A Missed Chance

It was probably a very nice late afternoon, summer image. A car pulls up to a small park at a small lake on the Pennsylvania/Ohio state border. Four people get out along with their towels. A Dad and Mom, a little six year old boy and a thirteen year old girl. Like the woman, the girl had long, wavy hair. Like the man, the boy had close cut hair. The Mom and Dad held hands as they walked toward the water, while the boy, walking with the man, was too busy picking up rocks to hold his daddy’s hand and the girl, walking with the Mom, was just too cool to hold anyone’s hand. At the water, the man and the boy just dropped their towels and splashed on in. The Mom looked at the girl and rolled her eyes and the girl giggled. The two of them laid out the towels and then daintily tip toed into the water. A lot of splashing ensued, but the ladies warned the guys that they did not want to get their hair wet. The girl stayed away from the man, but that would have been seen as a precautionary measure to protect her hair. The little boy tried to splash the girl, but with small hands he just managed to get her a little wet. She spoke sharply to him, but in so doing she looked away from the man. He sneaked up behind her and lifted her completely out of the water and then tossed her several feet away. She sputtered to the surface, wide eyed and a little frightened and then the little boy jumped on her head. What followed was a free for all with even Mom getting soaked.

         No one wanted to leave, but as is the usual happening in those cases, Mom called a halt to the fun. These kids have to eat, she said, a very Mom like thing. Lots of grumbling. Then Mom said she was taking all of them to Dairy Queen for burgers and ice cream. That made the difference! The two kids grabbed up their towels and raced each other to the car while Mom and Dad walked more slowly to the car. Dad asked Mom where she got the money to treat everyone and she smiled and said from you, dear. Also a very Mom thing.  A typical, all American family on a typical all American outing on a typical all American summer evening.

         Except that it wasn’t typical at all. At least not in the Norman Rockwell sense of typical. First, none of the people there were related by blood. The little boy had been adopted by the adults as a baby. The girl was in emergency custody of the adults. She had come to them a few days before with only the clothes on her back and a brown lunch bag containing a tooth brush and a clean pair of panties. It seemed she had gone to school on the last day of classes and had told her best friend that the night before her step father had done some bad things to her. The friend told the teacher, the teacher told the principle and one thing led to another. It was discovered that since the girl was eight years old she had been sexually assaulted and raped by her step father and two of his brothers. She was put in the home of that family as an emergency measure until things could be sorted out. That evening at the lake and Dairy Queen had been the first ‘normal’ family evening she could remember. She was Stephanie.  Marsha, the mother, and Adam, the son, and myself took her in as family.

         At first, she didn’t trust me. Who could blame her? But I rarely even touched her hand. (Well, there was the pick up and toss in the lake, but I was just a big kid myself and it was fun!) If there were hugs to give, they came from Marsha. As time went by, Stephanie began to realize that I was not going to harm her. She got to talking to me more, asking questions about what was right and what was wrong. She and Adam got along great. She met Marsha’s brother Joe, who was six years older, and thought she had died and gone to heaven. Joe couldn’t have cared less, but Steph was in love. She began to open up as a kid and our relationship, hers and mine, grew deeper. Every little girl needs that dad figure.

         Then came the day when Marsha called me in tears. It was terrible. I had to come home. The police and Stephanie’s mother had come to take her back. Her mother had petitioned the courts for Stephanie’s returned because we were forcing her to go to church. It was abuse, she said, and the court agreed. Everyone involved knew I was in the ministry, she was always ready before any of the rest of us to go to church and, when the court removed her, she went right back to that environment with the step father. The step father promised the court he wouldn’t touch her. It would seem that in Trumbull County, Ohio taking a child to church was greater abuse than rape. But she was older and she knew she didn’t have to put up with the old treatment. We were forbidden any contact until she was eighteen.

         One April day, Stephanie walked into my office. It was her eighteenth birthday. Much had happened in those intervening years. Her mother had met a new man, so she divorced the evil step father and married the new man. The new man wasn’t as bad. He was only a drug dealer. The mother got a job in Cleveland, some seventy miles away. She didn’t want Stephanie in an environment where there were drugs lying around, so she rented an apartment for Stephanie in the city Steph had grown up in so she could be near her friends. Her last two years in school she would see her mother once a month when the mother would come and pay the bills and stock the fridge. With such tender parental care you would never think the girl would get pregnant. But she did. On that April day when Stephanie walked into my office, she was a mommy.

         Stephanie just wanted us to know she was OK. She was ashamed of herself for having a child. She assumed we would not accept her at all. She just wanted to thank us for giving her some normalcy. It didn’t go like that, though. There were hugs all around. She had a job opportunity in Florida and she was going there in a few months. She had adult relatives there who felt she would benefit from counseling. She was excited about her future. Then, she was out of our lives again, although in contact. In Florida she met a young man named John. They decided to get married and came back to Ohio, where I married them. They wound up moving to Pennsylvania, just south of Pittsburgh. John was working for a car dealership and doing Bible school at night and Stephanie went to nursing school. Pittsburgh was only a three and a half hour trip, so we saw them quite often. As it happened, there was an outlet mall half way between Belle Vernon PA and Geneva OH. Sometimes Stephanie would call me and ask me to meet her at the mall on Saturday, and we would hang out for the day as she told me about her life. It was all good.

         Then, one cold winter’s day, John slipped on some ice at work and broke his neck. I was in Pittsburgh for his surgery. It was a long seven hours. He wound up with almost full use of his extremities, but he was in great pain. When his prescription for pain meds expired, he started buying them on the street. Then he talked Stephanie into taking some from the hospital where she was a nurse. She was caught and prosecuted. She lost her nursing license. Without the pain meds readily available he began getting whatever drugs he could get. Stephanie saw herself as a failure and she got pulled into it, as well. And, worse for her, John forbade her from contacting me. He had ended his plans for ministry and decided I had no use for him. Stephanie was so ashamed of herself that she followed what he said and I was out of the loop. Their daughters didn’t agree with that, so for these last few years I have been in touch with them.

         The drugs destroyed John’s heart. He has had five open heart surgeries in the last three years. After this last one he was told there would be no recovery. He sent me an e-mail asking me to pray for him. Then on this past Wednesday evening, with Hospice having medicated him, Stephanie called me. We had a long conversation. She has been clean for over a year and wants to get her life back together, although she will never be a nurse again. She got into the conversation very quietly, but when she realized I wasn’t going to scold her, it was like all those years before. She opened up more and more. Finally, she needed to go. After we hung up John passed away within twenty minutes.

         It is politically correct to say addiction is a disease. I disagree. All along the way you are making choices to go deeper and deeper into the addiction until it gets to where you cannot overcome it. It destroys your health, it destroys your life, it destroys your relationships. It takes you away from the people you love and who can help you. Over the years I have buried literally dozens of people who made those bad decisions.

         I will be gone next Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Maybe Friday, too. I have to go bury another person who made some really bad choices and I have to start rebuilding a relationship with someone who needs to rebuild her life. She doesn’t need counselor or a friend. She needs a Dad. Since I have some spare time, I will have to do.

         Blessings.

         Farm country. What is known as ‘fly over’ country. That jet slicing through the sky far above? Those people aboard are important. They might be flying from New York to Los Angeles. They are doing important things. If they happen to glance out of their window to take a break from the important work they are doing on their tablet or laptop they would see below, in the aforementioned farm country, a patchwork of fields. Here and their a river would be seen. Small towns looking like nothing more than a grouping of buildings from up so high. Then the important soul who took that moment to look down on the little people below would turn back to their important work and immerse their minds in the task at hand. If they give any thought to the land and people below, the word that would come to mind would be ‘quaint.’ Quaint people doing quaint work living quaint lives. Barely worth their consideration.

         The important people, politicians or business people or entrepreneurs or entertainers or whatever it is that makes them so important, rarely think of the foundation that supports their lavish life style. They use eco-fuels because of their ‘concern’ for the environment, without any thought as to who produces the eco-fuels. They pick at their salads without any consideration for those who worked so hard to provide the makings for that salad. They pay their huge price to eat their tiny steaks without a second thought to the toil and science that went into the producing of that meat. Folks in fly over country are there because they haven’t the ability or drive to become important like they, the important people, have become important.

          And to accentuate just how low those people below are there in fly over country, the important people shudder because those country folks actually hunt. With guns that shoot bullets. They fish. And even more disgusting, they eat their catch! They drink water straight out of the ground. When the important people think about these activities, they no longer think ‘quaint.’ Now they think ‘hick.’ And those hicks have conservative beliefs and religious underpinnings. How foolish are those hicks down below. How do they survive? Apparently, no ambition.

         How can those hicks have any enjoyment in their pointless lives?

         When a holiday comes along, those folks in fly over country gather in big groups with family and friends and spend serious time with people they love and cherish. When a birth happens, whole communities rejoice. When Sunday comes those simple country folks will get in their cars and trucks and go to the church of their choice and they will meet there with other like minded worshippers and enjoy fellowship as they seek to encounter their God. When it comes time to vote they will go, in droves to their voting stations and cast their ballots. When their high school team is playing, whatever the sport, they will go and scream and yell and give it their all. When someone gets a new truck some of the neighbors will stop by and do a little ‘Ooo’ and ‘Awwww.’ When some dear soul is losing a battle with cancer, folks will go by with some fresh made meal and a kind word and/or a prayer for the family that is struggling. In fly over country, if one person is traveling north on some back road and another is traveling south and they pass, there is a little wave that is given from each driver. You don’t even have to know the other driver. It is just a bit of humanity.

         And, in fly over country, when a tragedy strikes, as we had this week when Dan was killed in an accident, those simple minded folks gather together. They give up their free time to reach out and help a stunned and grieving family. They spend a little extra time with their own family and friends. They do what they can and they want to do more. In fly over country, a sudden death not only affects the family. It impacts an entire community. No one out in the country lives in a vacuum. Everyone is touched in a deep and lasting way. And those simple people, many who have degrees and advanced degrees, pull together to create a feeling of family and place and home.

         The important people give no thought to their country bumpkin cousins, except, perhaps, to feel sorry for them and their simple lives. But it is those country bumpkins who should feel sorry for the important people. What is more important than family? Than friendship? Than rejoicing together? Than grieving together? Than worshipping together? When you are so important that you go from your sterile big city apartment to your smooth riding and well insulated, quiet luxury car to the atmosphere controlled aircraft, you are not really living. You are a slave to technology and isolation and alack of emotion. You exist. And the country folk? They live.

         In a big, important city, if you have a loved one who dies, who cares? Oh, the family does. But what about the guy who owns the deli over on Fifth Street? The cop on his beat? The cabbie? Lives among the important people come and go. They mean very little. But out there in the country, life is important. Life is celebrated. Life is enjoyed! And when life is ended, there is grief.

         On Saturday when Dan Haupert’s funeral takes place, his wife Roxanne, his son Ryan, his daughters Tara and Lisa and their families, his father Dean and mother Lois, brothers Steve and Tom and Neil and sister Denise and Shelley and their families, will be gathered together to share in their common grief and pain. But they will not be alone. There will be extended family. There will be friends. There will be church family. All will be grieving, all will feel pain and all will be loving Dan’s family.

         So, fly over. Look down on us. Feel superior. And be alone.

         One day, come out and see us and see what life really is.

         It is very bothersome, really, to have so much wealth. People lining up to ask for money for their particular cause. Acting like I am their best friend. Assuring me that everything depends on me and my generous spirit. Yes, it is quite inconvenient.

         I am speaking, of course, of those seeking funds for their political needs. Going back to November 1, 2019, I have received almost 70 e-mails asking for donations for political purposes. This all started back in August, but I have only kept count for the last two months. 41 in December alone. Many are in the form of ‘Team’ requests. Team Trump, Team Trump-Pence, Team Braun. Then there are the ones from Donald J. Trump and Donald Trump, Jr. Newt Gingrich has contacted me, as has Rudy Giuliani. Various Republican groups have sent out pleas and invitations to rallies. All of these groups need money to fight the evil Democrats and their impeachment efforts. But it doesn’t stop there. Nancy Pelosi has asked for money, since I have been such a Democratic stalwart in the past. Adam Schiff and others need my support to overthrow the corrupt and evil man in the White House. My support will put them over the top. And then, there are the pleas for money from the miscellaneous groups, most notably those wishing to protect Barack Obama’s legacy from the evil Trump. In all of these cases the e-mails, and in some cases the postal mail, have referred to me in the first person. No, ‘Dear Contributor’ or ‘My Good Friend.’ No, it has strictly been, ‘Dear Larry.’ We are good buddies, apparently. Democrat, Republican. Doesn’t matter. They all love me and my expansive bank account.

         I have never, ever given so much as a single penny to any political campaign. If my life savings was accidently put into the account of any of these who have begged for money, they wouldn’t even notice the increase. They all claim I have given well in the past, yet I have given nothing. And I have begged to get off these lists. I have gone to the ‘Unsubscribe’ portion of the e-mail, to no avail. I suppose that would be because I never subscribed in the first place. Since they call me Larry, I have sent e-mails back to Don and Don, Jr, to Newt and to Rudy, to the Mikes and to Nancy and Adam and the others. I mean, if we are all friends, why not.

         I will vote when it is time to vote. I will feel privileged to vote. And I will vote my conscience. But that is it. The money I give to charitable organizations goes strictly to my church, and through my church, it goes to expand the kingdom of God.

         I am an American. Back in the day I volunteered for military duty. I have voted for decades. I love my country.

         But first and foremost, I am a Christian.

         Philippians 3:20-21, But our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our lowly body to be like His glorious body, by the power that enables Him even to subject all things to Himself. Matthew 10:29-32, Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows. So everyone who acknowledges Me before men, I also will acknowledge before My Father who is in heaven, but whoever denies Me before men, I also will deny before My Father who is in heaven. In Jeremiah 1:5, God is speaking directly to Jeremiah, but I have always felt that it is to me, as well, and any who have surrendered to the call of the Lord; Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations.

         On my desk is a name plate. It is small, maybe a foot long. Maybe three inches high. On the front is ‘Rev. Larry Wade.’ It was a gift from a funeral director 23 years ago. It is granite, the same material from which headstones are carved. I imagine that it was scrap rock and he had it reworked for me. When I die, that is to be my headstone. No great monument, just that name plate. Why would I need more to mark my life? These ‘great’ people, whom all seem to know my name, know nothing of me. Somehow, I got on two mailing lists. That is all. We have never sat down and had coffee. We have never swapped funny stories. None of them asked me how my Mom was doing when she was sick and I never asked them anything like that, either. We do not know one another. But I have a Father who knows how many hairs I have on my head, my permanent home is in glory, and my Father knew me before I was ever created and knew that I would give myself over to His use. Have you ever thought what you might say to one of these ‘great’ people if you ever got the chance? I already know. I would ask them if they were going to heaven when they died. In the world’s realm, that makes me a small person, so my headstone can be small. But I serve another Master, one greater than all these put together.

         2020. An election year. Do your civic and moral duty. But don’t forget your true Master.

          Of the dates and times we celebrate, there are elements of paganism in most of it. Not really surprising. We follow a Judaeo-Christian theology. The Jewish faith started out in a relatively small area. They were supposed to spread their faith, but they did not, so it didn’t spread much beyond Palestine until they were over run and carried off into captivity to other countries. By that time, other areas had established their own religions and beliefs. Those beliefs began to creep into the Jewish faith. By the time of Christ, pagan beliefs were everywhere. As Christianity grew, people threw off the old pagan beliefs and embraced Christianity. But, there were still some elements of paganism that remained. They are easy to see in our celebrations of Easter and Christmas. Because pagan beliefs varied from place to place, the manner in which we celebrate these holidays now have variations. As an example, in Eastern Europe in the days before Christianity spread there, it was believed that at midnight on the winter solstice the animals would all have the gift of speech for a short while. This was incorporated into the Christian faith, but it became at midnight on Christmas Eve. As a little boy I heard about this and one Christmas Eve I grabbed the cat when I went to my bedroom. At midnight I began talking to Dusty, fully expecting him to talk back. While he enjoyed the attention, he really had nothing to say. Hard for a little boy to be disappointed on Christmas Eve, but I was, a little.

          When these pagan practices become our emphasis in our celebrations, we are in trouble. When we make Christ the central part of our celebration, we do well.

          New Year’s is like this. Firmly based in paganism, it is yet something that we have to observe. Unlike our religious celebrations, the change of the year is something we have to have. This has been recognized from the beginning of time in every culture. The beginning of a new year just naturally gives itself over to the making of resolutions to better ourselves. So long as we keep it realistic, this is not a bad thing.

          The ancient Babylonians are said to have been the first people to make New Year’s resolutions, some 4,000 years ago. They were also the first to hold recorded celebrations in honor of the new year, though for them the year began not in January but in mid-March, when the crops were planted. During a massive 12-day religious festival known as Akitu, that typically ended on the Spring Equinox, the Babylonians crowned a new king if one was needed, or reaffirmed their loyalty to the reigning king. The country could have been leaderless for nearly a full year, but their tradition did not allow for the new king, even with the death of the old king, until the spring equinox. They also made promises to the gods to pay their debts and return any objects they had borrowed. These promises could be considered the forerunners of our New Year’s resolutions. If the Babylonians kept to their word, their gods would bestow favor on them for the coming year. If not, they would fall out of the gods’ favor—a place no one wanted to be.

          In ancient Rome Julius Caesar felt the need to mess with the existing calendar. Most of our months now are named for either Roman gods or Roman emperors. Julius established our calendar pretty much the way it is now, except they started the calendar at the beginning of the Roman republic. Centuries later, the Pope in Rome continued with the months, but started the calendar at the moment of the birth of Jesus. Anyway, Julius made the new year to start on January 1. The reason for this was because January was named for the god Janus, the two-faced god whose spirit inhabited doorways and arches. Passing under a bridge, a traveler would see a face engraved on one side of the bridge and a different face on the other side, but it was the same god Janus on both sides. January had special significance for the Romans. They believed that Janus symbolically looked backwards into the previous year and ahead into the future. Because of this, the Romans offered sacrifices to the deity and made promises of good conduct for the coming year.

          It took centuries for this to become a religious celebration for Christians. In 1740, the English clergyman John Wesley, founder of Methodism, created the Covenant Renewal Service, most commonly held on New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day. Also known as watch night services, they included readings from Scriptures and hymn singing, and served as a spiritual alternative to the raucous celebrations normally held to celebrate the coming of the new year. To me, this is funny. As a young man I was a part of a very strict, legalistic style of Christianity. They really believed that if you didn’t believe as they did, you would go to Hell. They seemed to particularly despise the Southern Baptists and the Methodist. Every New Year’s Eve we would have what they called a Watch Night Service, in which we would pray in the new year. They had no idea they were walking the path of John Wesley. After I left there and pursued my education in the South, I became a Southern Baptist. Hardly anyone in my ‘home’ church would talk to me after that and most still do not. Back to point, Watch Night services are not practiced now as much as they used to be. To me, that is a good idea. The roads are not really safe on New Year’s Eve because the holiday is typically celebrated with a great deal of drinking.

          Regardless of its origins, the year is about to change. Maybe you will make a resolution to lose weight. What usually happens with that is you lose a little, you gain a little and you wind up pretty close to the same. Maybe you are going to resolve to spend more time with family, but that is a struggle that is hard to win, too. We make resolutions to better ourselves and to benefit those around us. We do this because we really do want it to be better. However, so much of what we want is dependent on others to do what is right. That is where it gets sticky.

          As Christians, though, we can make it better. Think about how your life would be altered if you spent just fifteen minutes a day more in reading the Bible. Think about how your life would be altered if you spent just fifteen minutes a day more in praying. Think about how your life would be altered if you would bring the Lord into the decision making process of your life. Think about how your life would be altered if you would bring the Lord into your conversation with someone just once a week. Not talking about your church, but talking about your Lord. This is a new year. We don’t need to make great, sweeping resolutions. Those are very hard to keep. What we need to do is make little, positive changes in how we act Spiritually in the world. The little changes are easy but have the greatest impact.

          So, Happy New Year. Just do not waste it.

         For me, it happened many times. November. A rainy and chilly day, wind blowing the sodden leaves through the cemetery, a small group of family and friends gathered around a fresh grave, a few flower arrangements looking very out of place on such a day. And, the casket. A blue, metal casket, offering the only bit of color, other than the out of place flowers. In this case, not even a tent. No chairs for the family to sit in. The cemetery scene is always sad, but this one even more so. The deceased was not part of the church I pastored, but one of the parents of a high school friend. I was doing the service as a favor. It was painful to see someone I had grown up with in such personal pain.

         Yes, it had happened before, but this was different in one detail. One of the children of the deceased belonged to a mega-church. A serious mega-church. Over 10,000 in attendance every Sunday. A complete department dedicated to the music of the church. The music leaders and instrumentalist were all paid living wages. The sound people and video people were all professionals, all paid well. Those who worked with the Youth age all had degrees and were paid accordingly. A pastoral staff with, in that case, ten associate pastors. The senior pastor had to have the ten associates because he was busy writing sermons and books and giving interviews. As the choir would sing there would be a light show in the background timed to accentuate the rising and falling tones of the music. A place where love and compassion was preached and practiced.

         So, why was this relatively small group of people huddled in a cold cemetery on that dreary November morning? Why was the minister someone who was, essentially, borrowed from a local church? Why were we all standing in mud rather than the rich carpet of the mega-church sanctuary?

         Well, everything at the church was professional. To prepare for Sunday services the technicians and music people and sound people and everyone involved had to be at work in that great sanctuary throughout the week. The only funerals or weddings ever done in that sanctuary were for important people. The founders of the church, the wealthiest members, family of staff. An aged parent of someone who was just a member hardly qualified. None of the pastoral staff could take time from their overflowing schedules to conduct a funeral of an aged parent of someone who was just a member of the church. The senior pastor was away somewhere doing something of great importance for the Lord and he would not have done the service anyway. Besides, it was cold and wet and miserable in Northeast Ohio. Surely you wouldn’t expect…..?

         Surprisingly (or maybe not so surprisingly), my friend still goes to that church. Where else can one go and be entertained with music and a show and a witty speaker and walk away with a smile on your face, week after week? My friend rarely misses. It is awesome! The Lord is blessing His people!!!

         Or, is He?

         The Biblical era model for church was a house church. Typically, a church would be started with just a few and would meet in a house. When it grew to around twenty or so folks, it would split (without argument) and the new church would begin to meet in another home. Both church A and church B would now have around ten people. When they each got around twenty or so, they would split. This would continue on, each church splitting over and over, but none getting very large. In 1 Thessalonians 1:1, Paul writes these words, Paul, Silvanus, and Timothy, To the church of the Thessalonians in God the Father and the Lord Jesus Christ: Grace to you and peace. Paul is not writing to a single church as we think of a church. He is writing to the full body of Believers with in a single city, which is the concept of the New Testament church. The body of Believers in any town or city is the church of that town or city. They didn’t meet together, but they were one. The only large, single ‘churches’ in the Bible era were the pagan temples and the Jewish synagogues. Under the new Christian system, the church of Believers grew at an astronomical rate. The mega-church of today may have had great growth, but is that from Jehovah God?

         Consider this; in a mega-church, you simply go to church. You are entertained. But you rarely have anything to actually do. No way to serve the Lord through the church. They have staff for all of that. If you want to join the 150 voice choir you have to have a series of tryouts before ever more important music personnel before you are told we will get back to you when we have a need. Anything you might want to do to help out will require extensive interviews and background checks and, finally, why bother? Just enjoy that Sunday service. It is the price you pay for excellence. But you don’t grow, you are entertained. You don’t grow, you are made comfortable. You don’t grow, you are told your service is in giving money. I have no doubt whatsoever that if my friend was in one of our services, that afterward I would receive a condescending smile and be told it was all very nice. And as my friend climbed into the car the thought would rattle around in my friend’s head, “Boy, did Larry ever waste his life!”

         But Larry is fine and hasn’t wasted a moment. Consider this past Sunday. Larry got to see several people step out of their comfort zones and do things that they either do rarely or have never done. During the choir, during the Advent candle lighting, during the Youth praise song, people who never, ever saw their own selves singing a solo or duet or in a group or speaking in front of a group were now doing those things. All of them nervous to some degree. Sweaty palms. Accelerated hearts. But, reading Scripture, singing for the glory of the Lord, offering a prayer. I have been in some mega-church situations. I have never been impressed. But I was impressed on Sunday. Just blown away. I go around before church to talk to as many as I can and no one treats me like I am something special, like they would if they met that mega-church pastor. No, I am treated like a friend. But, then, the icing on the cake from Sunday. In the mega-church, when the service ends you cannot get near the senior pastor. He is hustled out. But at Urbana Yoke Parish this last Sunday, as I walked through the crowd, Vi Miller caught me and thanked me for suggesting to the congregation to read a chapter of Luke every day of December, 24 chapters. Then, on Christmas morning you can reflect on the entire life of Jesus, rather than just the birth. Vi said she had read Luke many times, but this time it seemed different. She was pleased with her readings! That is an incredible thing.

         The funeral was over in that wind swept cemetery on that cold, November day. I shook hands all around and gave my childhood friend a hug. I walked over to my little car and got in and headed back to my church. I still had a counseling session and there was special Christmas choir practice that evening. My friend headed home and then, on Sunday, headed to that huge church that could not be bothered with the likes of my friend in time of need. My friend probably appreciated my help that day, but also probably felt a little sorry for me that I never hit it big.

         But I have hit it big. This past Sunday was big. And you have hit it big, too. You have the opportunity to serve the Lord with gladness and come into His presence with singing!

         Blessings to you and may you enjoy the glory of Christmas.

          I know it is the Christmas season, but this is on my mind, put there by a Christmas card.

         The old saying goes, “laughter is the best medicine.” It may not cure (although there are many stories where a person gets better after a good, heartfelt laugh) but laughter will certainly make you feel better, at least for the moment. Most folks don’t think about workers at a funeral home needing the blessing of laughter, but they need it more than most. Every day they are dealing with someone else’s grief and sometimes they deal with their own at the same time. But, they need to keep it together for the families they are serving. My job working with a funeral home for nine years was supposed to be to lift up families in there time of need and to follow up with them. However, my co-workers were often in need as well. Many prayers were given in our offices or in the funeral home itself before families arrived. And, in some cases, I wasn’t the one doing the praying. There were times when one of them was praying for me.

          But there was humor, and there was laughter. 

          People assume that funeral home humor is dark humor, but that is not really so. There were things that happened that would only be appreciated by someone in that business, but the humor mostly made everyone laugh.

 Most funeral homes no longer keep caskets in stock. The family picks one out and then you order it overnight. It arrives the next day, which is in plenty of time. Occasionally, though, one of the directors had to go to the warehouse and pick the casket out visually. There came a time when one of the directors needed to make the trip and there were no vehicles available to drive. All of the vans were being used and the ‘lead cars’ were being serviced. So, this director got the keys to the hearse and took off in it. This wasn’t usually done. Actually, it was never done. This director just didn’t want to wait a bit for one of the vans to return. He got to the warehouse and explained to the manager there what he wanted and, surprisingly, they had exactly the one he wanted in stock. He had them load it in the hearse and he headed back to the funeral home. By the time he got back it was well after hours, so he parked the hearse in the garage and figured he would get some help in the morning and remove the casket.

It was that gentleman’s custom to sleep in occasionally. He picked the next morning to do so. We had two funeral homes, the main one in Madison, Ohio, where all the vehicles were kept, and the other was in Geneva, Ohio. There was a funeral in Geneva that morning. A prominent man in the community and a World War II vet who was very active in the local American Legion. The hearse driver for that funeral arrived at the Madison location to get the hearse ready. It was dirty, which didn’t make sense to him since, as far as he knew, it hadn’t been driven since the last funeral. (The hearse was washed after each funeral so it would be ready for the next one.) The driver, Bob, was now rushed. On most hearses, the rear windows are darkened to the point that you can’t see in. Bob hurriedly washed the car, but never looked in the back of the hearse. When he got in he found it was nearly out of gas. He had to stop on the way to Geneva. By the time he got there he was cranky and irritated. He had to sit for a spell in the funeral home and collect himself. By the time the funeral was over, Bob was doing better. But he still had not checked the back of the hearse. It wasn’t something you did, really. No one was supposed to use it between funerals.

The funeral ended and the people filed out of the funeral home. The American Legion guys took their place to form a corridor for their fallen comrade. In that part of the country, it is customary for the family and anyone else who wanted to, to stand between the building and the hearse to pay final respects. A nice wide path was there for the pall bearers and the casket to pass through. Bob stood at the back door of the hearse ready to open the door at just the right moment. As the honor guard snapped to attention, Bob opened the rear door. To another casket. A gasp traveled over the people.

The funeral director for that funeral was named Ford. Odd name, but his father was Wilford. He named his son Wilford. Everyone had called the dad Wil, so they called the son Ford. Dignified. Serious. A wicked sense of humor. Ford stepped around the pall bearers and up to the hearse. He took hold of the rear handle of the casket which was in the hearse and lifted slightly to see if it was empty. Of course, it was empty. Without a word, Ford began to pull the casket out. Bob waited until he could reach around and take hold of the other end and they walked it over to the grass. (Metal caskets are much lighter than wood and easy to move.) Still without speaking, they set it down and then took their places at the hearse and the funeral continued. It was done in such a way as to look perfectly normal. The gathered people weren’t sure what they had seen, but went along with it. What really seems funny to me, though, is that for the next two hours a casket sat on the front lawn of the funeral home at a spot where it might have rolled out of the hearse. I wondered what people driving by thought.

I had my own experience with the hearse. I rarely drove the thing. My duties took me elsewhere. I didn’t like driving it. Handled kind of weird, as you might guess. But it seemed that when the weather was bad and it was a long trip to the cemetery, I was behind the wheel.

One such day the cemetery was a seventy mile drive and the forecast called for severe Lake effect snow. Last winter I was driving to Ft. Wayne and the weather said Lake effect snow, with accumulations of four to five inches. In the Cleveland area, when they called for Lake effect, it was almost always followed by the words, “up to a foot or more expected with more accumulation in some areas.” It held off till we got to the cemetery, then we found out that the cemetery was in the ‘some areas’ designation. In fact, it was like that all the way home. The funeral director for the day was Ford again. After the graveside was over, he told me to get the hearse out of there while I still could. He would stay and make sure the grave was taken care of. When he left the cemetery he found a motel and hunkered down for the night. Meanwhile, I am trying to get home.

Two hours later I had gone about fifteen miles. Being a diabetic, I need to eat at certain times. I was starting to feel it, so I got into the glove compartment to get my stash of candy out, since my sugar was dropping. I kept a little candy in every vehicle and everyone understood that it was mine and knew what it was for. No one ever touched it. Except that day. The candy was gone. A couple of wrappers. I had to make a new plan. Up ahead, through the falling snow, I saw the golden arches of McDonalds. I don’t like McDonalds, except for their coffee, and we were strictly forbidden to pull the hearse into a restaurant of any kind on a trip of less than one hundred and fifty miles, but this was different. I got off and pulled into McDonalds.

I got into the drive through lane and got up to the squawk box right away. No one was out in that weather. I ordered a cheese burger and a pie and a water. Then I pulled around to the window. Imagine. You are a teenage girl in the drive up. It is a creepy day, snowing so hard you can’t see beyond your little parking lot. Hardly anyone on the road. Then, a large white vehicle is emerging. It looks odd and then you see the light on top and the length and the funeral emblems on the side. As the window rolls down you see a man in a suit and an overcoat with a chauffeur's hat on. Not something you see very often.

Her eyes were huge as I pulled up. I looked at her and held up a finger as if to tell her to wait a second. I turned in my seat and yelled to the back of the hearse, “DO YOU WANT FRIES WITH THAT?” She actually threw the bag of food at me and I didn’t get my water.

Another time we were in a cemetery on another such snowy day. I wasn’t doing the hearse that day. I was there to help the family get seated. I was helping the family to their seats under the tent. In those situations, you try to hear everything that is going on so you can be ready for anything. I heard the sexton explaining to our director that there was a very large hole where an old, dead tree had been pulled out. The snows had come before they had been able fill it in and now it was completely covered. It was necessary to take the casket around a different way. I heard this, but I was helping the family, so I didn’t see where the hole was located. When the family was seated I made my way to the director to find out where the hole was located. I found it on my own before I got to him. It was in plain view of the family as they were faced forward. The hole was covered by snow. I walked right into it and vanished from sight. It was a BIG hole. As far as the family knew, I had fallen in a grave. Actually, I wasn’t sure I hadn’t fallen into a grave. The sexton, director and hearse drive hurried over, reached down and pulled me out. The director, Trevor that day, noticed everyone was staring. “Thanks for marking the grave for us, Mr. Wade.” "Not a problem, sir.” And we went on with the service.

I eventually became the manager of the Geneva funeral home. It was beautifully remodeled but quite old. Since it had boiler heat it would occasionally make strange noises, sometimes loud enough to be heard even over a full house. On those occasions someone would rush up to me and say, “What was that noise?” I would always look at them and say, “What noise?” Banging and creaking and, when the wind was just right, an eerie whistling noise. “THAT NOISE!” I would listen, smile a little and say, “Oh, that noise. Nothing to worry about.” The other person would look at me oddly for a minute, then turn and start to walk away. Then I would mutter under my breath, but loud enough for them to hear, “At least I hope not this time.”

Sadness and grief at a funeral is always present. But sometimes, God gives us a little blessing to ease our minds. It had been the worst week I could ever remember. We only had four funerals that week, but all were children. All the staff was exhausted and tense. We all had kids ourselves. With a situation like that you couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like for you. I had a family to meet with, so I wasn’t supposed to be involved with the calling hours for the fourth funeral, which was to be my first break from this stretch of services. I had just wrapped up my meeting with the family when my cell phone beeped. It was one of the staff at the calling hours. She was frantic. There was a bat in the funeral home. Nate (the director in charge) needed my help. I went over to the funeral home expecting to see chaos. But everything was fine. None of the visitors had seen the bat and the staff had kept it quiet. For the next half hour, everyone on staff walked calmly and quietly around and in among the people, all looking up. We were all trying to look natural, but we were really just looking creepy. All of a sudden, I saw Nate sprinting through the lounge and outside. He came back in a minute, flushed and shaking. He had found the bat, grabbed it and had wrapped it up in his handkerchief, then rushed it outside. He tossed it into the air and it flew away, trailing the handkerchief behind. I suppose it was the stress of the week and the tenseness as we look for the little guy, but the entire staff crowded into the small office, shut the door and then laughed ourselves silly.

            Every Wednesday morning, at 7:30, almost the entire staff would gather in the funeral home to give an unpaid hour over to our weekly Bible study. During the week it was common to see them praying together. Good, good people. Respectful of the living and the dead. For them, laughter was a blessing, one we cherished. Psalm 126:2-3---Then our mouth was filled with laughter, and our tongue with shouts of joy; then they said among the nations, “The Lord has done great things for them.”  The Lord has done great things for us; we are glad.  

         Seminary. Pastoring a small church way out in the country. Wayyy outttt in the country. Trying to balance school, work, church and family. Yet, memories from that time are sharp and clear.

         There was a home I was going by to visit. The church had adopted this family for Christmas. The husband had been in an accident and was laid up for several months with a damaged leg. I was taking a check over. I got out of the car and a woman yelled from inside to come in through the back door. It had been rainy and, for the Florida panhandle, unusually chilly. I tried to avoid the bigger mud holes as I made my way around back. As I rounded the house, I came face to face with the biggest domesticated sheep I had ever seen. “Baaaaaa.” Honestly, it sounded as though it was saying “Backkkkkkk.” It put its head down and butted me in the chest. Not really hard, but I knew I had been butted. “Baaaaaa!” And again, I was butted. The sheep was big and wet from the rain and dirty from the mud and it was between the door and me. “Baaaaaa!” Head down and another butt. Each one just a little harder.

         “Gloria,” called the lady from the back door. “Let the preacher alone!” She looked at me and said, “I am sorry, Reverend. She just wants you to scratch her head.” I reached up and started to scratch her head. “BAAaaaaaaaaaa!” I would swear Gloria was smiling. I slipped around her and went through the door. Gloria rushed behind me and nearly knocked me over getting inside. “NO!” I said, trying to grab her. The lady of the house was holding out some lettuce to Gloria, who was eagerly munching it down. “Don’t worry none, Reverend. She’s a house sheep.” I grew up country, but I had never heard of a house sheep. The lady directed me to an old sofa and when I sat down, Gloria came over and put her massive head into the lap of her new friend.

         Every church has its own little traditions and peculiarities. 1983 was the first Christmas we spent with that church. Back in those days a lot of churches, in fact, around there, all the churches had Sunday evening church. Christmas was on Sunday that year, so the week before Christmas when we got there for evening church, we were surprised to see a pretty good sized crowd. Just because we had church on Sunday evening in addition to the morning service did not mean many folks normally came to the evening service. But this night the church was pretty well packed out. No one had told us that the week before Christmas was the church’s Christmas party and that was why all these people were there. Everyone met in the fellowship hall, which had been decorated in just about the most gawdy fashion you could imagine. Over against one wall there was a raised platform area put together with pallets and plywood and two chairs were mounted on the platform. That was new to us. It was a carry in meal and Marsha felt bad because we hadn’t known about it and had prepared nothing, but I, as a man, saw only that I was getting free food. After about 45 minutes of good food and conversation, the chairman of our Board stood up and announced it was time. Everyone became almost deathly quiet. Our little son was fidgeting and Marsha shushed him, but that was the only noise. The chairman cleared his throat and looked right at me. I realized that I was supposed to do something, but I had no idea what. He looked at me then looked at the platform then looked at me again, motioning with his head toward the platform. I still didn’t know what to do, but it had something to do with the platform, so I headed that way. The chairman looked at Marsha and said, “Mrs. Preacher.” Marsha started to follow with our son in tow. “Leave the boy, Marsha. Greta will see to him.” Now, during all this it was completely quiet except for the chairman’s few words to us. Marsha joined me on the platform and, since there were two chairs, we sat down. The room was silent. A young couple got up and walked forward, placing a wrapped gift on the platform. We looked at the gift, then at each other. We had no idea what was going to happen. Then another couple and their two kids got up and brought a gift forward. No words. Family by family came forward and placed a gift at our feet in silence. When all the families had placed a gift, everyone started talking again and started getting their coats. “Night Preacher!” “Merry Christmas!” “Have a great week!” We were still confused, so I caught the Chairman, whose name was Keenan. “Keenan, what are all these gifts?” “Why Preacher, these are your Christmas gifts. Don’t folks up north give gifts to their preachers?” “Well, yes, but not like this.” “Well, you yankees have strange ways. You probably didn’t know that you and the misses and the little one there are going over to the Blankenship’s now, did you? Well, get a move on. They are waiting.”

         The Blankenships. Darius and Thelma. The oldest folks in the church and the sweetest people you would ever want to meet. They hadn’t been there that evening, but they didn’t drive in the dark so I had thought nothing of it. But apparently, tradition demanded we head over there to their farm house. “Leave these presents, Preacher. My boy and me will take ‘em over to the parsonage. Don’t keep Thelma waiting.” We got in the car and drove over.

         Every light in te place was on. We walked up to the door, all three of us and the door flew open. Heat rolled out the door. “Welcome! Welcome!” Darius shouted. “Come on in out of that cold!” It might have been 55 degrees outside, but no colder. Florida folks, though, even the ones in the Panhandle, hate the cold. In the house it had to be 100 degrees, and that is not a joke. Everyone there had ceramic gas heaters in their walls. Turn them on and a flame would start to warm the ceramic until it glowed red. Darius had two big ones in each room and they were all glowing bright red. They also had a massive fireplace that was open on both sides, one side opening to the living room, which we had entered, and the other side opening to the kitchen/dining room. A fire roared in the fireplace. “Must’ve gone a little long at the church. Starten’ to worry. Well, come on, Thelma’s got the noodles all ready!”

It was the biggest pot of spaghetti I had ever seen. I don’t really care for spaghetti and, normally, would have taken just a bit. But Darius was serving and my plate, and Marsha’s and Adam’s, were mounded high. The table was close enough to the fireplace that the wood that the table was made from was hot. All three of us were sweating and Darius and Thelma were wearing heavy sweaters. We had just eaten a large meal at the church. Now we had pasta and bread and heat and this lovely couple whom we had come to love. Marsha and Adam liked spaghetti, but even they had a hard time. But we all toughed it out, even through second helpings. After we were done we all helped clear the table and Thelma shooed us out of the kitchen. It was time to go. There, tradition said you visit before you eat and during the meal, but when the meal was over, the show was done. Bye, see ya, drive careful. All three of us had headaches from te heat and stomach aches from all the food and we all felt sick.

It was late when we got back to the parsonage. All those gifts were arranged around the tree. They had left the lights on and it was so pleasant. We just went to bed.

Christmas will be here before you know it. You have your own little family traditions. Keep them, enjoy them, get tired of them. But remember the oldest of the Christmas traditions. Give glory to God in the highest and seek out peace on earth and good will to all mankind.