Face value. That has to do with perspective. At first glance, all we see is what is visible at the moment, and from that particular point of view. We may assume or make a value judgment from that perspective, concluding that what we just observed tells the whole story—all there is to it. That can be a big mistake. In fact it can be a blind spot to us, because if we took the time to discover a different point of view, it might make all the difference.
I have more than a hundred old clocks, all more than a century old, and of all shapes and sizes. All have mechanical movements of some kind. Some are weight driven, some are spring driven. Some use a pendulum, and some use a balance wheel to maintain momentum. The mechanics are different in each, but the dynamic part is similar – they keep the clockworks moving.
What is the purpose in all this mumbo jumbo about clocks? Regardless of how they operate, all clocks have the same major purpose: to tell the accurate time of day. When you look at the face of the clock, you expect to see the correct time. Clocks line the tops of the bookshelves in my office. I seldom keep them all running—they are just for decoration and display. So they all register a different time of day. I often tell people when they look at the clocks and ask which one is telling the correct time, “They are all correct, twice a day!”
To go beyond the face value, you have to take a second glance. Beyond the face, there may reside a complex system of machinery. This is true not only for clocks, but for people, and organizations, and families, and neighbors, and even cultures. To rightly understand anything requires closer examination beyond a casual glance and quick summation.
When a clock stops keeping accurate time, the problem seldom lies within the face. Something deeper is causing the problem, and requires more careful inspection. It may be something as difficult to detect as a speck of dust in the wrong place or as obvious as a broken spring. It may be the result of an overzealous owner drowning the works with a well-intentioned baptism of WD-40 that has gummed up the works. Whatever the cause, the clock is stopped and as Newton reminds us, an object at rest tends to stay at rest. Until some outside force repairs the problem, the clock will not start ticking again on its own.
What is keeping you from getting off the verge and moving ahead? Have you just accepted at face value your own analysis? Self-examination is generally a good thing, as is self-awareness. But self-diagnosis is often a tricky business, and may lead to disastrous conclusions. Some things are better done with assistance to help us see ourselves as others do, and examine our blind spots. While you might attempt to brush your hair without a mirror, shaving without one could result in some nasty nicks on your face. It may be time to get a second opinion, to let someone else take a closer look.
Whether you choose collaboration, consultation, counseling or coaching, soliciting another opinion can help you gain perspective, and get you off the verge. How difficult is it to admit and say, “I am stuck”? What is keeping you from doing so? Whatever it is, your answer to the previous question may be the one thing keeping you from moving forward or the catalyst for your healing.
James instructs us, “Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The earnest prayer of a righteous person has great power and produces wonderful results.” (James 5:16 NLT) If confession of sin is a key to healing, perhaps confession of our other failures or frustrations may do the same by providing a different point of view as we open up and become vulnerable to another person. Their perspective could be just the thing to get you off the verge and start ticking away into your preferred future.
We often live our lives on the verge. On the verge of success. On the verge of getting out of debt. On the verge of finding a rewarding relationship. On the verge of achieving that sought after promotion at work. On the verge of obtaining the scholarship. On the verge of finishing that degree. On the verge of fulfilling our dream.
The verge is a nice stop on the way to our destination. It is a terrible place to live permanently. If we camp there long enough, it becomes difficult to move on. While camped there we may analyze a million and one reasons why we got stuck in the first place, and another million and one reasons how we might move on, but we tend to be weighted down by the analysis to the point of paralysis, convincing ourselves that it is safer to just stay where we are at. Like I said earlier, passivity is the opposite of courage.
Wait a minute! Stop the clock! Do not lose courage. Passivity is the inactive response to lost hopes and dreams. It is time for a change. You don’t have to live your life always “on the verge.” You can move past the verge.
Unlike the Apple Watch which I plan to never buy, I do have an affinity for old clocks. Not old clocks from the 1980’s with digital readouts, but really old clocks. Most in my collection are well over a century old, American made, and still working. And I work on them—have for years, both as a hobby and in a practical way to keep my collection running. Working on old clocks has taught me some lessons about systems, and mechanics, and maintenance, and life. They have also taught me about time, and how I use it, how I respond to it, how I measure it. After all, they have a lot to tell by listening to the tick-tock of the pendulum.
How many mechanical items from a century ago are still functioning with their original purpose today? Not many! You probably don’t know that the term verge is a clock word. The verge is that part of a mechanical clock that keeps the pendulum moving back and forth – and keeps the rest of the clock ticking. The actual tick-tock is sound of the verge rocking back and forth, connecting with a toothed wheel that connects to other gears and wheels that eventually move the hour and minute hands, ever so slowly. When it is all synchronized, it is a beautiful thing. It keeps on moving, and keeping perfect time.
A verge is a lot like a tipping point. Malcom Gladwell states in his book, The Tipping Point: “The tipping point is that magic moment when an idea, trend, or social behavior crosses a threshold, tips, and spreads like wildfire.”
What if you could find the tipping point that would move you past the verge? What if you could stop listening to the melancholy melody that keeps you stuck? What if you could re-discover your courage? You can. Listen to another melody—a happier tune that will actually help you redeem the time:
“Wake up from your sleep, Climb out of your coffins; Christ will show you the light! So watch your step. Use your head. Make the most of every chance you get. These are desperate times!” Ephesians 5:14-16 The Message
“Make the most of every chance you get.” The old King James Version actually instructs us, “redeeming the time, because the days are evil.” What if you struggled with financial problems, but had forgotten about an old savings bond your uncle gave you years ago? It may be worth $50,000 but if you never redeemed it, you would just be holding on to an old piece of paper while continuing to struggle with finances. Time is as old as “in the beginning.” To fully take advantage of it, we must redeem it. My old clocks may be more than a century old, but they have taught me some redeeming contemporary lessons, and I look forward to sharing some of them with you.
Today Apple announced the new Apple Watch. For somewhere between $300 and $10K you can own one yourself. I understand the $10K version is 18 karat gold. If you want to use it to tell time, you better have good eyes or good glasses, because the time display is small—or so I am told.
For most of my life, I have enjoyed a love/hate relationship with time. It is my greatest asset. And when I have plenty of it, time is my friend. But when I am facing a deadline and running short, frustration and anxiety turn up the pressure and seem to accelerate the clock. I try to quicken my own pace to catch up, but the minutes fly by and missed deadlines turn to missed opportunities. This results in–you guessed it–more frustration and anxiety. Only now they are joined by their close comrade, regret. This trio sings a melancholy melody in three parts:
If only. . ..
Life’s not fair!
Why me?
If you listen to this trio for long, you will get stuck for sure, especially when the trio is joined by their bully of an ally, self-pity. He gladly lends his voice to the newly formed quartet, singing bass. He especially enjoys the refrain, “What’s the use?”
Sound familiar? Listen to this quartet for long and you will start humming along with them. And they will steal your life, your soul, your courage. We all have to learn to listen in to a different station. I know. Been there. Done that.
Today I asked a friend, “What is the opposite of courage?” We had a good conversation about it and agreed that most people would say the opposite of courage is fear. Yet, the more I think about it, the more I believe something else. The opposite of courage is passivity. We’ve failed before. We failed again. And we will probably fail if we make another attempt. So, “what’s the use?” Passivity.
And that is a shame, because we are often on the verge of greatness. Remember the times when you said, “I can just feel it. I’m on the verge of something fantastic.” Especially when backed up by careful planning, disciplined focus, prayer, and hard work. You were launching into the confident expectation of certain achievement but landed in the bone-crushing agony of defeat. Shocked by the incredulity of the situation, you keep asking, ‘What happened? I knew I was just on the verge. . ..”
Nursing your wounds, you faintly hear that familiar old sad song. Before long you are singing along – you know all the words:
If only. . ..
Life’s not fair!
Why me?
What’s the use?
Wait a minute! Stop the clock! Do not lose courage. Passivity is the inactive response to lost hopes and dreams. It is time for a change. You don’t have to live your life always “on the verge.” You can move past the verge. In the next few weeks, I’ll be posting on this theme and here are a few topics having to do with old clocks of all things, that will help you get past the verge and find your own tipping point:
Perspective – what you see on the face of the clock only presents the facts – the time in the present. What is behind the face is what keeps the hands moving.
Suspense – clocks have a suspension spring. Like clocks we actually need tension and drama.
Power – the force that provides energy – spring or weights –wound up, wound down
Perseverance – takes a licking and keeps on ticking
Alignment – the teeth in the clock’s wheels must be in perfect alignment – the front and back plates hold it all together
Opportunity – taking advantage of the moment – the only way the clock can move forward to the next second, minute, or hour is to take advantage of every moment’s opportunity.
Gratitude – accepting help from others and being grateful for the contributions of all who help you move forward
Leverage – the clock’s works are designed for maximum efficiency. Each part, however small, has a part to do.
Synergy – alone, any part would be unable to keep time. Together, they can do far more than any of them could do alone.
Re-calibrating – adjustments are needed in a clock, depending upon the season of the year, air pressure, age, etc.
Rest – recreation, restoration, oil on the pivot points.
Balance – the pendulum requires balance – level keel.
Holding on in a precariousspot. Sometimes barely holding on, getting a grip, standing your ground, or trying to keep your balance is all you can do—just to survive. Or so it seems at the moment. And if you remain in that position for long, it is easy to feel stuck, and wonder if assistance or a chance to move on to a better place will ever come.
Is it possible in some circumstances of life that the difference between being stuck and having an opportunity to rest is our own attitude or perspective? There are striking similarities between three dictionary definitions of rest and just being stuck, with one exception.
First, the dictionary describes rest “as cessation from action, motion, labor, or exertion.” Sounds like it could describe being stuck, right? Another definition for rest is something that is “fixed or settled.” Again, you can see the similarity to being “stuck.” The third connotation for rest is where the similarity ends, as it is likened to “freedom from that which wearies or disturbs.”
When we are stuck, we typically feel weary, worried, and disturbed. But what if we used this period in our lives as an opportunity for rest? Easier said than done. I know from experience.
Perhaps one of the greatest invitations from Jesus in the Gospels is found in Matthew 11:28, “Come to Me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” (NLT) Weary, and carrying a heavy burden. . .sounds a lot like being stuck. Rest also sounds like being stuck—at least according to the dictionary! Perhaps the difference is a matter of our perspective and who we are trusting to bring us help and rest.
My oldest daughter Kristi sent me a powerful story this morning of a mother who discovered rest and hope in spite of the loss of a precious child. One line really caught my attention:
“Thankfulness, Hope, and Joy are not present only in good times; they are powerful reminders in the hard times that our story’s not over.”
Kristi, who has suffered a three year long battle wrestling with her own health issues while being a young wife and mother took courage from these words. Rest is a welcome relief when you feel boxed in, stuck, and helpless to resolve the circumstances that have you immobilized. I took the photo above the other day while enjoying a rare and restful hike with Kristi. Together, we pondered the forces required to place a log in such a position.
What are the chances of a log landing and lodging and staying perfectly balanced on such a rock? Especially when you consider the circumstances that brought it to rest were not restful, but the high raging floodwaters of the Snoqualmie River just below the falls. Hundreds of people, each with their own story, have passed by this very spot in the past weeks on the pathway to the lower viewing platform at Snoqualmie Falls. Perhaps they were inspired, as I hope you will be, that wherever you find yourself stuck, you will probably not be there forever. And from that place of being stuck, you may discover your next steps for your journey and be launched into the rest of your story.
The pretty girl with the long brown hair to complement her beautiful eyes first caught my eye, but soon captured my heart. She lit up every room she entered with her bright smile, vivacious personality, and ability to make every person feel like they were welcome and noticed. Her genuine concern for and interest in other people endeared her even more to me.
Our shared values and goals in life forged a bond that wasn’t just physical attraction or emotional feelings or intellectual stimulation, although it was all of those. Fundamentally, our bond was spiritual. The title of a song at our wedding described our commitment: “Each for the other, and both for the Lord.”
On this Valentine’s Day four decades later, I would suggest that our spiritual bond has been the most sustaining component of our relationship over the years, and it has shown me what love looks like. “What does love look like?” is perhaps life’s most persistent question. Here is what I believe:
Love is colorful. When you love, you see in vivid color, not “fifty shades of grey.” Love is light, and it dispels darkness, making the colors pop. When viewed through the eyes of love, even the dark and shady corridors of life lead us to experience rainbow moments when the light of our love and God’s love penetrates the darkness. What a joy to discover nuggets of gold revealed in the shadows and silver linings in the thunder clouds! The clouds change with the winds, and knowing that, we believe in the blue sky principle: they always follow the rain, and the rain brings flowers and growth because:
Love is beauty. Not the kind of beauty that wins contests, but the beauty of acceptance and forgiveness when you have disappointed your beloved for the umpteenth time. Love is the beauty of presence when the “for better or worse” vow seems to have landed decidedly, at least for a season, on the worst side. Love is the beauty of knowing that regardless of whether we are richer or poorer, sickly or healthy, we are together. Believing that together we are better, despite our circumstances, is the glue that holds our love and marriage together. Love is the secret formula that makes every wrinkle and grey hair that comes with age more beautiful in the eyes of our beloved. And that is a beautiful thought that puts a smile on my face because we also know that:
Love is laughter. After forty years together, we share an entire secret volume of funny experiences and laughing out loud moments that rival any comedy routine. Learning to laugh and dish out our hoarded reserve of joy during the moments when life is not funny, when our plates are full of worry or sorrow—that is nourishment for the heart and soul. Love means not taking yourself too seriously, and learning to laugh out loud, both together and separately, knowing that “this, too shall pass.” And tomorrow, or maybe a year from now, our tears will be gone, and we will laugh again and realize that our greatest fears never materialized because:
Love is hope. The pictures love paints, filled with color, beauty, and laughter, provide vision for a brighter future–the hope that tomorrow will be better than today, and next year will be better than this one. Growing up on the farm, my family were “next year” people. No matter if the crops failed us this year, “next year” dad always said, would be better. It was that optimism that kept my mother and father together on a farm for more than 63 years, keeping their vows, “until death do us part.” A hopeful vision inspires optimism beyond our own ability to manipulate or manage circumstances because:
Love is faith in someone bigger than us. Love looks like having the faith and patience necessary to move the impossible mountain in our path, even if that means removing it one slow shovelful at a time. It is believing that regardless of the odds against us, with God our odds are better. It is believing that no matter how many oppose us, with God we form a majority coalition. Love looks like spending time together on our knees so we can walk the distance. It means facing a crisis with a Friend who is closer than any human could ever be. Love is faith that God is bigger than any problem we face. And love means believing that God is love, and catching a glimpse of His face every time we see someone exhibiting God’s love toward others.
What does love look like? I love the Apostle Paul’s description:
“Love is patient and kind. Love is not jealous or boastful or proud or rude. It does not demand its own way. It is not irritable, and it keeps no record of being wronged. It does not rejoice about injustice but rejoices whenever the truth wins out. Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance.” –1 Corinthians 13:4-7 NLT
So on this Valentine’s Day, when I ask, “What does love look like?” the answer is found in the face of my sweetheart, the most Jesus-Hearted Woman I know. Jodi Detrick, thank you for being the same bubbly girl I first fell in love with so many years ago. It is a joy to journey through life with you. I love you with all my heart.
Today we celebrate the 206th birthday of my favorite president, Abraham Lincoln. Born in a humble Kentucky log cabin, humility characterized the life of the tall, lanky, awkward-looking man. Yet perhaps meekness, often defined as “strength under control,” is a better word to describe his character. He leveraged his strength as a wrestler and a fighter by channeling those energies into educating himself and becoming a successful attorney. Legal battles turned to political battles and as President he had to battle the personal demons of self-doubt and clouds of depression, while being demonized by a hostile press and political enemies who loathed the backwoods country lawyer.
He led our nation during its greatest crisis to overcome our greatest national shame. Though a fighter, he led in his characteristic humble and meek style, enlisting his political adversaries into a “team of rivals” to win them over and help save the Union. Rather than taking a swing at those who opposed him or his ideas, he resolved to stand firm in his convictions, while listening to and engaging his opponents in dialogue. He once said, “Be sure you put your feet in the right place, then stand firm.” While standing firm, his self-effacing humor and ability to spin a yarn broke down defenses and built bridges.
One of my favorite Lincoln quotes is from the final paragraph of his Second Inaugural Address, delivered a few days before his tragic assassination: “With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.”
We can only imagine how much faster the process of healing our nation and reconstruction of The South might have taken place had Lincoln been able to serve out his second term of office. Perhaps we might have been spared some of the long and agonizing delays in the process of racial reconciliation and civil rights that continues in our nation and around the world to this very day.
But one thing is certain. Lincoln left his mark and made a difference in this world that is still recognized and appreciated today. His legacy is felt by all who work toward achieving and cherishing, “a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.”
Echoes of Lincoln’s hundred and fifty year old words are heard whenever a voice is raised to oppose injustice, whenever the chains are released from a soul rescued from human trafficking, whenever the lever is raised on a water pump to improve the health of a community, whenever a door of opportunity opens for a child born in poverty, and wherever freedom reigns so people have the right to lift their voice in praise to their Creator. Quite an accomplishment for such a meek and humble man!
I love the Thanksgiving holiday that we celebrate in America on the last Thursday in November. Jodi sets a magnificent table and our children gather with their children. Food, family, and football are the usual American components to celebrate the day.
In addition, it marks a time to reflect on our blessings over the past year which includes giving thanks for the good things provided, and giving thanks for the bad things that we have been spared from. It is also a time to consider ways to help our neighbors and share with those less fortunate in our community and around the world.
I love Thanksgiving, but sad to say, I am not always thankful. It seems like a cliché, yet pausing to count our blessings and reflect on the gifts provided is one of our greatest privileges as humans in a life well lived. The author G. K. Chesterton (1874-1936) said, “When it comes to life, the critical thing is whether you take things for granted or take them with gratitude.”
The Bible has a lot to say about thanksgiving, mentioning it nearly 140 times. In the book of Psalms alone, we are told over 30 times to “be thankful” and “give thanks unto the Lord.” Psalm 92:1 says, “It is good to give thanks to the LORD, And to sing praises to Your name, O Most High.” Nineteen out of the twenty-seven books of the New Testament mention the need for thanksgiving. 1 Thessalonians 5:18 says “In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.”
Regardless of the hardships we may face in life, we can be thankful for the good things God provides. And it is always helpful for me to consider the circumstances of the Pilgrims when they celebrated the event we now call “Thanksgiving.” When we think of that first thanksgiving celebrated by the Pilgrims, we might assume it occurred during the first year of their residency here after their arrival in 1620. In fact, we know they did have a 3-day feast in the fall of 1621 where wild fowl and venison were served. A letter by Edward Winslow is the only surviving description of the event itself.[1] The hard winter months that followed brought extraordinary suffering and even more deaths to the small band of Pilgrims.
But the first real extended thanksgiving celebration took place a full three years after their arrival in 1620. Those three years were filled with much hardship, toil and suffering. Their days were spent combating sickness, drought, inner conflicts, and the elements. But it wasn’t all bad news. The Native Americans had taught the settlers how to plant corn, fish for cod, hunt for game, and skin beavers for coats. They had planted gardens, built a blockhouse for their protection, houses for their own comfort, and a meetinghouse to worship God.
Just when things seemed to take a turn for the better, they again got worse. In the summer of 1623, a drought threatened to destroy their vital crops. So the colonists prayed and fasted for relief. When the rains came a few days later, disaster was averted, and their crops were saved. Not long after, Captain Miles Standish arrived with staples and news that a Dutch supply ship was on its way. Because of all these blessings and answered prayers, the Pilgrims held a day of thanksgiving and praise. This 1623 event appears to have been the origin of our Thanksgiving Day because it combined a religious and social celebration.[2] It was a time for expressing gratitude to God and sharing with their Indian neighbors. Governor Bradford made the following proclamation:
“Inasmuch as the great Father has given us this year an abundant harvest of Indian corn, wheat, peas, beans, squashes, and garden vegetables, and has made the forests to abound with game and the sea with fish and clams, and inasmuch as He has protected us from the ravages of the savages, has spared us from pestilence and disease, has granted us freedom to worship God according to the dictates of our own conscience.
Now I, your magistrate, do proclaim that all ye Pilgrims, with your wives and ye little ones, do gather at ye meetinghouse, on ye hill, between the hours of 9 and 12 in the day time, on Thursday, November 29th, of the year of our Lord one thousand six hundred and twenty three and the third year since ye Pilgrims landed on ye Pilgrim Rock, there to listen to ye pastor and render thanksgiving to ye Almighty God for all His blessings.”[3]
The provisions for that thanksgiving feast included: “twelve tasty venisons, besides others, pieces of roasted venison, fruit pies, roasted wild turkeys, plums, nuts, grapes, corn, popcorn, vegetables of all types, fish, roast pork, etc. But before all this, the first course was served: on an empty plate in front of each person were five kernels of corn. . .lest anyone should forget” (the hardship of the previous winters.)[4]
“Lest anyone should forget.” Like Chesterton said, “the critical thing in life is whether we take things for granted, or with gratitude.” Happy Thanksgiving!
How are you at memorization? Our minds have more capacity than we realize, by some estimations we only use a fraction of our brain’s storage space. A mind is a terrible thing to waste, and yet some people wonder, “Why bother?” when information is accessible instantly in your pocket or purse at the touch of a button these days.
But we tend to remember things we care about or are useful to us. Whether sports trivia, or a website address, we intentionally remember things that we deem important. So how are you at memorizing Scripture? As a child, I memorized hundreds of verses, using the King James Version in those days. Okay, I admit I did so to win prizes in Sunday School or some other church program of the day. But those verses have proven valuable to me, like Psalm 119:11, “Thy word have I hid in mine heart, that I might not sin against thee.”
So how would you like to memorize half of a chapter of the Bible—one that contains 26 verses. It is easier than you think once you realize the chapter is Psalm 136. Every other verse of the chapter goes like this, “For His mercy endures forever.” Technically, that equals 13 verses that you can commit to memory by memorizing five simple words:
FOR: To be in agreement with, a positive influence, on your side.
HIS: Possessive pronoun – spoken about God – you are His most valuable possession.
MERCY: The opposite of condemnation. To receive mercy is an unexpected and undeserved pardon or blessing.
ENDURES: Patient, ongoing, alert and compensating for the faults and shortcomings of others.
FOREVER: Eternity, unlimited time with no end in sight, beyond our human capacity to understand.
So if you could learn 13 verses, five words, in five minutes, what could you remember if you really put your heart and mind to it? Don’t give up, “For His mercy endures forever.”
Last Sunday my sister and I checked our 85-year-old father into the hospital. He was very ill, with a temperature of nearly 104 degrees, yet his hands were blue and he was shivering from cold. “Yes, he is my father. Medical history? Bypass surgery more than a decade ago, prostate cancer, slight stroke last year. Yes, he has been here before, and yes he is taking his meds.”
As I sat next to his bed while my father was being x-rayed, poked and examined in every conceivable way, my heart was filled with a thousand thoughts and memories.
“Do it again, Daddy! Please!” He took me up in his arms and swung me back and forth like an old-time logger working a misery whip saw.
With his huge hands wrapped around my tiny body, he sang in his baritone voice, “Swing the little birdy in the tree, in the tree, in the tree. Swing the little birdy in the tree, sing, sang to Donnie, whee!!!” When he said “Whee,” he threw me up in the air toward the ceiling. I thought I would explode with a delicious combination of giggles and fright. I loved that game and over the years I saw my dad do the same thing with my own three children.
Another time, another place. Dressed in my blanket sleepers, with a quilt wrapped around me, I was watching my dad fix the broken motor on the mechanical chicken feeder. Mom was gone to a meeting for the evening. I was in his care and too young to understand that the health and welfare of his livestock was the key to our family’s survival. His hands looked so big to my four-year-old eyes, big enough to fix anything. Big enough to carry anything. Big enough to protect me from anything lurking in the dark shadows of the chicken house. “Daddy what are you doing? Can we go back to the house and watch television? Daddy, I’m thirsty. Can I have a drink? Why can’t I help you? Daddy, do I have to go to bed?”
It was the first time I can remember wanting something so much. I needed that red Radio Flyer wagon in the display window of the Western Auto store. It was just like the one Timmy had on the “Lassie” television show. Lassie and Timmy had such a good time playing with that wagon and hauling around everything important to a young boy. I had a collie like Lassie, too – and I just knew she would be as smart as Lassie if only I had a red wagon. “Daddy, can I have that wagon? Please, daddy? Shep and I would love to play with that wagon.”
Then I remember becoming very sick. The doctor came to our house and said I had rheumatic fever. They poked me with needles and hooked up machines that watched my heart. Dr. Bump said that I had to stay in bed for a long rest until I got better – but he also said I might not get better. I was very weak, and had to take the most awful medicine that my dad coaxed down my throat with a mixture of applesauce and sugar.
One day dad came home from town. He had been to the Western Auto store. I was lying in bed on the sofa in the living room. “Donnie, look out here on the porch.” I’m sure my heart really fluttered because there before my eyes was the brand new Radio Flyer red wagon! “It’s yours and you can come outside and play with it just as soon as you get better!”
With help from the Great Physician, and motivation from my dad, after six months I was able to go outside and play with that wagon. My earthly father and Heavenly Father worked together to provide my healing and I have never suffered a heart murmur or any ill effects from the disease that had threatened my young life.
As I sat and waited, more memories came. I was ten years old and an insurance salesman stopped by the house on his regular rounds. He was always trying to sell dad a different policy, but he was always treated like a friend, invited into the house for a cup of coffee and a piece of my mom’s pie. In fact, pretty much everyone who came by was treated the same way. From the ubiquitous salesmen, to the field agent, to the preacher, no matter how busy my dad was or what he was doing, it was momentarily laid aside for some polite conversation and some of my mom’s ever-available dessert. My parents had the gift of hospitality and they passed it along to their children. It is part of our inheritance – their legacy to us.
Although not old enough to participate in the conversation on that day, I was old enough to eavesdrop and understand much of what was being said. I knew times were hard and things were bad on our farm, but until that moment I didn’t realize how bad.
“We lost thousands of chickens ready for market during that last hot spell,” my dad was saying. “Besides that, the price we pay for everything keeps going up, while the price the co-op pays us keeps going down. I don’t know how we are going to make the mortgage payment and pay the bills, let alone buy another insurance policy. I just don’t understand it. You try to live right and work hard, and then things like this happen.” His voice trailed off.
That day I grew a little bit and learned a lot more. I’d never seen my dad cry before, but there were tears in his eyes and his voice trembled as he talked to the insurance man. I’d always seen my dad as invincible, never afraid of anything, able to pull us through any situation. But that day I learned that he was vulnerable to discouragement and I needed to do what I could to help pull our family through some tough days.
As they usually do, circumstances improved in time. Now I was thirteen. Dad and I were riding in the truck, going to McMinnville to buy supplies. “Son, you’ve worked like a man this summer. We couldn’t have accomplished what we did without your help.” My dad was a man of few words and even fewer words of praise. As if he had reached his absolute spending limit on such extravagances, he next did what he normally did as we rode together.
“Oh I want to see Him, look upon His face. There to sing forever of His saving grace. On the streets of glory, let me lift my voice. Cares all past, home at last, ever to rejoice!” On the seat of a tractor, or the seat of a pickup truck, my dad always sang. He loved the old hymns and gospel songs.
But my mind wasn’t on the song; it was on his words of appreciation. To tell you the truth, spending most of your summer daylight hours at the controls of a tractor isn’t exactly torture for a teenager. But at least for a few moments, I felt vindicated; like I’d paid my debt to the family for all the times I’d been a slacker and complained about life on the farm. A little bit of praise goes a long way to improve a thirteen-year-old boy’s perspective on life. But that wasn’t all.
“Hey, where are we going?” Instead of pulling into the feed and farm supply store, we were parking in front of the local Honda motorcycle shop. I had to pinch myself to be sure I wasn’t dreaming. I couldn’t believe it as we walked in together and I saw my dad plop down cash money to buy me a Honda 90. I wouldn’t have been happier if someone had given me a million dollars!
Fast-forward another five years to 1973. An eighteen-year-old high school graduate is spending a hot August day loading his car with most of his worldly possessions. He has seldom been outside of his own state. But tomorrow he will leave this home where he has spent his entire life and begin the drive to Dallas, Texas. There he will attend a Bible college he knows only from a catalog he has pored over and prayed over.
“Son, I know you’ve got to do what you feel called to do. You do your best and stay in touch. But I want you to know there is always a place for you right here if you should change your mind. You might be able to use these. I can remember my dad using these same titles in the ministry, studying them for his sermons.” He handed me two brand new books: a Matthew Henry commentary and a topical Bible, both purchased (by him for me) from a traveling Bible salesman.
I was shocked. I knew dad really wanted me to follow in his footsteps on the family farm. At the very least he had encouraged me to get a back-up profession like a teaching degree or perhaps even go to law school after college. But that day he gave me a precious gift – the gift of affirmation and the freedom to go and be the person I believed God was calling me to be.
Ten years later I was packing again – this time a moving van. Jodi and I were leaving behind our home church where we had spent the past four years as associate pastors. In fact, for the past six years we had lived and ministered close to the home place with both of our parents nearby. Kristi and Mark were born during this time, and Jana was in the hopper. Now we were moving to Toledo, Oregon – a new church assignment. Even though I had more details to take care of, more boxes to pack, and more furniture to load, I took a few moments and drove out to the farm.
I wanted to see my dad. More than that, I wanted his blessing. Over the past years, our relationship had grown and in the process I’d grown to appreciate his friendship and advice. Now I was moving his precious grandchildren more than a hundred miles away.
As usual, he was busy at work when I arrived, but not too busy to talk. We walked and talked and did a few chores together. “You know, I talked to the District Superintendent a few years ago about you.”
Trying to hide my surprise, I said, “Oh, you did?” I couldn’t imagine my dad having a conversation with the Superintendent of the Oregon District of the Assemblies of God, and certainly couldn’t imagine him keeping it a secret for the past few years.
“Yes, I was over at the District Office to fix the roof for them and as he was showing me the leaks, he was talking about you. He said he thought you’d be pastoring one of the greatest churches in the Northwest one day. And I agreed with him. Son, I know we’ll miss having you around here, but I think you are doing the right thing by going to Toledo.” Once again my father gave me words of affirmation, a gift I have since treasured through some rough moments in the ministry.
“Mr. Detrick, we are going to have to keep you overnight and run some more tests. Your lungs are clear, but your heart is going in and out of a fibrillation and there are some other things we need to check out. Maybe your son here can gather your things and the nurse will move you down to another room.” The doctor’s pronouncement brought an end to my trip down memory lane. But it did not diminish the admiration I felt for the old man we were wheeling down to room 130.
Stricken by the poignancy of the moment, and the reversal of our roles, I was reminded of Malachi’s prophecy. When I was a boy, I really didn’t understand my father. I saw him as a good provider, but a workaholic. And I’m not sure he always understood me – especially during my longhaired teenage years. But over time, and by the grace of God, my heart has been turned to his heart and his heart has been turned to mine. That’s really what our Heavenly Father wants from all his children as well.
As if you couldn’t tell, my father has a giving heart. That’s how he has always expressed his love, by giving selflessly, expecting nothing in return.
But over the past few years he has grown to express his love in other ways – hugs, and kisses, and the precious words, “I love you.” As we were leaving him behind in the hospital room last week, his parting words were for his ailing bride of 63 years. I knew part of the pain he was feeling at that moment was his inability to be at home to care for her: “Be sure and tell your mother how much I love her.”
POSTSCRIPT: Father’s Day 2014
Howard & Madeline Detrick 50th Anniversary Jan 2, 1989
Little did I know when I wrote this twelve years ago, that both my mother and father would be in heaven within six months. I am thankful I was able to deliver this tribute to my father personally, and see the tears in his eyes as I read it to him. Up to this point in their lives, my parents continued to abide on the same farm in Newberg, Oregon where my dad had lived for 75 years, since moving there as a boy in 1927. Although their health was failing with age, they still lived independently, Dad still drove, and they made it to church every Sunday.
Within a few days of writing this, my mother was hospitalized and placed in intensive care. A combination of cancer, diabetes, and low sodium levels left her in a near comatose state. Dad had recovered somewhat and drove to the hospital daily to sit by Mom’s side. One day, the nurses came into the room and found Dad slumped over in a chair. He had suffered a stroke. So within the course of a week, my parents went from living independently to being hospitalized–and they never came home. Because of the severity of their health conditions and their need for constant care, they were moved from the hospital into a care home.
Although this was a difficult time for our family, two poignant memories stick out in my mind. First, after Dad’s stroke, family members gathered around his hospital bedside. The doctors did not know the severity of the stroke or the prospects of recovery. Nearly 86 years old, Dad was in a very weakened condition and in a comatose state. We knew he might be able to hear us so a number of us spoke to him and told him how much we loved him and prayed for him. Then, our youngest daughter Jana said, I want to sing to Gramps. She began to sing, “On a hill far away, stood an old rugged cross.” As she did, the most amazing thing occurred—Dad started to sing along! We all joined in and then began singing, “Amazing Grace.” Although his voice was weak and trembling, he didn’t miss a word. Nor did he open his eyes or show any other sign of being cognizant. When the singing stopped, we all stood in amazement and tears, while Dad slept on. He didn’t really awaken until days later.
Mom and Dad shared twin beds at the care facility. Mom went to heaven on August, 28, 2002. Before she died, Dad crawled into her bed, and gently cuddled next to his bride of 63 years. He was so sweet as he stroked her forehead and hands, and repeated, “I’ll meet you in the morning, on the other side. I love you and tell all the family I’ll be coming soon.”
A few months later, on November 12th, Dad went to be with the Lord and to see those family members who have gone on before. I spent the night sleeping in the room with him the day he died. Although he has been gone for nearly twelve years now, hardly a day goes by that I don’t think about him and his impact in my life. They say that grown men are just little boys in a bigger body. Even today, when I close my eyes, I can see my Dad holding me, a little boy in his arms, swinging me way up high as I giggle and say, “Daddy, do it again!”
“Merry Christmas!” Greetings exchanged and acknowledged with a glance and perhaps a contrived smile. After waiting in line at checkout and then waiting in another line for the checkers at the door to draw a squiggly line through our receipt, perhaps what we really mean is, “Let me out of here. I’m tired of waiting in lines, and feeling claustrophobic from the crowded aisles. I’m tired of driving in circles to find a parking space, and then needing a GPS to remember where I finally parked!”
Maybe it’s just me, but it seems like life is full of contradictions, especially at Christmas. We hurry up to have a little time to slow down. We exchange greetings with strangers and sit silently with members of our own family that we have lost touch with. We make small talk when we are deep in thought about what we would really like to say. We spend too much on gifts nobody needs while worrying about how we will pay for it all. We talk about the weather outside and hide the storm brooding inside our hearts. We celebrate peace on earth and goodwill toward men while our countenance shoots daggers at the person who pulled out in front of us or stole the only remaining parking spot we had already claimed as our own from two rows away.
Yet if we slow down long enough to reflect on our motives, I suspect we will discover something at a deeper level. We really do have good intentions. We really don’t wish harm to anyone. We really do have deep longings for connection, for peace on earth and peace at home. We really do want to be generous. We just don’t slow down long enough to drink deeply enough from those wells of meaning to find satisfaction or significance in our hurry, worry, and scurry. The end is somehow lost in the means. Our actions contradict what is truly in our hearts and we are left spent—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. The empty feeling we are left with contradicts all of our good intentions.
So remember this, sometimes it feels like everything is about to fall apart when in reality things are just about ready to come together. Surely that is how Joseph and Mary felt when they could find no room in the inn, or when they were forced to escape to Egypt, or when people called their son illegitimate. Hardship and heartache walked hand in hand with happiness and hope.
There often exists a contradiction between our circumstances and God’s divine destiny. Being happy is not incongruent with being harried or hassled. And unfavorable circumstances do not always lead to unfavorable outcomes. Three eternal things make the difference: faith, hope and love. If you can anchor your heart and actions on these, and take a little time to reflect on what is really important, while examining your motives behind your actions, you will minimize the contradictions and maximize the intended consequences.
Face value. That has to do with perspective. At first glance, all we see is what is visible at the moment, and from that particular point of view. We may assume or make a value judgment from that perspective, concluding that what we just observed tells the whole story—all there is to it. That can be a big mistake. In fact it can be a blind spot to us, because if we took the time to discover a different point of view, it might make all the difference.
one is telling the correct time, “They are all correct, twice a day!”
