Let's Bring Heaven Down Here

We had borrowed as a theme some words from a song by the jazz duo Tuck and Patti: "I don't want to wait for the angels; let's bring heaven down here." That was our plan in getting married -- to "bring heaven down here," but we knew we needed help. Given the fact that we were combining two adult households, and that therefore we neither needed nor could find room for any material gifts, we asked instead for "prayers, wisdom, advice or blessings" on how to have a happy marriage. Many complied -- in pithy sayings; in extended treatises; in songs composed and stories told and dialogues recounted. Wisdom, prayers, and blessings. We bundled all those responses into a notebook that each successive year we have pulled off the shelf and reread.

Looking back over the collection this evening on our 12th anniversary I was struck by how often the subjects of patience and communication came up -- these, plus time; communication no doubt because we can't read each other's mind, and if we are going to live with each other we had better be on the same page. Patience because...well, let's face it, anybody can be hard to live with; because all of us aren't holy with one another or lovely at the same speed. And time, because our allocations of it seem always and perversely to favor everything except our marriage. Communication, then, and time, and patience. Patience, in and of itself, a willful and determine devotion of time, as if to say, "there is nothing more important in my life than waiting for you to catch up."

It reminds me of some words by that great theologian Bruce Springsteen:

We said we'd walk together,
Baby come what may,
Then come the twilight,
Should we lose our way,
But if as we're walking',
A hand should slip free,
Well, I'll wait for you,
And if I fall behind wait for me.

Patience and communication. Talking -- always talking, because we need to understand each other -- and waiting for each other to catch up. Because we don't ever seem to live and move and love and learn at the same pace.

I have come to believe that heaven is a good bit like that: to listen and to be heard; and hearing, to understand. And when we are slow -- when a hand slips free; when we are obtuse and distracted and selfish and lost -- to not be left behind. To have someone waiting and watching for us to crest the far hill and draw near.

At least it sounds like heaven to me -- and for the past 12 years, experienced it to be.

For the 12th Time: Yes, I do

No, it isn't exactly the date -- that arrives tomorrow -- but it is more experientially "the day." Twelve years ago, on the 3rd Saturday in September, at 10:45 in the morning, in the shadow of an evergreen tree in the garden of friends, in the company of family and friends, accompanied by flute and harp, Lori and I stood in front of my Dad who led us through the exchange of breathtaking promises, prayers, and blessings, and pronounced us husband and wife. Then, he finally invited us to kiss.

Twelve years ago...standing shoulder to shoulder...receiving the blessing that was coming our way. As we were eventually able to do in that service, we have enjoyed our time face to face; but thinking back over the past 12 years, it is the time spent shoulder to shoulder -- facing forward together, receiving all the wonder and mystery and beauty and possibility and challenge and fireworks coming our way -- that stands out the most. There is something powerfully wonderful about the company of a partner. To face it all, receive it all, together.

We have moved across town together; trained and adjusted to a dog together; made music together and paid bills together; we have traveled across the country and around the globe together; we have gone to school together and made parenting decisions together; we have taught classes together and crafted sentences together; we have dreamed together and cried together and been afraid together and cooked together; we have solved problems together and overcome obstacles together; we have passed through dark valleys together, and together welcomed the sun. We have made plans together -- and together found ways to change more than a few of them. We have chased after waterfalls together, tromped through snow together, caught falling colored leaves together, made pasta together, hiked mountain paths together, ridden bicycles together, tasted fresh syrup together, picked tomatoes together, and shared picnics together. Side by side...shoulder to shoulder...receiving the world together.

And now 12 years later, on this 3rd Saturday in September, still looking forward, it is a delight to look back for a moment as well; and sweeping the vision of my soul across both yesterday and tomorrow, for the 12th time, to answer "Yes! I do!" Happy Anniversary, Lori Jo. Indeed, I do.

On Living One's Own Obituary

You can imagine my surprise. Well, I think anyone would be.

I couple of months ago Christopher was telling me about "Google Alerts" -- a feature of the ubiquitous search engine enterprise that allows users to track internet activity related to a subject of choice. Every day, Google does a sweep of the internet on your designated search term and sends you an email with links to all (if any) of the hits. Curious about a particular new cell phone supposedly in development, I set up a Google Alert for it. And, in a flash of narcissism -- or paranoia -- I set up another with my name. Hey, even Jesus wanted to know what people were saying about him.

Well, the sad truth is that people are saying very little. In the weeks since setting up the Alert, I might have had three -- maybe four -- hits on my name. And they have all been scintillating: the posted City Council Meeting agenda indicating that I would be offering the opening prayer; our church's newsletter proudly featuring my column. That sort of thing. Yawn. In other words, nothing. Zilch.

Until today, when the Google Alert passed along the link to one internet hit:

Sep 15, 2009 ... Online obituary for Timothy Diebel. Read Timothy Diebel's life story, offer tributes/condolences, send flowers or create a Timothy Diebel ...

As I say, you can imagine my surprise. I felt for my pulse. I looked in the mirror. I wondered if someone knew something I didn't. Then, I returned to the email and clicked on the link. My relief was palpable: although indeed 53 years of age, this Timothy Diebel didn't look a thing like me. He did, however, live not too far away -- in St. Paul, Minnesota. Feeling only a bit voyeuristic, I read through several of the online condolences submitted by friends -- including one by his ex-wife, if I was reading correctly between the lines. Now that is a sobering thought to consider. (Note to self: specify in pre-arrangements that online condolences are not to be solicited). All indications suggest that he seems to have been a nice guy, although his actual obituary was breathtakingly short -- only marginally longer than the hyphen between two dates. Besides, what else are people going to write?

Sufficiently satisfied that I was, indeed, still alive, I began to reflect on the prospect -- suspending for a moment the eeriness of considering one's own funeral. The concept isn't unprecedented. I, myself, once officiated at the funeral of a person who was still alive and in attendance. The details are unimportant; suffice it to say that the quite-elderly woman was, by all medical intelligence, near death; family members had already made plans to convene for the anticipated farewell; and when, to the surprise of all, the patient suddenly improved and was summarily discharged from the hospital, the family decided to go ahead with the plans. Odd, I suppose, but certainly expedient. And she could be there to hear what people said about her -- even if she was hardly in a position to burnish her legacy if the reports turned out to be negative.

I, however, am still virile enough to effect some positive augmentation of my legacy. Stewardship of time comes to mind. Relationships, and, of course, noble contribution. Just to begin the list.

Reading the obituary again and exhaling with the relief that it isn't mine, I thought for a moment of how easy it is to take life for granted, and also one's own gifts to be shared in the course of it.

The day is still young. If it is going to be anything more than the hyphen between my own two dates, I had better get busy living it in a fruitful way. It would be nice if my survivors have something positive -- maybe even interesting -- to write about.

She sang it in the morning, in the evening, all over this land

I no longer recall what the first song might have been that I learned to play on the guitar -- it could have been 500 Miles, or Wayfarin' Stranger or Leaving on a Jet Plane, or Puff the Magic Dragon. If I had a Hammer would have come along soon after, and Blowin' in the Wind. This was back in the early '70's -- at least -- and folk music still had a following. At church camp in the summers it seemed like guitars were everywhere. Afternoon free times found small groups of them clustered in shady corners all around the property, playing and singing and sharing songs. Evening vespers singing was led by a veritable orchestra of guitars lined up in front of the group. And Peter, Paul and Mary were at the top of the list of musicians who provided the repertoire. It was exciting, several years later, to attend a wonderful concert by Peter Yarrow at the Abilene Civic Center during which he had the entire audience not only singing along, but singing several different parts. I felt like I was in the presence of something close to musical royalty.

I suppose I rather lost track of the trio after that -- their music replaced in my head by The Eagles, Jackson Browne, America, ZZ Top, Fleetwood Mac, James Taylor, Crosby Stills Nash and Young, and other edgier fare. Years past, rock bands have come and gone, musical tastes have evolved; meanwhile Peter, Paul and Mary have continued to plug along. A decade or so ago I got to meet Peter Yarrow who was presenting at an educational conference in town. He had created a youth curriculum based on their song, Don't Laugh at Me. I had already fallen in love with the song, and was excited to learn more about the curriculum. Later we corresponded, and tried to work out a way for him to perform at our church. His work and the unique ministry of this congregation seemed perfectly suited. It didn't ever work out, but I did get to go back stage, into the "Green Room" after a concert that the three of them did in Des Moines a few years ago. It was exhilarating. It sort of felt like coming full circle.
So it was with a particular sadness that I read this morning of Mary Travers' death at 72 from leukemia. Having battled segregation with Martin Luther King, jr, and protested against the injustice and the violence of war -- battles in which she helped make significant progress -- she has finally lost this much more personal battle with disease. And I feel like I have lost a part of myself.

Others will have their own rubric for what constitutes a "good life," but I would assess one spent making both music and a difference to be "good" indeed.

She, of course, was not the first of this artist/activist species, and I trust she will not be the last. Music and social consciousness seem to regularly join hands and partner. By her example, that partnership has occasionally found expression even in me.

Who knows who the next musical activist icon might be whose song and conscience are perhaps even now stirring. Someone, though, will step up to the microphone -- probably with a guitar; certainly with a passion; and, with any luck, an attentive audience who learns to sing along. It could be, I suppose, almost anyone. The answer, of course, is blowin' in the wind.

Light -- or get used to the dark

I'm thinking that I had better get busy with the trees. The need is still a couple of months off, but the temperature is already changing. Last year I waited too long -- well past the mild autumn opportunities -- until the snow was already thick on the lawn and no one, least of all myself, was interested in stringing Christmas lights tediously through the branches.

My plan, just to back up a season, had been to leave the lights in the trees the year before. "What could happen?" I wondered. So, early in December I smuggly and expectantly stretched an extension cord and and attached the plug dangling from the lower branches, stood back and watched nothing happen. Closer inspection revealed that about half of the bulbs had been shattered by miscellaneous winds and whipping branches throughout the course of 2008. So much for my labor saving ingenuity. By then, it was too late to comfortably disentangle the mangled remnants, purchase new strings, and begin the tedium all over again. We made due with lights inside the house.

But funny thing: the months after Christmas engaged no subsequent initiative, so that today -- almost two years since they last produced any light -- those same mangled strings of once-upon-a-time festivity still circle the trees, utterly dead, and not worth repairing. Now is the time, while the temperatures are conducive, to strip the branches and discard the strings and start all over again. Now is the time to be fumbling around among the needles and preparing for the holidays to come. Sort of like the Christmas version of Aesop's fable of the grasshopper, who frittered away the warm months, and the ant who diligently stored up food in preparation for winter, I need to anticipate the chancing of the seasons and get my work done. As the ant put it, "to work today is to eat tomorrow." Or at least to enjoy the lights.

Now, before it's too late and while the days are inviting, is the time to pull my ladder out to the yard and do what needs to be done. But right now I am drunk on the illusion that Christmas is far, far away. There is plenty of time. I'll get around to it. No need to hurry. There are other things I'd rather do.

Which means there are things I will eventually need to do --

-- like getting used to the dark.

Is There Nothing Else to Talk About?

I don't care. It's just that simple. I do not care. At all. Not even an infinitesimal little bit. And I am sick of the bloating diet of both the salacious and inane details of the Gosselin's sad life as they publicly lick their self-inflicted wounds. "He said," "she said." He "feels..." while she "will never..."

And now -- I hope you are sitting down -- we learn that Kate has changed her hair style. This is big news. Fire up the presses. Heat up the internet. The world will want to know this critical piece of life-changing information. Move over health care debate. Step aside economic spasms and war in Afghanistan. Never mind the ongoing challenges in Iraq -- or immigration reform, for that matter, or the looming environmental peril. We've got something really important we need to talk about: Kate's new hair style. It must be important, we learned about it on The View.

I suppose it goes without saying that I don't "get" the fascination with this story -- not just the hair; the whole fatuous and voyeuristic saga of their televised life and love and now their junior high-ish split.

I can't help but suspect that this kind of cultural preoccupation is precisely what turns brains into cottage cheese and shrivels our collective soul into a raisin too hard and dry to even taste. Which is to say, I suppose, that my beef is not really with the Gosselins. God bless them in the challenging life they undoubtedly have ahead of them. I wouldn't wish anybody misery. No, my complaint is with the rest of us for watching it, salivating over every morsel, and for buying the magazines.

There is still time, however. We can save ourselves, I truly believe it. We might not be able to break the habit "cold turkey," but step by step, one day at a time, we can turn this thing around. It can start in small ways -- like simply sitting quietly looking out the window for a few moments, or walking outside among some trees (real growing things). Or like reading a novel. My sister-in-law, for the past couple of years, has been working her way through every one of the Pulitzer Prize winning novels. That's the kind of thing I'm talking about.

Or, how about this: for 15 minutes each day we could holster our Blackberries, minimize our computer screens, turn off the TV, take the iPod buds out of our ears and have a conversation. With an actual person. I know, this will likely take some effort. After all, we hardly know any real people anymore -- only television personalities and Facebook "friends" with whom we exchange our every irrelevant detail. But the surprising truth is that they are all around us -- actual flesh and blood. Inhaling and exhaling. Smiling and frowning. Blinking, eating, carrying a water bottle around just like us. Some of them might even live with us in the same house. It will feel awkward at first -- actually talking, listening, having a real conversation. Sooner or later, if we keep at it, we may even start to care about them.

I know. It's a stretch. But we can try it. And if all else fails, as an ice breaker maybe you could just talk casually about each others hair. And wonder if it has changed.

Placed into the Keeping of Each Other

The story came to mind in the latter stages of sermon preparation. It wasn't either one of the biblical passages that had given rise to the sermon, but all of a sudden it seemed more germaine. The specimen on the homiletical dissection table this week was the practice of "welcome" -- what the biblical writers more commonly referred to as "hospitality" -- and the passages we had read aloud encouraged it because of the rather pragmatic possibility that we could be "entertaining angels unaware" (Hebrews 13:2). Such a motivation sounds fine on the surface, but uncomfortably self-serving the longer you sit with it. It reminds me of the now rather embarrassing memory of showering all kind of pastoral attention on the elderly widow in a previous pastorate whose contribution represented something over 10% of the church's annual budget. I suppose it was "pastoral care," but it was self-serving at its core.

The truth is, whatever the long-term and hypothetical prospects might be, hospitality can quite often be expensive in any of a number of ways. Often times it is delightful, but quite often it is inconvenient, disruptive, and depleting. Those liabilities notwithstanding, it is, according to scripture, the right thing to do.

That's when the widow of Zarephath came to mind. Struggling through a drought centuries before the time of Jesus, she and her son were on their last bit of flour and last drop of oil. It was, as far as they could see, to be their last meal. There were exactly zero prospects for more. Then the prophet Elijah, a guy from almost a hundred miles away, drops in and invites himself to supper.

The tension in the story is dramatic, but familiar: the tug-of-war between the "ought to" and the "want to;" between the relational and the comfortable. The widow chooses the former and the threesome sat down to dinner. And it all worked out happily because, as a "reward" for her hospitality to God's servant her pantry was never exhausted until the famine ended. Which makes it a dangerous story, as well. How many television preachers have used this story to cajole offerings out of those who can least afford it?

I'm guessing that Elijah's promise of plenty played little role in the widow's decision. There were, after all, no guarantees. I'm guessing that she simply chose to do the right thing by way of another human being despite the likely consequences, convinced that an extra day of life lived parsimoniously was not all that much worth living.

We are put here, after all, into each others keeping. Wrangle, then, if we must about border fences and illegal alien benefits and deportations; but meanwhile, the widow is mixing up her last bit of flour and her last drop of oil and with actions, moreso than words, speaking...

..."welcome."