coherent and perhaps a little interesting to those three or four who read it.

On the way home from work today, I was thinking about the differences in the two hardware stores I patronize in Wichita. One is close by to my work, and the other is close by where I used to work, but is a good 20 minute drive from where I work now.

The one close by is a good store and has a lot of inventory, but their help leaves something to be desired. Sometimes I can’t find anyone to help no matter where I look. Other times they don’t have what I need (although they are the larger of the stores).

The smaller, older store has things, though, that the bigger store doesn’t stock. The smaller store also has associates that will spend 20 minutes on a 32 cent bolt, if that’s what it takes to make a satisfied customer. The bigger store too often will just say, “We don’t have that,” rather than try to meet the need.

Why is it that some people have learned the secret to customer service, but many have not? Why is it so difficult for store owners and managers to know what customers want? Why don’t more store managers and owners work to find solutions that will help customers, yet not break the bank in terms of overhead?

The little Ace hardware store at 13^th and Meridian in Wichita seems to have figured that out. Whatever it is that they do, they do it well because I have nothing but good feelings about that store, and will drive out of my way to go there. The other store, out on Tyler and Central, has not nearly as good of a rapport with me, and I go there only because they are closer and I don’t have to drive as much. If both stores were side by side, I’d go to the older store every time…every time…every time. I wonder if I should tell that to the manager of the larger store?

I'm Just Happy

Once again it’s time to disrupt (that may be a rather strong term, but I feel disruptive today) the normal flow of things and “spring forward” an hour in order to have more daylight at the end of the day. I know that doing this saves a little on energy consumption, and provides more time for people to do things during daylight after work, but we need to look at the morning hours and those of us who wake early enough to see the sun come up. I think that we are the forgotten of our society, and long to see amends made in our favor. Why should the night owls have all the fun?

Taking an hour from morning daylight means that I again will be waking in the dark, commuting to work in the dark, and otherwise feeling like I never quite got enough sleep the night before. I know that’s a small price to pay for the privilege of doing extra shopping at Wal Mart. It’s also a small price to pay to be able to garden, cut the grass, or whatever else we will do with our newly-found hour of daylight. Nevertheless, it is a price. I wonder if anyone has taken the time to discover how much discombobulation really happens in the lives of people that have the time jerked around a couple times a year.

Of course, there’s also the price to be paid in having to expend the energy to change clocks. I wonder if anyone has calculated how much energy is expended changing clocks versus how much energy is saved by moving daylight to the evening hours.

Of course, there are benefits as well. Some smoke alarm batteries would never be replaced if the government wouldn’t mess around with the time. Some people would never see the sun rise if daylight saving time didn’t happen once a year. And we would never know the joy of atomic clocks that, although they have nothing to do with atomic energy, receive radio signals regularly that automatically adjust their time to be correct, including springing forward or falling back. By the way, these radio signals which the Chinese clock factories use, have been in existence since 1956 from radio station WWVB, broadcasting at 50khz and 50kw E.R.P. out of Fort Collins, Colorado. Other radio stations also operated by the government have been broadcasting time signals for over 100 years, usually in the shortwave spectrum.

I guess that overall, though, the benefits outweigh the disruptions. Our government says so, and we all know that no one in government lies to us. Oh, occasionally there may be a misspeak or a misunderstand or embellishment, but never a lie. So dutifully I will set my clocks ahead an hour tomorrow morning (or tonight) and partake in that extra free hour of light so generously given by my government. And I am so grateful….

Something Worth Seeing

We went to the Kansas Salt Museum today. Now, before you begin to snicker at the dearth of great opportunities to have some fun in Kansas, let me tell you that the highlight of the museum is a trip below ground over 600 feet into an active salt mine.

The first part of the tour is a safety video and demonstration on how to use a rescue breathing mask that each of us had to carry into the mine. We also put on hard hats and headed to the mine shaft and elevator.

The lift isn’t like the ones in a hotel. It’s a double-decker lift, with room for about 15 people on each level. It rattles around as it descends, and the descent is in total darkness until we reach the mine (there’s a light on the elevator, but they keep it off unless someone admits they’re nervous about it).

At the bottom, we’re greeted and step into another world. Everything we are looking at is salt. There’s a salt ceiling, salt floor, and salt walls. The pillars that hold up the earth above us are salt. The concrete that has been poured in some areas is a combination of salt and Portland cement.

The guide leads us to a tram and about a 30 minute trip through some of the mine shafts. They really aren’t like a mine shaft you think about…they are more like highways underground. The shafts are 9 to 12 feet tall, 20 to 40 feet wide, and there are over 60 miles of them in this one mine, spread over 1,600 acres. You can listen to the trip down at http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5595503 .

And it really is dark down there. In a back area of our tour, with the lights of the tram off, we really couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces. The guide says our eyes would never become accustomed to this kind of darkness, because eyes don’t get accustomed to darkness…they become accustomed to various levels of light. When there’s no light, there’s no reference for the eyes to work from.

They have old equipment on display down there, and also have a gift shop as well as artifacts from a company called Underground Vaults & Storage (www.undergroundvaults.com), which uses part of the mine to store archival records and other items for companies. Motion pictures, data, records, and other things are stored there, and the company has a small exhibit displaying some of the stored artifacts.

I was just a little, shall we say, unnerved by the experience. Although I wasn’t frightened or uncomfortable, it is a little unsettling to know that there is 600 feet of salt, rock, and water above, being held at bay by pillars of salt. The notion that one could easily become lost in the mine is also one that I thought about, although I believe they had fencing that kept most shafts from being accessible. The fencing wasn’t always visible, but some was. It would be difficult for me to work down there for awhile until I became more at ease with the environment.

The sunlight and wind were a warm welcome upon coming out of the shaft. I have a new appreciation today for the outdoors and the freedom it represents. But the experience of the salt mine was also one that I would do again, and probably will when I have the opportunity. And so should you.