I'm just guessing, but I suppose many people in our country have never had the experience of getting a shovel and digging out the dirt around a septic tank lid so the Septic Guy could back up his tank truck and suck the 1500 or so gallons of sewage out.
Step One: have a good idea where the tank lid is. Start digging. The tank is below ground and the top has a lid at least a foot-and-a-half square. Some (ours) have two lids. Its usually a foot or so of digging (Hint: backfill with some sand; next time the digging will be easier.).
Step Two: get out of the way. The Septic Guy gets paid to do the rest and he doesn't need your help. He's got this big tank truck with what can only be described as the world's largest shopvac.
Note: sometime after step two, you have to do what every man has to do.
You have to look. Down into the tank. Where all that you flush down the toilet ends up.
It's interesting.
And, of course, it smells like...well, you know...
Ideally, all you're going to see is what is supposed to be flushed down a toilet; toilet paper and yesterday's ravioli. Except its not as recognizable as that.
In reality, you see things that aren't supposed to be there.
For instance, someone has been eating candy bars and flushing the wrappers. Snickers.
Someone is flushing baby wipes.
I don't know why, but I also saw some small cylindrical white plastic. I'm not sure what it was. It looked like a medicine bottle top. And some other unidentifiable objects made of materials not suitable for septic fields.
So, I've got to have the annual talk with the kids. "Don't flush stuff down the toilet. Or sink, for that matter."
I'ts probably just a coincidence, but I thought about Sunday school class last week. We were learning about prayer. One member mentioned that our prayer requests are typically, "help so-and-so to feel better," or "pray for ____'s health issue." We might even mention that a person has "spiritual needs." But the note was made that we just don't get very personal or vulnerable.
To be rather blunt with you, I'm thinking that our prayers should sometimes be like septic tank cleaning.
We should call God up and and say, "come here and take the lid off the hidden junk in my life and clean it out."
I'm a pastor. I know these things. There is stuff in my life and your life and every Christian's life that just shouldn't be there. And as long as it's hidden and no one can smell it or see it, we figure it can't be doing anyone any harm.
But it is.
See, the stuff that gets flushed into a septic system and shouldn't can be very costly in the long run. It will ruin the field. It'll cost thousands of dollars to put a new one in.
The stuff in a Christian that doesn't belong there is costly, too. We cost Jesus much too much for us to ruin ourselves by ignoring the hidden junk.
I suggest we get more intimate in our prayer lives and let God take a load of... well, you know...out of us. And the sooner the better.
This world needs sweet, real Christians. Let's you and I be just that.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Friday, August 1, 2008
Mom
I lost my dad last week.
He was 86 and over the last couple of years was really slowing down.
Being a rough carpenter took its toll on his body over the years.
I did a little of that work and I can vouch that it is physically demanding.
Dad's fingers were perpetually cracked. He used to try various ointments to soothe and soften them, but it was an act of futility. He had some cancer taken off his face and neck. It wasn't that real bad kind. So he learned to keep out of the sun late in life. Dad almost always wore light colored carpenter's overalls when he worked. He called them his "ducks." I can see him in them as I write. He didn't use carbide blades in his saws and he could flip a saw over and sharpen it quickly with the file he kept with him. At home when a neighbor used a saw, he would hear it screaming and remark something about using a dull blade. I've learned to hear the same thing. Dad was a smart man and he could look at a set of blueprint a tell you right away what would work and what wouldn't. His math skills were excellent. If measurements didn't add up, he knew it . And he knew how to fix it and make it right.
At his funeral there was the usual apearance of pictures from his life. I've attended many funerals and it always strikes me how a family tries to summarize a man's life by a few hundred pictures on a felt board. [don't get me wrong, I like looking at the fond memories.]
One picture showed him with his arm in a sling. He was in his late forties, I think. Dad was up a ladder one day at work [sometime after luch break] and it slipped and he rode it down and landed and broke his arm just below the elbow. Dad was no sissy; had a crew of men needing him so he worked the rest of the day, drove home, and then Mom took him to he hospital. I distinctly remember mom crying that afternoon when he got home from work. I was scared, too. His arm was way too big. Even for a man with big arms. And dad had good sized arms.
It's been a week or so since dad died. Mom has been in that strange world only widows occupy. She has been very busy: social security, buying graves, funeral arrangements, bank changes, insurance changes, thank you cards, death notifications to everybody and their brother...
She's had good help, too. Family has supported in every way. She's hosted, entertained, encouraged, and comforted others.
But I stopped by last night and mom looks tired; maybe even haggard. Her hug was longer and closer than I remember it being in the past.
She told her kids that she needs to be alone. I believe her. She's got to grieve. She's got to have the space and time to cry. It's her turn.
She's going to need her friends - soon. But for the time being she needs some down time to process the reality that her friend and lover and partner for 60 years is gone.
Dad did a great job of protecting and supporting and leading.
But he's gone.
I hope I can be there for mom when she needs me.
He was 86 and over the last couple of years was really slowing down.
Being a rough carpenter took its toll on his body over the years.
I did a little of that work and I can vouch that it is physically demanding.
Dad's fingers were perpetually cracked. He used to try various ointments to soothe and soften them, but it was an act of futility. He had some cancer taken off his face and neck. It wasn't that real bad kind. So he learned to keep out of the sun late in life. Dad almost always wore light colored carpenter's overalls when he worked. He called them his "ducks." I can see him in them as I write. He didn't use carbide blades in his saws and he could flip a saw over and sharpen it quickly with the file he kept with him. At home when a neighbor used a saw, he would hear it screaming and remark something about using a dull blade. I've learned to hear the same thing. Dad was a smart man and he could look at a set of blueprint a tell you right away what would work and what wouldn't. His math skills were excellent. If measurements didn't add up, he knew it . And he knew how to fix it and make it right.
At his funeral there was the usual apearance of pictures from his life. I've attended many funerals and it always strikes me how a family tries to summarize a man's life by a few hundred pictures on a felt board. [don't get me wrong, I like looking at the fond memories.]
One picture showed him with his arm in a sling. He was in his late forties, I think. Dad was up a ladder one day at work [sometime after luch break] and it slipped and he rode it down and landed and broke his arm just below the elbow. Dad was no sissy; had a crew of men needing him so he worked the rest of the day, drove home, and then Mom took him to he hospital. I distinctly remember mom crying that afternoon when he got home from work. I was scared, too. His arm was way too big. Even for a man with big arms. And dad had good sized arms.
It's been a week or so since dad died. Mom has been in that strange world only widows occupy. She has been very busy: social security, buying graves, funeral arrangements, bank changes, insurance changes, thank you cards, death notifications to everybody and their brother...
She's had good help, too. Family has supported in every way. She's hosted, entertained, encouraged, and comforted others.
But I stopped by last night and mom looks tired; maybe even haggard. Her hug was longer and closer than I remember it being in the past.
She told her kids that she needs to be alone. I believe her. She's got to grieve. She's got to have the space and time to cry. It's her turn.
She's going to need her friends - soon. But for the time being she needs some down time to process the reality that her friend and lover and partner for 60 years is gone.
Dad did a great job of protecting and supporting and leading.
But he's gone.
I hope I can be there for mom when she needs me.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
maybe the worst
I've had a long term relationship with God.
It's been up and down.
At times we have been very close; it's hard to explain. I get along with Him and He lovingly leads and guides and assures me.
Other times have been different. I wouldn't say I questioned His existence, or doubted my faith. But there have been stretches of time that I felt alone. It's sort of like when I'm in the living room and Jan is in the bedroom and it seems as though we're miles apart. I never question whether Jan's in there or not; I just feel alone.
One of the ways I've sensed a closeness to God is the way He speaks to my conscience.
One such conversation with God occurred a few times over the years after I graduated from high school.
You see, I used to have a sharp tongue and a critical spirit. I used to be a real smart aleck. I could say very mean things about someone and think I was being funny.
There was a girl in high school that had a peculiarly shpaed nose.
I nick-named her "Hookie."
I didn't really know her; she seemed quiet. My friends and I would tease each other about her. You know, "...are you going out wth Hookie...?" type stuff.
At one point it deteriorated into my pestering a guy I didn't like about liking her.
I remember it coming to a point where a fight almost ensued after a bus ride with the school band.
Anyway...
After I got out of high school I eventually matured (a little).
Then I began to see this type of behavior in teens and adults.
It was hideous and it offended my spirit.
And God invaded my conscience.
"Hey, Don, remember Hookie?" He would say.
It happened several times over a number of years.
Each time I would pray for the ones doing the bugging. I would pray for the ones being bugged. And I would pray and ask God to forgive me. Then I would pray for "Hookie."
It's been a long time since I've felt an urge to pray for her and I believe God has more than forgiven me.
I wonder, though, what kind of irreparable damage I have done with my mouth.
I wihs I could say that I've got good control over my tongue, but that would be a lie.
I still make comments I regret. I still smart off once in a while. I still have a God who says, "What'd you just say?" and reminds me to make quick repairs when He nudges me.
"Hookie" had a name. It was Vickie. I hope that God sent someone to her in her life that valued that name and loved her enough to whisper it sweetly and kindly many times in her ears.
God does that sort of thing. I know. He gave me a lovely girl that doesn't mind being a "Pew."
For whatever it's worth, "Sorry, Vickie."
I'm trying not to waste my breathe being critical any more.
I suggest you don't, either.
"We all make many mistakes, but those who control their tongues can also control themselves in every other way. We can make a large horse turn around and go wherever we want by means of a small bit in its mouth. And a tiny rudder makes a huge ship turn around wherever the pilot wants it to go, even though the winds are strong. So, also the tongue is a small thing, but what enormous damage it can do. A tiny spark can set a great forest on fire. And the tongue is a flame of fire. It is full of wickedness that can ruin your whole life. It can turn the entire course of your life into a blazing flame of destruction, for it is set on fire by hell itself." James 3:2-6 (NLT)
It's been up and down.
At times we have been very close; it's hard to explain. I get along with Him and He lovingly leads and guides and assures me.
Other times have been different. I wouldn't say I questioned His existence, or doubted my faith. But there have been stretches of time that I felt alone. It's sort of like when I'm in the living room and Jan is in the bedroom and it seems as though we're miles apart. I never question whether Jan's in there or not; I just feel alone.
One of the ways I've sensed a closeness to God is the way He speaks to my conscience.
One such conversation with God occurred a few times over the years after I graduated from high school.
You see, I used to have a sharp tongue and a critical spirit. I used to be a real smart aleck. I could say very mean things about someone and think I was being funny.
There was a girl in high school that had a peculiarly shpaed nose.
I nick-named her "Hookie."
I didn't really know her; she seemed quiet. My friends and I would tease each other about her. You know, "...are you going out wth Hookie...?" type stuff.
At one point it deteriorated into my pestering a guy I didn't like about liking her.
I remember it coming to a point where a fight almost ensued after a bus ride with the school band.
Anyway...
After I got out of high school I eventually matured (a little).
Then I began to see this type of behavior in teens and adults.
It was hideous and it offended my spirit.
And God invaded my conscience.
"Hey, Don, remember Hookie?" He would say.
It happened several times over a number of years.
Each time I would pray for the ones doing the bugging. I would pray for the ones being bugged. And I would pray and ask God to forgive me. Then I would pray for "Hookie."
It's been a long time since I've felt an urge to pray for her and I believe God has more than forgiven me.
I wonder, though, what kind of irreparable damage I have done with my mouth.
I wihs I could say that I've got good control over my tongue, but that would be a lie.
I still make comments I regret. I still smart off once in a while. I still have a God who says, "What'd you just say?" and reminds me to make quick repairs when He nudges me.
"Hookie" had a name. It was Vickie. I hope that God sent someone to her in her life that valued that name and loved her enough to whisper it sweetly and kindly many times in her ears.
God does that sort of thing. I know. He gave me a lovely girl that doesn't mind being a "Pew."
For whatever it's worth, "Sorry, Vickie."
I'm trying not to waste my breathe being critical any more.
I suggest you don't, either.
"We all make many mistakes, but those who control their tongues can also control themselves in every other way. We can make a large horse turn around and go wherever we want by means of a small bit in its mouth. And a tiny rudder makes a huge ship turn around wherever the pilot wants it to go, even though the winds are strong. So, also the tongue is a small thing, but what enormous damage it can do. A tiny spark can set a great forest on fire. And the tongue is a flame of fire. It is full of wickedness that can ruin your whole life. It can turn the entire course of your life into a blazing flame of destruction, for it is set on fire by hell itself." James 3:2-6 (NLT)
Friday, July 11, 2008
First Chair
When I was there from 1969-1971, Cody High School had a gifted band director, Mr. Joseph Poniatowski (sp?). He demanded the best from everyone, even those who were marginally talented. Sometimes it was difficult, painful even, to sit through an intense pre-concert practice. It was worth it. We played our hearts out and Mr. P directed with a passion suitable for the best orchestra in the world.
I learned some valuable lessons in band.
For one thing, I have come to realize the importance of practice. Though not without exception, it is true that what you do in practice is what you will do in preformance. If you want to play sports or perform in public, you must practice. And practice seriously.
Another lesson is that some poeple are more talented than others. Maybe success is 90% perspiration and 10% inspiration. But talent is a gift and not everyone is equally gifted or talented. So what? Do your best. Try. Work. Even if you're not particularly good at what you enjoy to do. Last night my oldest son and my future son-in-law played their first indoor soccer game for a company team in a summer league. They got shellacked. It was 30 somethings versus 19 year olds. Who's got the energy of a nineteen year old? Other 19 year olds! That may not be talent, but the point is the same. My son and son-in-law can still do their best and have fun (to a point), can't they?
One other lesson came on a day I can remember vividly. At least one moment I remember. I was in the band office and Mr. P told me to wind up a microphone cord (it may have been an extrension cord). As I started to do what he asked, he scolded me for not doing it the way he wanted. See, cords like that have to be twisted a little as they're wound up or they'll be a mess. I didn't know that. Mr. P assumed that I would. He didn't stop and teach me. He just grabbed the cord and did it himself. I can still remember the feeling of smallness and embarrassment of that moment. I think I've taken the time in my life to stop and teach rather than yell and grab. At least most of the time.
Don't get me wrong.
I should have learned more. Sometime soon, I'll tell you about the worst thing I ever did in high school.
In the mean time, practice-have fun-be patient.
"A servant of the Lord must not quarrel but must be kind to everyone, be able to teach, and be patient with difficult people. Gently instruct those who oppose the truth. Perhaps God will change those people’s hearts, and they will learn the truth."
2 Ti 2:24-25 NLT
I learned some valuable lessons in band.
For one thing, I have come to realize the importance of practice. Though not without exception, it is true that what you do in practice is what you will do in preformance. If you want to play sports or perform in public, you must practice. And practice seriously.
Another lesson is that some poeple are more talented than others. Maybe success is 90% perspiration and 10% inspiration. But talent is a gift and not everyone is equally gifted or talented. So what? Do your best. Try. Work. Even if you're not particularly good at what you enjoy to do. Last night my oldest son and my future son-in-law played their first indoor soccer game for a company team in a summer league. They got shellacked. It was 30 somethings versus 19 year olds. Who's got the energy of a nineteen year old? Other 19 year olds! That may not be talent, but the point is the same. My son and son-in-law can still do their best and have fun (to a point), can't they?
One other lesson came on a day I can remember vividly. At least one moment I remember. I was in the band office and Mr. P told me to wind up a microphone cord (it may have been an extrension cord). As I started to do what he asked, he scolded me for not doing it the way he wanted. See, cords like that have to be twisted a little as they're wound up or they'll be a mess. I didn't know that. Mr. P assumed that I would. He didn't stop and teach me. He just grabbed the cord and did it himself. I can still remember the feeling of smallness and embarrassment of that moment. I think I've taken the time in my life to stop and teach rather than yell and grab. At least most of the time.
Don't get me wrong.
I should have learned more. Sometime soon, I'll tell you about the worst thing I ever did in high school.
In the mean time, practice-have fun-be patient.
"A servant of the Lord must not quarrel but must be kind to everyone, be able to teach, and be patient with difficult people. Gently instruct those who oppose the truth. Perhaps God will change those people’s hearts, and they will learn the truth."
2 Ti 2:24-25 NLT
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