Someone said to me the other day, “Where you come from you are used to this cold, but for us this is pretty bad!” Where I come from, we are used to seeing lots and lots of snow. But, right now as of this writing, it is 22 degrees warmer back in Geneva, Ohio than it is here. That just means that it is 7 above zero in Geneva, which is not warm, but it is -15 here. In fact, the very reason the old town gets pounded with snow, that being Lake Erie, is the reason it stays a little warmer. Until the Lake freezes over it will be warmer there than here. And it is truly cold here.

            Consider this; The high at Fort Myers Beach, Florida is only going to be 64 degrees today. I mention this because Aaron, Dawn and Eli are there right now. Not really what one thinks of as warm in the Sunshine State. But that makes it 79 degrees warmer than it is here. I’d take that. Today’s cold here is not a one time fluke, either. This may be the coldest day of this current cold snap, but it has been really cold and will stay that way for quite a while. Brrrrr.

            Periods of time like this always bring about the question, ‘What is the coldest you have ever been?’ Well, there was the time Marsha and I were about a hundred yards out on the ice on Lake Erie and she fell and broke her leg. She was colder than me because I had to work to get her back to shore and then to the hospital. (For the full story, ask Marsha. Her version is more entertaining than my version. I broke my finger trying to get her to shore, but no one ever seems to care about that, even at the hospital. But I am not bitter.) Then there was the time in high school when two friends and myself were rabbit hunting and we got trapped by a blizzard. I got blamed for that one, too.

But the coldest I have ever been was with my father. Early December, 1974. I was ready to go back to college in a few weeks. My mother’s brother Rufus was in town from Kentucky for a few days. He was pretending he was there to see my mother, but he was really there to go coon hunting with my father. My father was well known for the dogs he trained to hunt and Rufus had one that needed some work. By this time in his life, though, my father was winding his hunting days down. He didn’t really want to go, but it was Rufus and they were old friends, so the hunt was on. I got roped into it because my father made me feel guilty. I had grown up having to go hunting, which wasn’t so bad, but when my father went with his buddies, large quantities of beer were consumed. Even as a little boy I knew that four or five men running through the woods with loaded weapons in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other was a bad idea. When I got old enough and big enough to make it stand up, I refused to go with them anymore. But, Rufus was what is known as a Hard Shell Baptist. They shout and weep and get pretty excited in church, but they never drink. So, my father told me that there would be no drinking on this hunt. And it was important I go. If I didn’t go on this hunt, Rufus would go home to Kentucky and tell everyone there that the college boy was to stuck up to go on a hunt. (My family had a low opinion of college and of men who wasted their time going to college. My father was right. Rufus would have done it. That was the part that guilted me. I didn’t want my mother to be embarrassed.) So, I went. At one point the dog Rufus had brought went off after a deer and Rufus followed him, yelling some things a good Hard Shell Baptist shouldn’t be yelling. My father and I stayed after the other dogs. We got to the top of a hill that ran down to a creek. Our dogs had a coon treed on the other side. The creek had a covering of ice and snow on it, but at that time of year it would be foolish to walk over it. “Boy, we can jump that. You go first. You’ll probably fall in and I’ll have to figure a way to get you out.” I was content to find a shorter place to jump, but the old boy had made me mad. I didn’t want to be there anyway and the uncle I had always respected was out in the woods loudly losing his religion. I gave my father a quick glare and I bolted down the hill, rifle and all. At the last possible moment, I launched myself into the air. Much to my surprise, I cleared the creek and landed on the other side. Even kept the gun dry, which was paramount. I turned back and looked up the hill. “OK, old man, your turn.” Of course, that made him mad, so he tore down the hill. He jumped to soon, though, and came crashing down in the middle of the creek. At first it was funny until I realized that he was so deep that his rifle was gone, too. You never got your gun wet. NEVER. In a couple of seconds, the gun flipped up and landed on the ice, sliding my way. Then a hand appeared. Then his head. But he wasn’t going to get out like that. The creek had to shelve out to that deep spot, so I grabbed a nearby branch, stepped out on the ice and stamped my feet, causing it to break through. The break went all the way out to him. I walked out and held the branch out until he could grab it, then I pulled him in. The water was over my waist and I was losing feeling, but my father had been completely under. He was in a bad way. We finally managed to get to shore and we lay on the ground, breathing hard. “Come on, Dad, we have to get back to the truck.” “N-n-n-o-t w-w-w-itho-ut the d-d-dogs.” He was really cold. But, his dogs were trained, so I yelled out the one word that would make them break off and come to us. Two of the three came (the other stayed on the tree) and we got to moving. As it happened, the road was just up from where we were. We got to it and crossed the bridge. We never had to jump that creek. I think my father just wanted to laugh at me when I went in.

 We got to the truck just as Rufus was tying his dog down. He was pretty angry at the dog, but when he saw us he gave a quick laugh. “You boys decided to go for a swim?” I was disappointed in him, but he was my uncle and I wasn’t going to say anything to him. My father came through, though. Through chattering teeth, he said, “The way you were cussin,’ Ruf, we thought we better get baptized.” In spite of myself, I had to laugh. Rufus was pretty embarrassed. He went back for the other dog and I got the truck started and got the heater running. I wanted to take my father to the hospital, but he refused. I am pretty sure that was my coldest night, and it was only about 32 degrees.

I think about that night from time to time. It wasn’t really cold. You don’t want to spend a lot of time in 32 degree weather in your shirt sleeves, unless you are working. You certainly don’t want to get wet and then stay outside in freezing weather. But if you are prepared for 32 degree temps, or, for that matter, -15 degree temps, you can handle it. The right clothes, the right attitude, the right motivation. You can be pretty comfortable in a situation that would make someone else miserable.

When I think of a cold church, I don’t think of a church that isn’t friendly or open to people. I think of a church that isn’t prepared to do the Lord’s work in the Lord’s way. We could have avoided that dip in the creek all together. The first thing that we could without that night was my father setting me up for failure. He had hunted those woods many times and he knew how the road bent and turned. He knew exactly where the road was and he knew we could easily go up the hill a little way and then cross the bridge. The second thing we could have done without, there in the woods, was pride. He goaded me, then I goaded him and then we had ice in our pockets from the water. The third thing we could have done without was stubbornness. We should have gone straight to the truck rather than wait for the dogs. That’s the way it is in our churches. We talk about loving each other, but then we seek to tear down rather than build up. We let our pride and our own wants make our decisions. And, boy, are we stubborn. My way is the right way! Even if it is not.

Some years later, things got very bad for him in Ohio, bad because of his drinking and nasty lifestyle, Marsha and I took him in. He lived with us in Miami, Florida because his other children would have nothing to do with him. He met a wonderful lady there and fell in love and cleaned his act up for his new wife. He and I had a relationship, but he never let me get close enough to have him be Dad. My father never told me he loved me and I, shamefully, never told him. We didn’t. The last time we were together, he told me how disappointed he was in me. One college degree and two graduate degrees and somehow I had let him down. I told him that was OK, my only concern was that I was doing God’s will, not his. We both took a sip of coffee and he asked if I thought the Dolphins were good enough to make the playoffs. When he died, February 2005, we all went down for his funeral. That was it, I thought.

But, I couldn’t shake it. Grief was flooding me. How could I grieve for a man like that? It was weird, too. I wasn’t sorry he was gone, but my heart was breaking. I had a pastor friend in Oklahoma. We exchanged e-mails and prayer needs. I mentioned it to him. He told me that what I grieved for was not the loss of a relationship, but for the fact we never had one. And he was exactly right. I should have reached out and built him up, I should have put my pride aside and I shouldn’t have met his stubbornness with my own.

Do you have a real relationship with God the Father, or do you just do the things that look right? Are you Spiritually cold while acting the good Christian? Do you love?

Don’t let it get away from you.