We hear at Christmas and Easter time that it is all about the kids. If that is you, shame on you. The virgin Birth and the ultimate Sacrifice and Resurrection are for all and especially for the adults. If the adult keeps the Birth and the Sacrifice and the Resurrection holy, then the children will, as well. Or at least they will be inclined to do so if they can stand against the world's onslaught. 

    Halloween, on the other hand, is for the kids. Yes, it certainly has at its roots an evil origin, but it has evolved into something fun for kids. While I abhor the watering down of the Advent and Lenten seasons, I rejoice at the watering down of Satan's holiday. You may be one who never lets their child participate in Halloween, but there are many, many things that will draw them into evil. If, however, we water down the Birth, Sacrifice and Resurrection with all the worldly aspects, we take away the best of opportunities to bring the Gospel to our children. 

    Having said that, it is important how we approach Halloween. Church sponsored events are best. Trunk or Treats are great and can bring the Gospel to a child's level. Before Trunk or Treat, many Christians gave out a little Ziploc bag with maybe five good pieces of candy and a Gospel tract made for kids. We did that at our home for many, many years. And then, while I pastored in Geneva, Ohio, the local churches took it up a couple of notches. And this is where the story gets good.

    The evangelical churches in our small city got together and devised a 'Kid's Party.' The idea was simple. Rent the Community Center (a large venue usually used for wedding receptions and that also served as the home for the Food Pantry and the Seniors' Center). Let the Youth from the various churches devise games of chance and have the churches buy TONS of candy. The pastors and some of the other adults from the churches rode herd on it all. It didn't cost the little ones so much as a penny and, win or lose, they all got candy. As they entered, they gave their name and address and they were each given a ticket, like a raffle ticket, and told to hold it until the end when there would be a drawing for one new boy's bike and one new girl's bike. (The bikes were donated by a local hardware store.) The only thing was, to win you had to be there. The drawing was to be at the end of the program and the Gospel message. Everywhere around there were signs telling what churches were involved and who would be presenting the Gospel message. Every year the pastors voted on the most child-like pastor to present this message, and it was, for some reason, always me.

    This was actually quite expensive. The churches wrote it into their budgets. Not only the party, but we incurred expenses in follow-ups. It was really a good situation.

    And then came the year.

    Everything cooked right along. It was a snowy night, so the little rugrats showed up in droves. The Youth did a great job (especially mine) and the candy flowed like water. It was the first time we actually ran out of candy. Several hundred kids had stuck around for the drawings, which meant they also listened to the Gospel message. While we were doing all of that on the south end of the huge room, the parents of the little darlings were at the north end chowing down on free cookies and swilling hot chocolate like it was going to be outlawed the next day. When the message was over and the drawings done, the little ones ran to get their parents. One little guy, about nine, came to me and told me he had accepted Christ. Then he turned and ran to the parents.

    Suddenly there was a massive eruption. "WHAT! WHO?" I looked in time to see a very large woman, cookies in hand, stomping across the floor toward me. Her face had gone beet red as she hustled over, still chomping on cookies.

    "YOU!" she screamed. I knew what was coming. I pointed to myself and sweetly said, "Me?" "YES YOU, YOU #%^^@! WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT TO TELL MY SON THAT LOAD OF #%^#?"  "Why you did, ma'am. There are all kids of signs and it was explained that there would be a Gospel story." "NO ONE SAID YOU WOULD BE FILLING HIS MIND WITH %#$^%&&! THERE  IS SUCH A THING AS CHURCH AND STATE! I AM GONNA HAVE ALL YOU it$##$%^ ARRESTED! WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT?" "Well, actually, ma'am, the Community Center is a not for profit organization run by a board of directors. It is privately owned and there is no government organization involved. So, no division of church and state."  "WHAT!? THIS IS ILLEGAL! BOARD OF DIRECTORS? WHO IS IN CHARGE OF THIS BOARD OF DIRECTORS? I WANT TO TALK TO'EM!" Of course, the building was quiet now as a graveyard. "Well, ma'am, as it happens, I am currently the president of the board. Would you like to talk?" Her face went purple. "YOU!!?" You could see the wheels whirring in her hear. Or maybe that was her ears spinning. "LOOK YOU LITTLE @$@#%$#! THE FOOD PANTRY RUNS OUT OF HERE AND THEY ARE BIG IN THIS TOWN. I'M GONNA TALK TO THE HEAD OF THAT!" "Well, ma'am, that would be fine. The Food Pantry is run by the churches in town and I am also the president of that board. When would you like to meet?" 

    She was ready to stroke out. Just then, one of the local cops put his hand on her shoulder to talk to her and calm her down. He was volunteering his time that night. A young man and a member of one of the churches, he was there to be a presence. He never expected to run into a crazy woman. She exploded all over him. He escorted her out. I never tried to find out what happened.

    The pastor who had organized it walked up to me. "Same time next year, buddy?" "Oh, I wouldn't miss it."

    Hey folks! Don't just give candy! Give the Gospel.                                                                                          

Most of you who know me know that I am not a big backer of Mr. Trump. However, he has been called, several times by people who have no real concept of what they are saying, a fascist, like Hitler. Now, I was going to post this on Facebook, but I knew they would clamp down and delete this and put me in FB jail. I have been there before and it is no big deal, but I wish to get this out.

Before we really get started, here is a definition right out of the World Wide Web dictionary.--- Fascism is a political philosophy and movement characterized by centralized autocratic government, nationalism, severe economic and social regimentation, and forcible suppression of opposition. It is led by a dictator who controls all aspects of society, suppresses dissent, and often promotes racism.--- So, let's examine who the fascists really are.

First, centralized autocratic government; Democrats. They want DC in charge of everything behind one leader who, if you oppose him/her, you are racist, sexist, homophobic or whatever. To them, it is never about the issues but always about your personal intolerance.

Second, nationalism; Democrats again, but only if the nationalism is like they want it. Like it or leave it.

Third, severe economic and social regimentation; once again, Democrats. They want to tax the economy to death, stifle business and govern and clamp down on media and social media and cause them to follow their vision.

Fourth, forcible suppression of the opposition; well, again, Democrats are guilty. How many lawsuits against Mr. Trump? How many assassination attempts? How many illegal aliens were allowed to sign up to vote until somebody hit them with the law?

Fifth, it is led by a dictator who controls all aspects of society, suppresses dissent, and often promotes racism. Mr. Obama sat in the Oval Office for eight years. During that time he made the effort to control society. He wanted to disarm the nation, he wanted to force the citizens to get abortions and pay for the health care of others, even it they chose not work or contribute. That list goes on and on. Conservative radio, television and media people were mocked. And promoting racism? Our first African-American president made you feel racist if you voted for the white guys. And when he was leaving office, his heir-apparent branded those who opposed her agenda as deplorables. Mr. Obama and Mrs. Clinton were US Senators before stepping into the big ring. But what did they do before that? I doubt nine out of ten even know.

Mr. Trump is a bag of wind, to be sure. I wish the Republicans would have put someone else up. But, a fascist? One thing I have learned over the decades working with people is if someone accuses another, it is because the accuser is actually guilty of what they are accusing the other person about.

And this ends my once in a lifetime political rant.

    She was tired. The struggle was overwhelming. Still, she managed a smile and a weak laugh. Cancer kills in a nasty way, and brain cancer is among the nastiest. A dear saint of God, a true believer, winding down to the end of this earthly existence and looking forward to the next step.

    I had known Marian and Tom a little bit while I was pastoring in Geneva, Ohio. They went to a different church, so it was just a passing acquaintance. However, they both retired and their long time home became too much to handle, especially once Tom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. They searched around for an apartment that would be nice and where Marian could devote herself to her husband. As it worked out, they moved into the seniors' apartment facility where I live, and Marian started attending the worship service I started. A nice little happenstance.

    And then...brain cancer.

    Day by day, the struggle increases. Her son and daughter are working their time out so that one or the other can be at the apartment. Time is drawing short. Mom is getting sicker and sicker, daughter and son are becoming exhausted and Dad stares at the TV, whether it is on or off. This scenario plays out all over the world in one manner or another. Most families have such a story within the last three generations. Still, in apartment number 119, it seems unique because it is personal.

    Last Sunday, after our worship service, I walked down to 119 to spend some time. The daughter was there and I spoke with her when she answered the door. I took Tom's outstretched hand and asked him if he was going to watch the Browns. He smiled and rolled his eyes. I don't think he knew me, but he still remembered the woeful Browns. Then I sat down next to the hospital bed and took Marian's hand, and we talked for a bit. She is ready to go, to meet Jesus. Her fears are calmed. She can no longer express her love to her family with a hug or a wonderful meal or a joke, but she rests easy because they express their love to her by seeing to her needs. We talked a little of people we both know, and we talked of that which is coming very soon. But she was tired. After a time, I prayed with her and then rose to go. She held onto my hand and said something in a fading voice. I leaned over to hear better and she spoke it again. "You are a good man!" I thanked her, said my goodbyes and I left the apartment.

    I pondered her final words as I walked along. You are a good man! Interesting. I know my own faults and failures. I do not see the 'good man' part. What I see is a man with faults who has just tried to serve the Lord. I thought about the beginning of this journey and the high goals and how those goals went by the wayside as I looked to follow the Lord. We never know where the Lord will take us. 

    I got on the elevator and looked across the hall before the door closed. There were the windows that look into the community room where we have our worship service. I smiled a little. It was meant to be a worship service. A little singing, a little prayer, a little preaching. Somehow, some way, I have reverted to being the pastor. Illnesses, concerns for adult children, worries about increasing rent and the costs of living. People will see me in the hallway and we will wind up talking of needs and concerns. A pastor always.

    And I don't care that I never pastored that mega-church or wrote books or whatever. My heart is breaking for an adult son and daughter who are facing a death of one parent and the slow and crippling passing of the other. I hurt for that husband who is soon to be without his anchor. The sadness of apartment 119 is heavy on me. But this is my path, and I am grateful the Lord is letting me to continue along the way.

    I sometimes wonder about my classmates from college and seminary who had their futures worked out in their minds. What happened to them when the Lord's reality struck? The path can be wearisome, but it is good.

    Rejoice in the Lord alway, and again I say rejoice! 

I wake up almost every morning in a good mood. Life can be stressful, bad things can be happening, whatever it is, but I wake up just fine. I go to sleep thinking and I wake up thinking. A lot of the time if I fall asleep mulling over an issue, I find I have resolved it by morning. Often, I will wake up in the wee hours with someone on my mind and I will pray for them right then. Then, at peace, I will go back to sleep. Sometimes I don't sleep well, but I still wake up in a good mood. Another day with Jesus here on this planet! I really can't explain it. In a year's time I will wake up in a sour maybe five or six times.

I woke up this morning at 4AM in a bad mood.

My eyes opened and I was instantly awake. I knew it would be a grouchy day and, what was worse, I didn't care. I was meeting at 10AM with a group of folks in the faclity and I knew I was going to be difficult. I would be on the phone later and I knew I would be snarly. I didn't care. I was not in a mood to be trifled with.

I had no idea why I felt as I did, and that bothered me. But again, I DID NOT CARE!

And then I heard it and I understood. I didn't swear. That would indicate a nuclear holocast. But my mood was such that if I had thought to swear, I might actually have done so. The SOUND! I hate the SOUND! I don't always hate the sound. March or April...I can live with it. But not this morning!

At 4AM this morning, sleet was peppering my window.

Just to make it clear, sleet and hail are two separate things. Both are frozen precipitation, but hail is formed in a thunderstorm. The thunderstorm, usually in the summer, is caused when cooler air and hot air run into each other. The resulting storm causes updrafts which will catch falling rain and drive it back to great altitudes, where it starts to freeze. Then it falls, only to be lifted high again. The size of the hail when it finally hits the ground indicates how many times it went through this uplifting experience. Tornados usually produce a lot of hail on the other side of the tornado. (Yes, I know. I am a weather nerd. Proud of it, too.) Sleet, on the other hand, is caused when rain falls and the drop freezes before it hits the ground. No uplift. Just air so cold it freezes the rain. When you see hail, get to a safe place. When you see sleet, you are doomed. Snow is coming.

I grew up in snow country. I lived in snow country as an adult. You deal with it. Depending on your age, you might even like it. I also lived in Indiana where a six inch snow fall shut everything down and I lived in Florida where the natives would make trips north just to see snow. But where I live now, where I grew up and where I spent most of my adult/ministry, it seriously snows. 

Everyone here has their own snow story. For the youth, and even the young adults, the story involves laughter. Sledding, snowball fights, snowmen, ice skating. Fun stuff. But when you hit 35, the stories turn. Sledding is when you lose control on the interstate and you sled into a guard rail. A snowball fight is when some overhead branch releases a load of snow that falls down the back of your jacket while you are shoveling the most recent foot of snow from your driveway. The snowman is actually you when you come in after shoveling that foot of new snow that wasn't there that morning. And ice skating usually involves falling on your backside and sliding down the driveway while you try to maintain control of two bags of groceries.

Around here, people in their forties and fifties can often be heard to say, "I love snow until Christmas is over." To which I snort in disgust. Snow is never, ever welcome at my door. It makes me grouchy. I am truly a Grinch.

That is not to say it is all bad. The other morning I went to the car early to go get my groceries. I was in shirt sleeves, short sleeves at that (the cold doesn't faze me, just snow), and I encountered a smallish figure who was so covered in coats and gloves and scarves and hats that I couldn't see the face. However, the dog gave her away. The dog, Blaze, was enjoying the cold temps and wind. Blaze almost pulled his owner over to get to me because he really likes me. I gave him the required head and belly rubs and then turned to Sandy, his owner. "Sandra, are you in there?" "Pastor! You are going to catch your death dressed like that!" Sandy and Blaze moved here in July to be near her son who was transferred here. Sandy has never lived anywhere except Dallas, Texas. Blaze will love it, but Sandy is going to be fun to watch. She goes to our worship service and I am pretty sure she will be the first to want to pray that it warms up.

But is that enough to make me happy to hear sleet on my window? Not at all. 

At one point, years ago, Marsha and I lived about 200 yards from Lake Erie. One evening we sat watching the news. We sat there, each with our own blanket and sipping on coffee or cocoa, and the program came to the weather. I was interested in this because I worked at the funeral home and I had a funeral in the morning. The weather presenter told us that if it all set up just right, we could have up to a foot and a half of snow by morning. She went on to say that near the Lake it could be substantially more. Marsha said, "Well, that won't happen. This lady always makes it sound worse than it is." To which I agreed, but I decided to get up extra early to clear the driveway if necessary. So, I got up at 3:30 and walked to the kitchen to look out. I couldn't see my mailbox or any other mailbox on the street. They weren't covered by the snowplows, either. The road hadn't been cleared yet. I got dressed to go outside. Marsha woke up and asked me what was going on. I told her the weather lady was wrong. It was even worse. It was a medium/long driveway. I pushed the door open and struggled to the garage, which was behind the house by quite a bit. I got the snowblower up and running. The snow was way higher than the blower, so it took a long time and a lot of struggle. At one point Marsha took a picture. Because I had cleared the driveway, the snow was higher than my head. All you could see in the picture was the last of the snow flying up on the pile.

I got to the funeral on time, then to the cemetery. The cemetery roads were cleared and there was a track leading to the grave for the pall bearers to carry the casket and the folks to follow. Our cemetery guys are the best. Anyway, when I got home I had to park on the street until I could clear the driveway again because it had snowed all day.

Tomorrow morning (Wednesday) it is to be 39 or 40 degrees with rain. I am so excited I could just be sick. However, in Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 the Bible talks about seasons. Of course, it is talking about the seasons in life and how they change, but we can put that same thinking to the seasons of the year, as well. Snow season is fleeting, Spring will come. But if you have reason to communicate with me before April 1, do not expect me to be happy!

Blessings and warm days to you all.

The five highest points in Florida are in what is called the Florida Highlands. They are all in the panhandle area, very close to Alabama. While in seminary we lived in the Highlands. Oak trees, soft breezes. Sounds nice, doesn't it? Britton Hill, the highest point in Florida, is the crown jewel. A marker denotes the highest natural point in the state. All very lovely, except......

The marker looks like a headstone. Britton Hill is all of 345 feet above sea level. If, back in the day, Alabama had won the dispute over ownership of the panhandle, the highest point in Florida would have been Sugarloaf Mountain, at 312 feet. (yes, it is called a mountain) The state only averages 100 feet above sea level for the entire state. If you subtract the Highlands, it is much lower. Tampa is less than 50 feet above sea level, Miami is around 10 feet, St, Pete is maybe 60 feet. And these are not measurements at beach level. This is inland.

It is important to remember that Florida is a swamp. I know, many folks love Florida. The cities, the attractions. It is all wonderful. But all this was mostly built on a giant swamp. Why? Folks enjoy the sun and the sea and, mostly, Florida covers that nicely. However, if you go out to the Everglades (which is the swamp) and look east or west toward the coasts, you will see no hills. I have been told that if you can elevate a hundred feet (via helicopter) you can see the Atlantic to the east and the Gulf to the west. There is no real high ground to go to in the peninsula. 

When a major, major storm like Milton blows in, it is not just the coastal cities that get the storm surge. The surge pushes ocean water in so that, during the storm, the streams and creeks and rivers flow away from the ocean or Gulf. This backflow raises the water in the Everglades, which in turn, pushes water into the cities. Lake Okeechobee, which is the head water of the Miami River and a hot fishing lake, is only 16 feet above sea level. Lake O supplies drinking water for half the state. The Everglades' flood will wash into Lake Okeechobee and contaminate the water. One hurricane when we lived there, the Lake actually had saltwater fish for a while. 

Because Florida is so wet already, Milton will barely slow down as it crosses the state. If it follows previous storm tracks, it will cross the state and turn north, driven by the Gulf Stream and the winds and hit land again near where the last one hit. This could very well make Katrina look tame.

When I lived down there, the media blew every storm way out of proportion. Every storm was the storm of the century. Every storm was going to leave trails of destruction. And then a couple of trees would come down and a light pole would fall. But this one has already become a Category Five storm with winds hitting 200mph. That is about as bad as it can get.

How many people will be impacted? How will it disrupt the nation? How much will it affect the price of gas (oil platforms evacuated) and how will it affect the flow of goods? No one knows. Maybe, just a few trees will fall and a couple of streetlamps will go out. Or maybe this is going to be a really big storm.

This blog is out early to urge you to pray for those in the path. After it passes, there will be the need to help in some way physically. Afterall, there is no giant and generous nation out there to help America like the rest of the world gets help. We can't expect our own government to help the people impacted. It will be, as usual, up us to help our own. 

Begin to pray.

Her name was Bonnie. She was 75 and had lived a wonderfully full life. She and her late husband Bob had never had children. Because of this she looked at Marsha and I as surrogate kids. We were just about the age her kids might have been had she ever had any and she loved to have us over. Of course, as her pastor I had to watch that. A wealthy lady with only a niece. It could easily look like we were trying to exploit her. But we enjoyed her, as well. She was just fun to be around. 

And then, while in the hospital for dehydration, she was administered someone else's medicine. It had a disastrous effect. It immediately caused her liver to start shutting down. She went into a spiraling fall from good health to approaching death. She was put on a transplant list, but it seemed unlikely that a new liver would be there in time. She slipped quickly.

As it happened, we had two others in the church who were also going through severe medical issues and who were dying. It was a Thursday and I had gone to the hospital to be with one, then to the other's home and now I was walking through Bonnie's door. She was curled up on her bed in a fetal position. The Hospice worker (real heroes) just looked at me and gave me a slight head shake. I kneeled down on the floor next to her bed and softly called her name. She opened her eyes. "Where have you been! Where have you been!?" "Bonnie, I'm sorry, but I have been with Edna and then with Bob. They need me, too." "NO! Just me! You should be with me!" With that she gripped my hand and held on to it until she died. 

Now, your first thought might be that she was being selfish, but she wasn't like that at all. However, she was dying, and she was in pain, and she wanted me there when the moment came. As you die your focus goes inward. I understood, but I did really feel bad for her because she felt she was being ignored. 

Then there was Lou. I pastored a church in Warren, Ohio and Lou was Board president when I went there. Just a wonderful guy. Their back yard and our back yard were separated by a chain link fence. Most mornings in good weather (that would be any weather that hadn't dumped a foot of snow) Lou and I would be at the fence around 6 AM, drinking coffee and gabbing. He was my father's age, but that is where any resemblance ended. He loved baseball and had coached Little League and girl's softball and had done this for over forty years. His youngest daughter had been a catcher for Ohio State's women's softball. He LOVED baseball and really loved the Indians. I talked him into starting a church softball team and when we eventually won the league championship, he wept. He was closer to me than my own father.

And then we moved to another church, eighty miles away. Lou and I kept in touch, but this new church was filled with new characters. One was Dennis. Dennis was a card. A tall black man, his voice rivaled James Earl Jones. He talked me into singing a special with him. "Why me, Dennis?" "Because, my young friend, a black man and a white man singing the Gospel together says something!" I sang, but I made sure they heard Dennis rather than me. He, too, loved baseball, and we attended several minor league games together. Dennis was going blind, so I always drove. He would hold onto my arm as we went to our seats. Once settled in, we would talk baseball together and with anyone around us. Once the game started, Dennis could tell where the ball was headed by the sound of the crack of the bat. He listened to the announcer at the beginning of the game and memorized the batting order and their positions. Dennis became the big brother I never had.

And then, out of the blue, Lou and Dennis died on the same day. Suddenly for both, which is really hard. I was going to do the funeral for Dennis because I was his pastor, which was on the same day as Lou's, so I couldn't go to Lou's funeral. On the day before both funerals, I visited with Dennis' family and then got in the car and traveled to Lou's visitation. Even though I had been gone for several years, I still had to be Pastor Wade. I did pretty well until Lou's wife gave me the ball we had all signed for Lou when we won that championship. Then I just crumbled. The next day I did OK for Dennis until they lowered the casket. And again, I crumbled.

There is a reason for this dark trip down memory lane. This is Pastor Appreciation Month. I know, I know. Your pastor doesn't preach well enough or your pastor doesn't check on you enough or your pastor doesn't wear the right clothes. Maybe he spends too much time with his family to suit you or maybe he doesn't spend enough time with his family to suit you. Maybe he is to educated and speaks over your head or maybe he isn't educated enough and speaks below your intellect. It could be you feel he doesn't work very hard or maybe you feel he works too hard. Chances are your pastor just doesn't suit you. I have no particular pastor in mind here. I know I am at least writing to people in Pennsylvania and Florida and West Virginia and Ohio and Indiana and Kentucky and New York and several other places. A lot of pastors are involved. You may not feel he (or she, as the case may be) is doing the job, but consider. They have family that they need to be fair to. They have personal concerns. They have hurts that the PASTOR mask may hide. Everyone around them is one of the flock and some of those are ornery old sheep. Finding a real friend in that bunch is really hard. Even their own families don't really understand the way their hearts are made. And yet, that pastor loves the flock in a way that is hard, actually impossible, to define.

Pastor Appreciation Month. If the church is giving a gift, donate to it. If the church is giving a card with the gift, sign it. Send your own card, too. Come down off your little pedestal and reach out to this person. Be kind.

Blessings!