Last Saturday afternoon I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I listened to the Northfield girls’ state semi-final basketball game on radio. For part of it I was driving, probably being a danger to other motorists. When I got to the house I waited and listened in the car until the first quarter ended and I had time to get into the house and get the radio on there. (I would say I ‘raced’ into the house, but this old body doesn’t race anywhere anymore.) With the radio on I sat down to enjoy the rest of the game. I didn’t sit long, though. I paced, I wandered, I sat, I leaned against the wall, I looked out the window, I got a small handful of pretzels, then immediately forgot them in the table. In my mind’s eye I took what the announcers were saying and transformed that into visible game action. They said the other team had twin sisters who were over six feet. I pictured them in my mind. I could clearly envision the Northfield players, but the Marquette team was fuzzy. The announcers were Northfield fans and when Northfield did something good the lead announcer would give a yell-cheer and I would be left wondering what had happened, but my mind would fill it in. When the game was over and Northfield had lost a tight ballgame, I was as worn out as if I had been there.

          I love radio. Living near Cleveland I enjoyed the Indians from the mid 60s on. As a kid I only saw a few games on TV. We had rabbit ears on the TV and a hill between us and Cleveland called Little Mountain, so TV reception was spotty. But radio was great. By the time the Cavaliers were formed TV reception was much better, but I was also much busier and seldom ever saw a game. I would listen on the car radio, which ruined a few dates, but it was the Cavs. Back in 1991 Marsha and Adam and I went on the only real vacation we were ever able to go on. We went to Disney in Florida. We stopped at a Crackle Barrel and Marsha picked up some tapes to old radio shows. The Shadow, The Lone Ranger and a few others. That made the whole trip. I think we had more fun in the car that at Disney.

          Radio causes your mind to work. The situation is set up by the announcer and then you fill in the gaps. Sometimes you fill the gaps with the wrong picture. I was a big fan of the Cleveland Indians’ second baseman back in the 60s. Tall, fluid motion, a fearsome sight at the plate. Then one game I was at a friend’s house. They had an antenna that seemed to disappear in the clouds. We sat in their basement and watched the game. I was SO disappointed to see that the second baseman who was so impressive in my mind    was a scrawny little 5’5” banjo hitter. Still, the imagination is a wonderful thing. When I read a book or listen to the radio or hear someone tell a story, I can see it in my mind.

          So, let’s give the mind’s eye a work out for just these few minutes.

          It is the 1800s. Sunday morning. In the cool of the morning, men, in some cases helped by their sons, are hitching a horse, or maybe a team, to a wagon or possibly a buggy. At some homes or farms scattered throughout fields it is simply horses being saddled. Already on the farms there has been several hours of work done on this ‘day of rest’, but it would not be considered work since animals needed to be fed and food prepared. Soon, girls began to emerge from the houses and began taking their place in the buggies. Boys were close behind, carrying a basket or two filled with the food for the noon meal. Lastly, the mother/wife who has been bustling around all morning getting breakfast, gathering eggs in the henhouse, making sure her kids were dressed in their best and putting together the noon meal emerged from the house, ticking things off in her mind to make sure she had done all that needed done. Once everyone was aboard (with a final check to make sure all had their Bibles) the family headed down the dirt roads toward church. Along the way they might see another family in the road and they were greeted with a friendly wave. And there would have been one or two homes that they passed where nothing much was happening since that family didn’t go to church. Mother would just lower her head and say nothing. Almost everyone went to church in the 1800s in Indiana.

          Now, in your mind’s eye, you see the steeple of the church in the distance through the trees. You are almost there. Mother gives instructions and the plan for the day. When she is done, her husband turns to where his sons are horsing around. He gives his Sunday morning lecture about the dire consequences that await the boys if they get out of line. And then the buggy pulls into the church lot. Lots of other folks are arriving as well. Horses snort at each other, the kids call out to their friends, a couple of older boys rush up to help the daughters down from the buggy and an older gentleman who has been standing with a group of men separates himself and steps over to the buggy to help the mother down. The father walks over to shake hands with the men while the mother gathers her brood and then the family walks together to the front door of St. Peter’s church.

          Inside, the cool of the morning has disappeared. The crowd of people has brought the temperature up to sweating hot. The windows are open so that the breeze will come in. But with the breeze comes an assortment of insects as well as the aroma of gathered horses. In the 1800s, though, it is hardly noticeable. That is the way church is. One of the older ladies is giving the piano a work out as a prelude and folks are visiting and talking. Then, the preacher walks in and the talk settles down to whispers. The preacher steps up to the pulpit and all gets quiet. He bows his head and begins to pray, the only amplification being the natural force of his voice.

          And so starts a typical three to four hour worship service back in the 1800s in a little crossroads in Indiana. Back in those days there wasn’t any Sunday School, but the singing and testimonies and prayer time and the preacher’s message more than made up for it. Imagine the heat building and the bugs getting worse or, in the winter, the drowsy warmth all those bodies created. Everything was different then. If we could transport back in time and sit in a St. Peter’s service then, we would be going crazy before the music was even over. By the same token, if someone from that day was plopped down in one of our services now, they would be totally befuddled when we were done in just a little over an hour. Times change because people change. It is inevitable.

          Now we come to another inevitable event. The last service at St. Peter’s.

          Those of us that are part of the church know the story. There are plenty of others in the community who think they know the story, but they do not. The story is based on reality, not on wishes. One congregation inhabiting two buildings across the road from each other, six months in one, six months in the other. Even though each building is used for only six months, both have to be kept up and maintained. Most churches struggle to keep one building operating, but to keep two going has been an ongoing thing for us for a long time. And, actually, it could have continued for a while longer. But there has been a growing concern as to whether or not that maintenance money couldn’t be better used to further the kingdom of God. Missions, outreach, Youth, music, camp……the list goes on. After months of study and consideration and, most importantly, prayer, a plan was formed and taken to the congregation. Decisions were made. Now, as we are ready to move to a fulltime worship center at Grace church, all the renovations and construction and new upgrades have been accomplished without having to borrow any money. If we had waited even another year, that would not have been possible.

          Personally, I have no stake in either building. I was born and raised in Ohio and I expect I will die there. Why burden the good folks here when I can be a burden to my son? But, in addition to Ohio, we lived in Tennessee, Alabama and Florida. The point is, there is no place that is ‘home’ for me like this is home to the people in our church. But even though I have no strong feeling for either St. Peter’s or Grace, my mind, my imagination, feels the power of life in both buildings.

          What do I mean by that? 1917. World War I. In my mind’s eye I see a mother, burdened with care and concern, asking for prayer for her son who has gone over seas to war, far from home. A few years later that same son standing up in church and asking for prayer for his mother who is suffering from the flu epidemic that is killing tens of thousands around the world. In my mind’s eye I see a young woman in the 1930s walking down the aisle of the church on her father’s arm as she heads for the young man who will be her husband. I see a young man who has struggled with alcohol finally make the decision to follow Jesus in all things. A building is just a building, but how many lives have been changed in the building? How much laughter, how many tears?

          After this Sunday, St. Peter’s will be closed. Urbana Yoke Parish will continue and will do great. But the church building on te west side of the road will be empty. Decisions will still have to be made as to what to do with it, and that will create more sadness. However, this is not a loss. Those who built the building knew there was a time when its usefulness would come to an end. The same will be true one day for Grace. But that building, with all of its history and with all that has happened there and with all the people who have passed through those doors……that building that was built for the glory of God, has accomplished what it was intended to accomplish. The Lord has been praised there. The Lord has been beseeched there. The Lord has been called upon there thousands of times. One Sunday morning as a few of us met for prayer before church, Claud Newcomb prayed and asked the Lord to allow His Spirit to roam among our pews. I had never heard that before and it moved me. On Sunday morning when I look out over the pews and the congregation I will know. He has allowed His Spirit to roam those pews for a long time.

          GOD IS GOOD ALL THE TIME; ALL THE TIME GOD IS GOOD!

          My eleven year old nephew looked at me with wide eyes. “How can you DO THAT?” Revulsion and maybe even a little fear was on his face. I adopted my most calm look and said, “Well, Joey, someone has to do it. May as well be me.” His face screwed up in a funny way. “How……? How……? How can you stand it?” “Well. Joey, it needs to be done. Would you like to come and help me?” He almost fell down. “Are you crazy? Uncle Larry, don’t you realize??? THOSE PEOPLE ARE DEAD!!!”

          It really bothered Joey and his younger sister Savannah that I worked with the deceased. When I took the job at the funeral home I was to mostly work with families of the deceased. But it turned out that actually working with the bodies of the deceased didn’t bother me at all and I had a bit of a knack. Wash them down, set features, dress them, get them in caskets…. I did just about everything except embalm, although I would assist in that as well. After thirty one years in church ministry, the Lord put me in a completely different ministry filled with grief and pain and emotional suffering. But it was an awesome time.

          Your reaction to that might be like Joey’s reaction. However, the Lord created n me a desire to minister. This is not the same as preaching. Ministering at the time of need is a huge thing for me. I have always thought I would enjoy being a hospital or nursing facility chaplain. Working at the funeral home gave me the opportunity to minister to people in distress. The work I did with the deceased was because it needed to be done and it freed someone else up for what they needed to do.

          Sometimes there were kids who had a million questions. Sometimes it was a parent trying to find a reason. Sometimes an adult child trying to hold it together as they worked out Mom’s funeral. Sometimes a grieving spouse who didn’t know how they could go on. It always revolved around grief, but it was always different.

          And, believe it or not, there was almost always humor.

          Part of that, I guess, was orneriness in me coming out. Humor has its place even in a funeral home. You don’t go looking for a laugh, but when it comes you go with it. A steady diet of grief demands a little humor, both for the funeral home worker and for the families involved.

 We had two locations. Both locations had, at one time, been private homes. In our main funeral home, the basement housed the embalming room, make up room, casketing area and dressing area. Everything was done there for both funeral homes. The basement in the other home, the one I eventually managed, had supplies and old records and such like. In that home there was a stairway going down to a landing and then a closed door going into the basement. The stairway was closed off with a gate. One night, during a visitation, I came across four little kids, all under ten standing at the gate looking down. Normally the stairway was lit so that it didn’t look scary, but that night the light had burned out and it did look scary.

“What do you think is down there, Ryan?” “I don’t know, Gwen. Could be anything.” They were discussing the darkness and the horrors that the darkness concealed. The oldest one just stood there and looked bored. Finally, they asked him what he thought. “Look, I’ve been down there before. That’s where they stack the bodies.” I had been standing nearby, enjoying the conversation. But when the boy said that, I stepped up. “You’ve been down there? You want to go down now?” Well, the little snot had no idea what was down there, but he sure didn’t want to go down. The other kids got a good laugh when he took off. I explained to the kids there was nothing down there except office stuff, and they were satisfied.

Sometimes kids made me laugh for completely unusual reasons. I often worked at both funeral homes in one day. When that happened, two or three times a week, I would start at the main home around 7:30 in the morning and wrap it up in the evening at the home I managed around nine or so. On one such night it was about eight o’clock and I was exhausted. We had a visitation going on and all I wanted to do was sit down. I didn’t want to go to my office, so I went to the coffee room. Coffee, tea, water and cookies. Who wouldn’t want to sit down in there? In the coffee room was a thirteen year old named Luke. The deceased was his uncle, who had died of a drug overdose. He was pretty upset by his uncle’s death. I took the opportunity to strike up a conversation. As we talked his step mother, a very attractive woman, walked in. She dropped into a chair, pulled off a shoe and started rubbing her foot. “Oh, I hate wearing these heals!” The heals looked like ice picks. Luke looked at her and then looked at me. His question was to me. “Why do they wear shoes like that if they hurt so bad?” “I don’t know, Luke. Something wrong in the head, I guess. Ask her.” The step mom put the shoe on and stood up. “When you wear heals like this it defines your calf muscle and makes your butt look good.” Then she walked out. I was a little shocked and when Luke looked at me, I had no idea what to say. He got a little smile on his face and with a glint in his eye he said, “Well, lucky us!”

Cemeteries were not kind to me. There was a family who wanted to do a butterfly release as the service ended at the cemetery. This can be very beautiful. A box is opened and the butterflies take off and fill the sky, the meaning being that the loved one’s spirit is free. You actually buy the box of bugs on-line and they are delivered in a day or two. I cautioned the family not to do this because it was the end of October and might get cold. I could see in my mind the butterflies getting about a foot or two out of the box and then doing a nose dive, dead before they hit the ground. But the family went ahead and ordered the little things. It actually turned out to be a nice day, but a little chilly. The fellow they had designated to release the butterflies came to me and told me the bugs were there. I told him to bring them inside, the cold would kill them left in the car. So, of course, he left them in the car. When the time for the release came, he took off the lid and gave the box a little jerk to get the butterflies to soar free and about a hundred tiny little carcasses exited the box and quietly crashed to the ground. In one cemetery they had dug out a tree, leaving a huge hole. Then it snowed almost two feet and the hole was nowhere to be seen. With about seventy five people around, I found the hole. When they pulled me out, I said, “Now you all know where it is at. You are welcome.” Another time it was a small country cemetery that barely had room for the hearse to pull in. So, everyone parked on the street. The night before it had rained and then froze over. It was treacherous. I helped people out of their cars and up the little hill to the grave site and then back again when the service was over. I had gotten the last person safely to their car and was headed toward the funeral home van when my feet flew out from under me in full view of everyone. I hit the road so hard I was dazed and it took me a few seconds to realize I was sliding slowly downhill on my back. I finally stopped when I grabbed the van’s bumper as I went under it. And then, there was the time after a Catholic funeral we went to the cemetery. The priest rode with the funeral director and I followed with the hearse. It was snowing and raining at the same time and the cemetery, like most cemeteries around there, was all up and down hill. The grave site was down in a little gulley and I worried that the pall bearers would slip with the casket. As I waited for the pall bearers to reach the hearse, the funeral director walked up to me and, with a disgusted voice, said, “Take care of the priest. I’ll take care of the casket.” We did things just so there, and this was out of the ordinary. But he was in charge that day. I walked up to the other car and opened the door for the priest. The man was sitting in the seat, sobbing. He had a little bottle in his hand that actually said ‘Holy Water’ on it. “Sir, are you OK?” I asked him. He looked up and through the tears said, “I can’t get the holy water open! I can’t bless the casket!” One whiff of his breath and I knew he was falling down drunk. I took the bottle from him and attempted to twist the cap off. It would not budge. In my mind I could see the alter boys back at the church laughing about how they glued the cap on. “Oh, what am I going to do? I can’t bless the casket!” “Sir,” I said, “it is nasty out here. Just shake the bottle over the casket and no one will see that no water comes out. No one will know.” “HE will know!” Now, I am thinking that the Lord also knows that the priest is three sheets to the wind, but I let that go. “Sir, we can’t get the cap off and we have to do this thing.” I hauled him out of the car and walked him to the top of the hill. With my right hand under his left arm pit, I walked him down the muddy hill side to the grave. Once he started the service, he was flawless. Training and habit took over. Afterward, he bawled his eyes out because he didn’t properly bless the casket. When the funeral director and I got back to the funeral home, we had a serious talk about protocol.

   I know people assume that funeral home people have a twisted sense of humor and that it centers on the ghoulish. Maybe in some funeral homes it does. I don’t know. Our funeral home and our people were not like that at all. During my nine years at the funeral home, I really feel I worked with a bunch of heroes. Men and women who were often profoundly affected by the grief of the ones we served, but who offered care and consolation. Often, I would see one of our staff sitting with someone, holding their hand and praying with them. I love those people still today. Good friends all. I wish all of you could have met them. And the humor we shared was sometimes a lifeline.

Never give up on the joys of life. There is enough sadness and suffering and pain. Look for the smile.

Blessings.

          January 22, 1973. Just five days after my seventeenth birthday. I was a junior in high school and was deeply involved in events in my school. Just a teenager trying to have fun. I was interested in world events, though. Despite talk of ending the Vietnam War, I fully expected to be going into the Army a year later and going off to war. President Nixon was working to open China as a trading partner and I was interested in that, since they were a Communist country. I read all the updates on the Cold War. I was a part of that generation that knew we could be wiped out by nuclear war before we knew what hit us, so I was concerned. Probably the biggest thing on my mind, other than my date with Barbara Montgomery that coming Saturday night, was the Super Bowl, which had been played the week before and in which the undefeated Miami Dolphins had won, 14-7, over the Washington Redskins.

          Yes, January 22, 1973 was just another day in America.

          Except that, on January 22, 1973, the Supreme Court of the United States ruled that abortion was legal. It would be based on whether a state allowed it or not, but the high court specifically put the restriction on abortion that it was only allowable in the case of the mother’s health and welfare and if the ‘fetus’ was viable. A viable fetus is a fetus that can live outside its mother’s body.

At seventeen I had the ability to make my own mind up about things, and I felt, even then, that abortion was not right. But I also believed that it would be rare. Medical procedures were improving all the time and it would become more and more extreme for the mother’s health to be compromised and, as far as the fetus’, health, we were told that usually if the fetus was defective, the mother miscarried anyway. It really didn’t seem so bad. I remember my mother talking to a friend and my mother saying it would just become a form of birth control. I rolled my eyes and thought, Gosh Mom, that will never happen!

But then the argument became that it should be OK in the case of rape or incest. Kind of made my skin crawl, but, well, maybe. And then, while I was home from college for spring break, I found out that a girl I had gone to high school with had an abortion. No rape, no incest, her health was good and there was nothing wrong with the fetus. She just had an abortion because she didn’t want the baby. And that was when it ceased to be a fetus in my mind and became a baby.

It was also at that time that I decided abortion was murder and was wrong at any time after conception. You betcha. I am one of those crazy people. In my way of thinking, we now know what causes pregnancy. We also know how to prevent pregnancy. It doesn’t just happen. “Things just got out of hand!” An excuse, just like the excuse, “I fell into sin.” We go into sin with our eyes wide open and we go into a sexual relationship fully understanding what could happen. Things only get out of hand when we allow things to get out of hand. And, regardless, it is not the baby’s fault.

My mother was right after all. Abortion is a form of birth control. If you have an unwanted pregnancy, you can end it. It is so common place that society has just accepted it. We don’t raise an eyebrow.

Except when there is a new wrinkle. Remember fairly recently an antiabortion group was able to take some video of Planned Parenthood meetings in which Planned Parenthood officials were talking about harvesting baby parts after an abortion for resale? Little eyes, little hearts, little lungs, new skin, little kidneys and so on. Big splash there for a bit. But abortions just kept happening. We got over our indignation. Planned Parenthood has lost some funding. We are good till the next wrinkle.

And now the next wrinkle has come. New York State has passed a bill that allows for late term abortions, even to the point of aborting during labor. Literally killing a baby when it is minutes, even seconds, from emerging from its mother. If the abortion fails then the live baby can be placed on a table until it dies. This has caused people around the country to react with horror! But it has been going on for some time now. New York is not the first state to make late term abortion legal.

Alaska allows late term abortion, as does Colorado, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, Oregon, Vermont and Washington D.C. They were all before New York. In a couple of those cases there just was never a time limit imposed on when the pregnancy could be terminated, but late term abortion has been legal in this country for a long time. In fact, the US is among just four countries in the world that allow late term abortion. USA, leading the way. Perhaps what has set New York apart is the fact that New York is New York. We tend not to think too much of the other eight that have been butchering babies all along, right up until that baby could safely be born, healthy and happy.

Then there is the case of Virginia. Virginia is a southern state that is part of what used to be called the Bible Belt. As such, it would have been the first Bible Belt state to allow late term abortions. Opponents have managed to stop it for now, but supporters are going to continue until the backwoods types give up. While much of the state is rural and many of the people are church goers, there is a growing element of out of staters moving in. Many folks who work in D.C. live in Virginia and commute. The state capitol is only 100 miles from the nation’s capital. So, the northeastern portion of Virginia, highly populated with D.C. types, is gaining ground in the state’s government. However, Virginia’s governor is a lifelong Virginian. He should know better. But, in an interview with radio station WTOP, Washington D.C., Governor Ralph Northam said the following; "When we talk about third-trimester abortions, these are done with the consent of obviously the mother, with the consent of the physicians, more than one physician, by the way. And it's done in cases where there may be severe deformities, there may be a fetus that's non-viable. So, in this particular example, if a mother is in labor, I can tell you exactly what would happen. The infant would be delivered. The infant would be kept comfortable. The infant would be resuscitated if that's what the mother and the family desired, and then a discussion would ensue between the physicians and the mother. So, I think this was really blown out of proportion."

Yes, that is right. Once the baby is born, if the doctors and family want, the child can still be aborted. They would even resuscitate the baby while they have their conference and decide what to do. At least in New York there is no resuscitation. You make the decision ahead of time. The Governor is for this bill. The Governor is also a medical doctor. (One source I read said that he was a pediatrician, but that was the only place I read that, so I am going to shy away from that statement.) He would understand the proposed procedure better than anyone of us. When he says “I can tell you exactly what would happen,” he can tell us because he knows.

So, imagine the scene. The baby is born and there is a defect or problem they didn’t pick up before birth. The child is cleaned up, maybe receives medical attention to relieve any suffering, and the doctors involved sit down with the family and mother to discuss the situation. I don’t know much about the birthing process of humans, but I would think that the conference would not be immediately following birth. A little time, maybe, for the parents and family to talk. Maybe even allow the parents to hold the baby. I don’t know, but there would be some procedure involved. The doctors involved would have other cases to attend to, as well, so it might be several hours before everyone gathers together to hash this out. Depending on the birth related stress of the mother, maybe even the next morning. So, everyone gets comfortable and they talk about the pros and cons of aborting the child. Finally, it is decided that allowing the child to live would be too much of a hardship for everyone involved. So, they decide to abort. Who does the abortion of a living, breathing, crying baby? And, how is the abortion done?

Eleven years ago, twins were born to an Ohio couple. Before the birth the doctor discovered that one of the babies was profoundly deformed. Her organs were forming up on the outside of her body. He explained that she would likely die in the womb and her decaying body could possibly corrupt the living child’s body and kill her, as well. He recommended an abortion. The family refused. Both children would be given the chance to live. As it happened, the little one with the issues did die in the womb, but it was far enough along in the gestation process that a C-section was performed and both were delivered. One dead, one perfect and healthy in every way. The family selected our funeral home to handle the cremation for the deceased child. I volunteered to do the cremation, not because I had to, but because I didn’t want anyone else to have to do it. When the time came, I went down to where she was. At the hospital, they had wrapped her in a baby blanket. Had even put a little stocking cap on her head. With just her face showing she looked like any sleeping new born. I picked her up and looked into that beautiful face for a long time. I walked into the embalming office, which was empty, and sat down in the office chair. I was Daddy again. I began to rock the little one and then I sang every lullaby I could remember singing to my own son. Finally, I came out of it and I got up and took her to be cremated. I ask the question again; Who does the abortion of a living, breathing, crying baby?

That person would have to be some kind of monster, yes? To me, Virginia’s governor is just such a monster. As luck has it, a great many, even in his own party, are calling for his resignation. But they are not calling for his resignation because of the statements he made to WTOP radio. Horrible statements in which he talked about killing babies after they were born. No, no. Something even worse. In 1984, while in medical school, Ralph Northam dressed up like Michael Jackson and wore blackface for a dance contest.

Since his own party is not horrified at all by his infanticide talk of killing babies after they were born but are incensed because he put on blackface 35 years ago for a contest, I would say there are plenty of monsters to go around. So, with more monsters than we can count, let’s jump twenty years into the future, or maybe just ten years, and look at the Governor’s statement again, only updated to fit that future time.

 "When we talk about the aged and the time to die, these are done with the consent of obviously the family, with the consent of the physicians, more than one physician, by the way. And it's done in cases where there may age related issues that could, in time, render the elderly non-viable. So, in this particular example, if the elderly is in distress, I can tell you exactly what would happen. The distress would be eased. The elderly would be kept comfortable. The elderly would be resuscitated if that's what the family desired, and then a discussion would ensue between the physicians and the family as to what to do.” Couldn’t happen? Abortion was only for the mother’s health or if the infant could not survive outside the mother’s body. That is how it was sold to us. Now they already leave a live baby on a table until it dies and they are talking of physically killing a live baby. It most certainly could happen. Let the old folks die with dignity, they would say.

          Best course of action? Remember, we are talking about monsters who take the killing of babies in stride while getting livid over someone in blackface thirty five years ago. You are not going to change those evil hearts by marching on Washington or trying to legislate morality. You and I cannot change those evil hearts. Only the Lord can do that, my friends. We need to begin to pray for those people who have no trouble planning murder. Not pray that they meet some horrible death of their own, but that they will be pierced by the power of the Lord. Pray for their salvation. Pray that God’s people will begin to share the power of God. What made this country great and strong and wise was God’s people praying for our leaders to be believers and merciful. And, conversely, our country began to fail and fall now to the point that we have monsters among us because God’s people are to busy to spend the sweet hour of prayer we sing about and spend serious time reading their Bibles. We have let the monsters live. Now we need to call on the Lord.

          February 1, 2019. Today’s date.

          Your first instinct is to say, “So? What significance is there in February 1, 2019?” And that is the point. There is no significance to February 1 of any year, mostly because there is no significance to February.

          Of course, I know that some of you were born during this month, so that denotes significance. I suppose someone out there was married in February, although of the couple of hundred marriages I have performed, only one was ever in February. They wanted to get married on the anniversary of their first date. There was about two feet of snow on the ground but it was 50 degrees with a southerly wind. Quite nice until the beaming couple stepped outside into the crowd expecting to get pelted with bird seed and instead got snowballed. I caught them by the arms and pulled them back inside the church and we stood at the door looking out the window as a full fledged snowball fight ensued among the guests.

          But except for a few things like that, February has really nothing much going for it. There are some contrived things. Super Bowl, but that used to be on the last Sunday in January until the NFL realized that by having a week off from the last playoff game and the Bowl, they could make more money. Presidents’ Day falls in February, but that started because both Washington and Lincoln were born in the month and February is such a crummy month, they decided to make a party. Boy, yeah, Presidents’ Day is a non-stop party at my house. Then there is the big one. Valentine’s Day. Here is a ‘holiday’ about love that is celebrated on the day St. Valentine was executed in 269 AD. And what was the scoundrel’s crime? He was performing marriages for Roman soldiers. See, Roman soldiers were not allowed to marry. Valentine was performing the marriages. So, they killed him. Unlike 21^st century America, they took their laws seriously. All the mushy stuff on Valentine’s Day is in remembrance of an execution. Then, in February, is Ground Hog Day. If the ground hog in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania sees his shadow on the morning of February 2, there will be six more weeks of winter. If not, there will be an early Spring. The people in Pennsylvania, and especially the people in Punxsutawney, take this seriously, as do the people in the surrounding states. It is a huge event in Punxsutawney, where they have a keeper of the ground hog. The ground hog in question, Punxsutawney Phil, is a huge critter who gets pampered year round. They claim he is over 100 years old, but he looks like all he does is sit on the couch in his underwear all day, eating chips, drinking beer and watching TV. BIG ground hog. I think they probably get a new one every 5 years or so. Once you get away from Pennsylvania or New York or West Virginia or Ohio, though, Ground Hog Day isn’t much of a deal. In fact, I don’t think anyone else has noticed it, but as an Ohio boy, I picked up on it right away. Our church’s sausage and pancake breakfast is February 2 this year. And what is sausage? Ground up pig. So, we are having ground hog on Ground Hog Day. Maybe it was intended that way, but it is always the first Saturday of February, so it would only fall every once in a while on Ground Hog Day. Anyway, come and eat!

          Except for basketball enthusiasts, February is a downer month. (I know. I live in Indiana now. For the rest of the country, except for Kentucky and Kansas, basketball is a sport designed to bridge the gap between football and baseball seasons. In Indiana, Kentucky and Kansas, the other sports are just there to soothe the pain of not having basketball.) In the rest of the world, hockey holds center stage in February. And it is hockey, at least in part, that provides my worst memories of February.

          As I said, back in the olden days, the Super Bowl was played in January, so that was the end of football season. Baseball’s Spring Training started in February in the warm climates, but jumping jacks and wind sprints made boring reading in the newspapers. High school baseball and track training started in February, but fielding hot grounders off the gym floor or running through heavy snow was not fun. February was a bummer. None of our sports were February friendly. Even basketball was hard because you often took your life into your own hands just getting to the games. That just left one sport.

          Hockey.

          No one liked hockey. Across the horizon to the north, on the other side of Lake Erie, was Canada There, hockey was, and is, king. Where I grew up, however, it was hardly loved. Near by Cleveland had a minor league hockey team. The Barons. Nobody I knew went to watch them. I took my son to see the minor league team play a few times. He liked hockey. But, honestly, he was the only person I ever knew who grew up in Northeast Ohio who liked the sport. And he hasn’t gone in over twenty years.

          So, no one really liked hockey.

          But every year, the call would go out the first Saturday in February. “The game is at 2. See you there.” Nothing to do in February. Even the farms are pretty quiet. So, the brave male teens would begin to gather at Call Pond and at 2 o'clock the puck would be dropped.

          Why Call Pond? I don’t know. It was a mostly stagnant little pond. There was so much scum and debris in it that it took forever to freeze. By February there was ice over the whole thing, but no one ever knew how thick the ice was. I remember once about eight of us going down as we struggled for the puck, and the ice cracked and water started oozing through. We all scrambled off and went home. After all. No one wanted to be there anyway. Why were we playing hockey, a sport we didn’t like, on unsafe ice in the cold? Nothing else to do. There was none of the laughter or fooling around that teenaged boys typically engage in when they are involved in competition. It was more like when we were all in a hay field loading up the bales of hay. Didn’t want to be there, let’s wrap this up, I want to go home. But it was February and Call Pond was sort of frozen and we always played hockey.

          February is the shortest month for a reason. They could have made January and March with 30 days each instead of 31 and made February with 30 days, and it all would have worked out. But, no, as the Catholic Cardinals met way back when to design a new calendar, they decided to shorten February. After all, there is nothing much to do and hockey wasn't a thing in Rome. It is just a nasty month and deserved to be shortened.

          But we have to live through it. Psalm 118:23-24--- This is the Lord's doing; it is marvelous in our eyes.  This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it. Obviously, the Lord isn’t really referencing February here, but it still fits. Make each day special and before you know it, those 28 days will be gone.

           Blessings!