Twenty one years ago. Seems like last week. It was a Saturday morning. I had been in the garage getting the lawn mower ready to go. (1958 Wheel Horse. You always spent a fair amount of time getting it ready.) I came into the house to check the time (we had plans for later in the day) and the phone rang. Marsha was right there so she answered it. From a smiling face she went to a frown, then three shouts of NO! “We’ll be right there!” In a pastor’s home you sometimes get tragic calls, but the expressions and the reaction from Marsha made me think this was a family incident. Our 17 year old nephew, Marsha’s brother’s son, was dead. They lived three towns over, so we were pretty much up on everything that went on in the family. The week before his girlfriend had broken up with him. He seemed hurt, but also seemed OK. He hadn’t come home on Friday night, so that was concerning. His Dad went out early on Saturday morning to walk the trap-line. Sometimes our nephew would camp at a certain place along the trap-line. His Dad found him. Marsha’s brother kept his guns under lock and key in a closed in cabinet, but his son knew where the key was because they hunted together. He had gotten a shotgun and closed the cabinet so his Dad wouldn’t see a gun was missing. Once deep in the woods, our nephew put the barrel of the gun in his mouth and killed himself.

          Of course, we dropped everything and raced to their home. Marsha took the house over. People came in and brought bakery and food. Marsha worked at keeping people fed and she organized people so that the house was not overwhelmed. I was the pastor, talking with people and holding hands. Kids from the high school kept coming in. They were shocked and highly impacted by what had happened. Marsha and I were crazy busy. Finally, 6:30 in the morning, we were able to fall asleep on the couch.

          I jerked awake at 9 AM. Church! It was Sunday! I had called the secretary before we left the house the day before, but had given no updates since. I needed to get to the church.

          I drove straight there and got in about fifteen minutes before church was to start. I must have looked a mess. I was still dressed in my grubbies from working on that mower. Unshaved. Maybe even a little smelly. I met with the Elders for prayer and walked out to the sanctuary. I walked to the pulpit and just started talking. We sang a closing song that morning, but no other songs. Totally ignored the bulletin. I just talked. The Scripture I used was not what I had prepared. The message was not anywhere near what I had prepared. I just talked. I talked about our nephew, about the vitalness of life, how he thought he was only worth death. I don’t know even what I preached. I never listened to the tape. I was in pain and I wanted to be back at my brother-in-law’s house, but I knew I needed to be in that pulpit that morning, too. At that time, all of our Youth sat together, away from their parents. Pretty normal. But after I had talked for about forty minutes, something strange started to happen. One by one the kids started getting up and going to their parents. The kids were sobbing and weeping. The parents were stunned. No one knew what was going on, but the kids were shattered. Some, whose parents were not there, began to seek out church leaders. They were all devastated.

          After we were done, I hunted John down. He was one of our Youth, the oldest of the group at that time. In fact, I spent quite some time on the phone with John last month. He had been asked to do his mother-in-law’s funeral and was asking me for help. On this morning, John hugged me and wouldn’t let go. I waited till he calmed down and I asked him what was going on. It seems that the kids were all under a lot of pressure at school and home. They were trying to live like Christians in a worldly society. They had finally decided that they would all kill themselves, all together, the next Saturday night. Obviously, I was shocked. I got the kids together and we talked. No parents were allowed in. Just the kids and their pastor. We settled some issues then and there. We had a Youth group before, but that was the beginning of the greatest group ever.

          By now it was after almost two in te afternoon. I had to get back to my brother-in-law’s house. I went into my office to get something and one of the men in te church was sitting in a chair with his head down, weeping. I called his name, then I shook his shoulder. He looked up and blinked a few times, then he focused on me. “Pastor,” he said in a quiet voice. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is it over?” “Yes,” I replied. “Church is over.” I was mystified. “No, is it over?” “Is what over?” “I don’t know.” Then he began to tell me his story.

          He had gotten to the church that morning with a heavy heart. He knew about our nephew and he was concerned. Every week we had someone praying during the morning message, and this Sunday it was his turn. After the Elders and I had left my office after praying together that morning, he had slipped in. They normally waited till the sermon was about to begin, but he felt he desperately needed to pray. You could pray where ever you wanted to pray, but most people used my office. He said that as he prayed, he began to feel a great weight come on him. He went deeper in to prayer. He had never felt such a thing. He didn’t realize almost four hours had passed while the service had gone on and ended and I had gathered the Youth and spent that time with them. He didn’t know what had been said in church or anywhere else. He had been with God. And then I had shaken his shoulder. After all of that, he again asked, “Is it over?”

          If you were to ask the people now who were there that morning what was my best sermon there in my eleven plus years, most would name that morning. I know the Youth would all say that it was a great sermon. But then, if you asked them what it was that I preached that morning, you would get blank stares, some sentences that started and stopped, uncertainty. When I got back to my brother-in-law’s house, Marsha asked me what I preached. I told her that I had no idea. It wasn’t a great sermon after all. It was a man sitting in a room all by himself, totally wrapped up in the Lord.

          This is directed to the people of Urbana Yoke Parish, but I also know that there are many readers who live elsewhere. If your church has someone praying during the service, be a volunteer. Go into the prayer room and meet the Lord. If your church does not have a prayer time during the service, start one.

          Now, to the people of the Yoke, we have a prayer room. Someone is in there every Sunday while the preaching is happening. But for a long time now, we have only had two go in and take their turns. Alan Coverdale or Jim Hartley. Praise the Lord for their faithfulness. But, what about you? Can you share a Sunday? The response I normally get when I ask someone if they would take a turn is, “I just don’t want to miss one of your messages!” Yet, vacations come up, ballgames, fishing, chores. We all have things that take us away from church on the occasional Sunday, so I know that my preaching isn’t all that mesmerizing. And, seriously, would you rather sit and listen to me drone, or would you rather sit talk to God?

          One man, sitting alone in a room, saved the lives of a bunch of kids who were fed up. What can you do?

          If you are interested, talk with Alan Coverdale. You can call him at 260-901-0242 or you can talk to him on Sunday morning.

          It really is all about prayer.

On June 2, 2017 I presented this post. Since then, a lot of people have started reading this blog other than the folks in our church. This week I have not had the time to write and post a blog and I have let our church folk know. But, for the rest of you, I give you this edition of the blog, almost 2 years old. God is good.

          I don’t like being confused. When something does come along that confuses me my mind kicks into overdrive and starts figuring it out. Confusion only lasts for a moment. Until recently, that is. On April 6^th I had triple bypass surgery. Coming out of surgery, I had no confusion. But then the pain meds started and I felt confusion for about three days until I began to request the pain meds to be taken away. At home, they had prescribed pain meds and for a day and a half they drove me crazy, until I quit them. I was OK. But then I passed out at home. When they brought me around they were preparing to load me into an ambulance to take me to the hospital. That was totally confusing, completely different from the pain pill thing. My blood sugar had dropped below the level that a glucometer can read, causing me to pass out. But, readings that low also scramble your brain. It is like a jigsaw puzzle where a bunch of the pieces are cut in the same pattern and you have to tell where the piece goes by the image on the piece. You can get the puzzle together, but the whole picture can be fouled up.

          That had never been a problem for me before, even though I have had diabetes for a long time. I had gotten low before, but I could tell the symptoms. This was new, though. No idea that it was coming, just ‘BOOM,’ passed out. What caused it was the highly trained endocrinologists at Lutheran Hospital in Ft. Wayne. When I went in for the bypass they determined that I should have more than just oral meds. I should have insulin. I had never had a problem with the oral meds. My diabetes was under control. But, they are the smart ones. I went on insulin and passed out three days after getting home from the hospital.

          A little tweaking here and there, and I was OK, they said. I take my blood sugar three times a day. Sometimes it is really low. I eat a piece of fruit or drink some juice and it runs it back up a little and I back off on the insulin. It is a balancing act. The problem with the insulin, other than the needle, is when it is getting low, I can’t tell like I used to be able to tell. The highly trained endocrinologists at Lutheran tell me that I can tell when it is dropping, but I really cannot tell. But, what do I know?

           On Wednesday of this week my blood sugar in the morning was 170, which is high. I did the insulin, got in the car and headed for McDonalds in North Manchester. (Coffee, for me, has been one of the joys in life. Since my surgery it just hasn’t tasted  good and has left me queasy. McDonalds has always been my favorite, so I am reintroducing myself to it. It is working.) Running to McDonalds is something I do a couple of times a week.

          This where it gets confusing.

          I pulled out of McDonalds onto Rt. 114 and immediately turned left, back toward Urbana, on Rt. 13. My mind was busily going over the things I had to do that day. Everything normal. The next thing I was aware of was lying in the grass with my hands handcuffed behind me and a young man trying to rouse me. There was at least a half dozen police cars around the scene, all with lights flashing. The confusion was total. Had someone run into me? Why did my shoulder hurt so bad? What was going on?

          The story is bizarre and was explained to me at the hospital. Evidently, just after I turned onto Rt. 13, my mind passed out. I say my mind because the body continued to function. I began to drive erratically, but I was keeping the car in the road. Most of you know, Rt. 13 can be quite busy. Some motorist called 911 with the information about me. A sheriff’s deputy caught up with me five miles down the road. He tried to get me to pull over, but I kept driving. I ran five people off the road, but didn’t hit anyone. At one point the officer pulled up next to me and said that I was white knuckle on the steering wheel and staring straight ahead. No acknowledgement that he was next to me or anything. He knew then there was something wrong with me, but, being a cop, he was thinking drugs, even though it was not yet 8 AM. They show, in movies and on TV, the officer using his car to force the other driver off the road, but that is much easier said than done. This officer, a veteran of the force, got back behind me. He told me later that I never exceeded 45 mph, so at least I was under the speed limit. He continued to follow me, praying all the way that I wouldn’t hit someone. I passed through Urbana, which meant that by that time I had driven in a basically unconscious state, for seven miles. On down the road to the curve in front of the drive in, which I negotiated. It was now eleven miles. I drove through the intersection at Rt. 24 and Rt. 13 on the red light. This is, arguably, the busiest intersection in Wabash county. I wasn’t touched. I went another half mile, went off the road, rolled my car multiple times and came up on my wheels. But it doesn’t end there. By this time there is a lot of back up. I am now in the city of Wabash, 12 miles from where I lost consciousness, and I have destroyed my car. The officer, still thinking I have been on drugs, opens the driver’s side door and I, the Rev. Larry Wade, local pastor, hit the officer. He hits me back. I become combative. He draws his taser, still thinking this is a drug thing, and uses it as a stun gun and zaps me in the leg. I become more combative, so he zaps me in the shoulder, which puts me on the ground. There I am handcuffed. As proof that I was out of my mind, I should note that officer Hicks is 6’7”. I am not stupid, normally anyway. I don’t know how much time passed until them EMTs started to bring me around, but I remember them saying that they had been able to finally bring my sugar blood count up to 23. A regular glucometer cannot read below 20. That is getting to the level that the heart stops.

          So, what do we learn from this? That I was extremely lucky? No. What I learned was that the Lord never leaves the believer nor forsakes them. Let’s review. I pass out on a State Highway, one that typically has more semi-trucks than cars, and never hit one head on. I drive 12 miles all over the road and never hit anyone, although I drive 5 cars off the road (one of whom was one of our ladies in the church), but no one is hurt. I make it through a dangerous curve and then cross an intersection that usually features speeding semi-trucks, and I do that by running through a red light. Then, I roll my car multiple times and all that happens to me is two small bruises on my left hand and a fairly nasty bruise just under my right shoulder. There is more to that part of the story. Honda reinforces the window frames on their doors more than other companies. In 2012 a driver went left of center and hit my good, solid American car, totaling it out. I got my insurance settlement and went to get a used car. They had the Honda there. It got 40 mpg, which is needed in the ministry, and I bought it. If I had been driving any other kind of car, I would have been killed Wednesday morning. The roof was caved in except at the window frames. Back to Wednesday, the officer who subdued me was a veteran officer. If he had been a young, nervous and angry officer, who knows what might have happened. Personally, I am grateful that the only thing he did was stun me. Another blessing was that the ambulance crew that responded was the same crew that came to the house when I passed out there. They recognized me and checked my blood sugar. Another crew would have assumed I was out of it because I had been subdued and I probably would have died before I reached the hospital. Seven short weeks ago my chest was cut in half and my ribs broken so they could do the bypass, and nothing that happened damaged the surgical area. And, lastly, the hospitalist at Wabash hospital explained to me how to take the insulin to avoid such an event far better than it was explained to me by the highly trained endocrinologists at Lutheran.

All of that can be called a coincidence. If you believe it to be so, then you are really, really gullible. I am His, and He will take care of me.

          Last Sunday our church here in Indiana took a major step forward. We left a building that, while loved and revered, was nearing the end of its useful life. One thing everyone knows, whether they acknowledge it or not, is that when you build something it will one day have to be left behind. This Sunday the church takes another major step forward. This week we move to our other building, refurbished and prepared. To those of you who read this who are not here, it doesn’t seem like such a big deal. But to us, it is huge.

          So, in today’s blog, I want to talk about the thing that brought us to this place in the life of the church. Courage.

          Courage, you say? How does courage figure? Faith, OK. Determination, OK. But where does courage come in?

          Well, first, we have a church filled with courageous people. When you farm, you are faced with life and death decisions all the time. Not instant death, but a slow and grinding death. What crops to plant, when to plant, what chances to take? A wrong move, a wrong decision can put a farm on a long, downhill slope to oblivion. If you do not have the courage of your convictions, you are lost. Certainly, faith plays a tremendous role, but without the courage to step out on faith, faith is useless. A farmer gets up in the morning and heads out with no guarantees. For our people here, men and women, courage is just a regular part of life. I doubt if they even see the courage. But it is there.

          Second, that courage has propelled these folks in a Spiritual sense. Seventy years ago, there were two churches in town. Two churches doing quite well. Two churches right across the street. The one on the west side of the road was largely populated by farmers and their families. The one on the east side was populated largely by the town folk and business types. Though different denominations, both churches preached the Bible more than they sided with their denominations. People in both churches were friendly with folks in the other church. There was not a problem. But they were different churches.

          As time went on, though, the town changed. Like all the small towns around here, people began to move out and go to the bigger towns. The church on the east side of the road, Grace, began to suffer because of the exodus of their people. It affected the church on the west side, St. Peter’s, less, but they were affected to some degree. At some point, leaders from both congregations met and decided that both churches would benefit if they shared a pastor. Some would look at that and say it was a necessity, but not so. To pull back on your pride and start to emerge from the whole “my church” thing, takes courage. Simple, unamazing courage, but courage all the same. The country side is dotted with small churches which are struggling, yet lack the courage to shelve their pride to do something positive. And, the country side is dotted with empty and boarded up churches that never had the courage to step forward. As time went on, it was decided that the two churches would start worshipping together. More courage. Now the “my church” thing was becoming even more blurred.

And then came the real test of courage. Both denominations were distancing themselves from the Bible. Homosexuality, abortion and other nonBiblical ideas were gaining in popularity in the denominations. One of the denominations embraced these concepts whole heartedly, the other denomination lacked the courage to stand up to those who favored these nonBiblical concepts, even though the Bible declares such things as sin. The two churches here took the deep breath, clothed themselves in courage, and withdrew from their denominations. That is a massive display of courage. Now you have no denominational safety net, no help when it is needed. Courage to step out in faith.

Along with these decisions came the decision to legally merge into one congregation. You would think that this action was already done, since they were worshipping together. (six months at one church building, six months at the other) This was another step. Many became angry. “Their church” was going away! Pride plays a big role here. Of course, it never was anyone’s church, other than God’s church. It was an act of courage to move forward with the merger.

 And then, at a Board meeting, another act of courage. One of the men stepped up and said we needed to consider the possibility of going down to one building, one worship center. The Board agreed. A committee was formed to explore and make recommendations. It was brought to the congregation. In another act of supreme, but quiet, courage, the church voted to phase out one grand old building and prepare the other, after a complete makeover, to become the single worship center.

 This Sunday, a group of courageous and joyful worshippers will gather together and worship the God they have chosen to follow rather than the god most of the world follows. It has taken just over fifty years, but it has come.

 When we think of courage, we first think of things like battlefield bravery and bravery against long odds. But there is another courage. A quiet and simple courage that doesn’t seek glory and doesn’t embrace pride. The courage that says, “We need to do this thing because it is right and decent and will stand for the future.” No fanfare, no big splash. The splashy kind of courage is often the spur of the moment thing. Certainly courageous, but impossible to sustain. However, that daily courage to face the elements or those who work against Spiritual growth….well, that is a special courage. A courage that walks hand in hand with faith.

 Imagine if politicians had that kind of courage. The courage to put their own agendas aside and do what was right and decent. Imagine if business owners and factory workers and teachers and doctors and all the rest had that courage. Imagine if preachers and other religious leaders had the courage to walk with the Bible, and therefore walk with the Lord. What kind of America would we have?

 Quiet, dedicated courage in action. Sunday morning at 9:30, Urbana, Indiana. Come join us.

          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!