This has been a long week, and sometimes you learn a lot from long weeks.

Last Saturday my son called me and told me he had just talked to his mother and she was slurring her speech. When I checked, she was, indeed, slurring her speech, stumbling as she walked and going into a trance like state and staring off in the distance. Since she has already had two strokes, I called 911 and off she went to ER. 

This is where the education began.

Our son and I were both there. As the doctor quizzed Marsha, we found out that she keeps all of her current meds in a drawer as well as all the meds she has been taken off of over the years. This creates the possibility of her taking drugs that are out of date or that she has been off for a while. It was pointed out by my son that since I am seeing to her needs that I should have known about this and changed it. And he is absolutely right. My thinking was that her thought processes have not been impaired (seemingly) and I have been letting her do as much as possible without my interference. That has changed and I am making sure she takes the right medication when she is supposed to take them. And she is not happy.

But, even with that, it really did seem as though she was having another stroke. I told my son that I would not be able to get her to the bathroom and feed her and do all the other things that might need to be done simply because I am not physically able, to which he agreed. Now we were facing some dark decisions. 

After all the tests that exist, her neurologist, whom I am really impressed with, came in and told us that Marsha was not having another stroke. Apparently, they have discovered that a high percentage of stroke victims will develop, within a year, tiny little seizures in the brain at the point of the stroke. These mimic a new stroke but are not a new stroke at all. In the past they have been treated as strokes, but now are treated as seizures. A tiny little pill and Marsha is doing just fine. Better, actually, since all her medication is now under control.

Which brings to mind the thought that how can anyone believe that the human body is the result of evolution, when it is so complicated and intricate"? Evolution is an accident while such a level of complexity would indicate design. All living creatures must be the result of divine design. 

Marsha's doctor, renowned in her field, on the very cutting edge of the study of the brain and greatly respected by her colleagues, explained the function like this; "We really don't understand all of it, but for me it is enough that this is God's handiwork."

And that is good enough for me.           

When I originally did this series, I asked for favorite Christmas hymns. I thought this would be the all time favorite. But I was wrong. Maybe it is too familiar to us and kind of slips under the radar. However, like all of these stories, we see God at work. Such a meaningful piece forged from trial. Such a beautiful song.  

            War had decimated Europe. For twelve years, battles had raged. And not just in Europe, but also in far flung places around the globe. Millions of people died. Property was destroyed. Untold numbers of people lost everything and became refugees, only they had nowhere to flee. War was everywhere and it did not let up. And all because of one man and his maniacal obsession to control the world.

          Some would immediately say Hitler and WWII. Others might say the Kaiser and WWI. But this war ended a hundred years before WWI. In fact, it ended fifty years before Germany was even a nation. (At that time, Germany was 39 small fiefdoms that made up the German Confederation. It was a very loose union and they often fought among themselves.) In our time, we rarely looked back beyond the 20^th century and the two gruesome wars. But there was a nightmare war before those two wars. It was a war fought around the world in far flung colonial countries as well as in Europe. This was the time of Napoleon and all the battlefronts, known collectively as the Napoleonic Wars, reshaped the world and, in a real sense, served as kindling that sparked the fires that gave us the two World Wars.  

          It would take decades for Europe to recover. The grinding reality of war had destroyed so much as to be almost unbelievable. One of the side effects was in religious life. So many men had died that the various religious institutions had to dip into much younger ranks to find the people to lead the churches. One such young man was Joseph Mohr, a young priest at the St. Nicholas Church in Oberndorf, a small church in a small Austrian town. The young priest wanted desperately to bring peace and serenity to his people. But the effects of war could be seen everywhere. Grieving mothers and widows, crippled men, a lack of food and a general feeling of loss and pain. The Wars had ended on November 20, 1815, but news took a while to filter down. The next several years that followed were grim. Christmas of 1815 had hardly been one to celebrate. Young Mohr was in way over his head, but his heart was in the right place, and he grieved for his people.

          One crisp and clear night in November of 1816, he stood on a hill and looked out over the town to which he was giving his life. It had snowed the day before and as he looked over Oberndorf, he was amazed at how peaceful the town looked. He hurried back to his quarters, took up a quill, and wrote a heartfelt poem of his feelings.

          Two years later, in 1818, right after the harvest had been brought in, it began to rain. And rain. And rain. The Salzach River that ran right through town began to rise and, after a few days, lifted beyond its banks. As floods went, this was not a terrible flood. However, it did reach St. Nicholas Church. Water flowed in several inches high and soaked everything. But the real damage was to the organ. Since Christmas was just a couple of weeks away, young Mohr sent for the organ builder and repair man, Karl Mauracher. He would try, but he just didn’t think it would be ready by Christmas Eve services. Mohr knew how much pain his congregation had suffered, and was still suffering, and his heart broke. No music on Christmas Eve!

          Christmas Eve dawned and the organ was not going to be ready. In a neighboring town there was a young man, Franz Xaver Gruber, who was a school teacher and song leader. Mohr sent a messenger and brought Gruber to Saint Nicholas Church. There the priest asked if Gruber could put the poem he had written two years earlier to music and if he could make it for the guitar. (Mohr played guitar) They sat in the church that still had that musty, moldy smell only a recently flooded building can have, and spent several hours putting it together. By the time it was completed it was too late for Gruber to get back to his village, so he took his evening meal with Mohr and they decided that Gruber would sing the new song with Mohr that night at Mass. The organ repair man, Karl Mauracher, had heard the little tune they had put together and asked if he could have a copy of it to take back to his parish, and this was done.

          Mohr watched as the people came into the cold church. The wood burners couldn’t drive the cold away that night. But as Mohr watched the folks come in, his heart filled with love. He so regretted that there would be no music that night, except for what he and Gruber had hastily created, but the situation could not be changed. Word had gotten around the village that the organ was not working, but still the people streamed in. Mohr’s spirit was lifted. Here was music of the heart! It would be OK.

          After the homily, or message, Mohr invited Gruber up and they sat down on the steps that led to the pulpit area. There, for the first time, with only candles to light the building, the song that evokes feelings of peace and calmness was put forth. In a war torn village that had paid a high price for the mania of a power hungry man, a song was given that would transcend war. A song that opposing forces in WWI would sing together, from their trenches and in their own languages. The song that has been translated into 140 languages, and yet has lost none of its power to calm and heal. A song that probably would have never moved beyond a cold and damp building in a small, insignificant village in Austria, except for the organ repair man who took it home and passed it on to two families who traveled and sang folk songs. All the pieces fell into place to create a song that is loved the world over.

          A number of years ago I went to my organist, who also played the guitar, and asked him if he would play and sing this song on the guitar at the Christmas Eve service. He said he would, but only if I sang with him. So it was, on Christmas Eve of 1999, with candles as the only light, a black man and a white man sat down on the steps that led up to the pulpit area and sang that blessed song. Even the children in the room stilled and all was quiet, except for the soft tones of the guitar and the sound of two men singing;

Silent night, holy night!
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon virgin mother and Child.
Holy Infant, so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.

Silent night, holy night!
Shepherds quake at the sight.
Glories stream from heaven afar,
Heav’nly hosts sing, Alleluia!
Christ, the Savior, is born!
Christ, the Savior, is born!

Silent night, holy night!
Son of God, love’s pure light
Radiant beams from Thy holy face
With the dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth,
Jesus, Lord, at Thy birth.

          You have felt it, too. The sense of peace, the sense of wonder. And now you know it came from a war weary village, a caring parish priest, a teacher who couldn’t get home in time to spend Christmas Eve with his own people and an organ repair man who took the song and passed it on. All part of God’s plan. 

When I was a child, my parents had a percolator to make their coffee. What I liked about the percolator was that it made a distinctive sound. Those of you who have used a percolator know what sound I am talking about. Put the coffee in and turn it on. After a minute or so there would be a satisfying a little sound of water making a 'blurp' sound as it reached the boiling point. Then the sound would come again. And again. Soon it was a steady perking sound and then it would stop. The coffee was ready. Because I was quite young and because my brain works in a weird way, much as Mary Earle's, I connected that sound with the thought process that takes place when we gradually come to a thought that starts out small and grows. I even say that I have a thought percolating. This is not an original idea. I have heard others say the same thing, but it is a concept that started to go away with the Mr. Coffees and now the Keurigs. The sound is not the same and the coffee tastes different.

I say all of that so that the younger reader can understand. I have had a thought percolating. I am not sure it gives off that pleasant aroma (more like burning wires) but the process is now complete. The sounds in my brain have ceased.

In the state of Ohio, football reigns supreme, much like basketball in Indiana or soccer in the rest of the world. All other sports just fill the time void until football begins again. Baseball is the secondary sport in Ohio, then basketball and hockey are tied and then the track and field sports. Fishing is not really a sport here so much as it is a grocery run. But football is the big sport. I grew up in Ohio and I now live in Ohio, so I am back in the land of football. Highschool football is probably the most watched sport in the land, and it really does draw communities together.

From the 1930s through 1970, my old high school had one winning season. A winning season is defined as winning more games than you lose. A very poor farming community, we lacked the tax base for good equipment or even a nice playing field. Would-be players often had to hurry home from school to get the chores done. In a farm community, the farm comes first. The urban sprawl of Cleveland stopped just short of our little town, so we were small and everyone we played were much larger communities and had a much larger pool of players to select from. On other teams you had to try out to make the team. On our team you were good if you had seventeen players on the entire team.

In 1970 we had a new, young coach come in who was looking for a challenge. I was a freshman that year and this no-nonsense coach kind of scared me. He made us work and work really hard. He was kind of nuts. That first year we had four wins and six loses. Another losing season but better than most years. We were happy, but coach was not. During the off season that followed, if you had two study halls, one had to be spent lifting weights and running wind sprints. Four wins was not acceptable! 1971 was going to be different, or we would die trying!

And it was different. In 1971 we won seven and lost three. The next year we had a winning season again. And then, in 1973, my senior year, we again had a winning season. In fact, in every year since, that high school has had a winning season. Imagine, forty years of losing seasons followed by fifty two years of winning seasons until, finally, a state championship. What happened?

The coach who came in for my freshman year created a tradition of winning. He was there for seven years and then left to pursue another field. (Actually, he went into the ministry, which is another story.) The next coach was there well over a decade. He had been an assistant under the first coach. He was there until he passed away from cancer. The next coach, an assistant to the coach who had died, was there for an extended time. And the present coach, an assistant to the last coach, has led the team to the state championship this year. That winning attitude has spread to the other sports, as well, and Perry High School (Lake County) is one of the winningest programs in the state for all sports. When other schools now look at their schedules, they dread those games against Perry. 

What has been percolating in my mind is this; Other schools see only the winning tradition now. They don't see what preceded that winning tradition. You have to be an old goat like me to know. In the same way, when people see a large church, they see only the current programs and successes. But at some point, there was struggle. There was a time when the successful church had to put aside what the people wanted and embraced what God wanted. There was a time when that small, struggling church had to make some hard decisions to move forward in the Lord's path. There was a time when that small church realized they were not in charge. Most churches have personalities in them who see their ideas as being God's ideas because these personalities are arrogant. But, to be a growing, vibrant church, these arrogant personalities have to either let go of their arrogance or fall by the wayside. Victory is just in Jesus!

I have seen churches come to that crossroads. It is hard to look at what you think is right and realize it is your idea rather than the Lord's. It may not work out the way you envision, but it must work out the way the Lord has planned.

Some years ago I was working with a church that was in crisis. Good people and a good plan. Someone had gifted them ten prime acres of land. On one of our first meetings, I asked them what their goal was for the church. To a person in that room, they all agreed that the goal was to have a large church on that ten acres. Then I asked them what God's goal was for the church. There was confusion. Of course it was God's goal, as well! But was it? After three years of intense prayer, those people gifted the property to another Bible group and they dispersed to several different churches in the area. What those other churches received were Godly men and women who gave themselves up to follow the Lord and the whole area was stronger for it.

The winning tradition is always built on the foundation of those giving themselves up. BE THOSE PEOPLE WHO GIVE IT ALL TO THE LORD!

And be blessed.  

                                              

          Phillips Brooks was born in Boston on December 13, 1835. One of six sons, he was born into some privilege as far as wealth was concerned. But the greater wealth in his family was a deep and abiding faith in the Lord. Six sons were born to the Brooks family and four of them, including Philip, went into the ministry.

         At the age of 15, young Phillips entered Harvard College. This was a time when Harvard was a theological school, not anything like the school of today. Upon graduation from Harvard, he enrolled in the Virginia Theological Seminary in Alexandria, Virginia. For the first time in his life, he came face to face with slavery. Growing up and at Harvard, slavery was known of, but it was an abstract. However, there in Virginia it became a huge burden on his soul. He graduated in 1859 with a Doctor of Divinity degree (which at the time was very respected) and he began to preach as opportunity offered. In 1862 he became the pastor of the Church of the Holy Trinity in Philadelphia. He had become such an outspoken enemy of slavery and such a dynamic preacher (at a time when sermons ran about an hour and a half on average) that, at the young age of 27, was already known throughout the country. His sermons were published in newspapers everywhere. Take a moment to think about that. Someone had to write the entire sermon down and then take it to the telegraph office. There, the telegraph operator had to send it out by Morris Code, word for word to telegraph offices all across the land, even into the South. On the receiving end another operator had to decipher the code, word for word, and write it down. Then it was taken to the newspaper where the type was set by hand and the newspaper was printed, including the sermon. So hungry were people for God’s Word. Now, when technology has made world wide access to any given preacher an instantaneous thing, very few listen.

         At any rate, given his position in Philadelphia, the President of the United States, Abraham Lincoln, made it a practice to ask Brooks to board a train and come to the capital and give the President Spiritual advice and comfort. It was said that Lincoln liked Brooks because, since the preacher stood six foot four, he could look the President in the eye. Lincoln instinctively liked Brooks and relied on him as his Spiritual advisor. As the story goes, Brooks was sitting up with Lincoln late into the evening as the Civil War was drawing to a close, and it was that night that Brooks led the President to accept Christ as Savior. When Lincoln was killed, it was Brooks who led the State funeral for the fallen President in Washington DC.

         Brooks was not yet thirty years old, but he was famous all across America. He was a great bear of a man and the picture of health. But he had been so involved with ministry in a truly dynamic way that in 1865 he was tired. Still mourning the death of the President, whom he considered a great man in his own right and also a great friend, his congregation implored him to take a year and travel abroad. It sounds odd to us now, but then it was quite common. Most people in that situation would opt to go to Europe. Brooks, however, wanted to go to the Holy Land. Most of his year would be spent aboard ship but, again, this was not unusual for the time. He wrote at that time that all he had ever hoped to be was a pastor of a church. Now, wonder of wonders, he would have the opportunity to walk the paths of Jesus.

         This became his goal, to walk the places Jesus had walked. December 24, 1865 found him in the small town of Bethlehem. At midnight the bells of the small Christian churches in the town began to ring out. He was standing outside of the Church of the Nativity and he listened. He wrote a letter to his congregation and told them that he closed his eyes and could imagine all of them together the previous Christmas Eve. In his mind, the bells in Bethlehem were playing out the glorious songs he had grown up with that had lifted his spirit as a child and had directed him toward Christ. A legend has engulfed Brooks by religious writers, much as it does for Roman Catholic ‘saints.’ It has been written that he conducted the worship service that night at the Church of the Nativity, actually standing in the cave that they hold to be the birth place. But his fame did not stretch that far and the Church of the Nativity is a Roman Catholic church. Brooks was not Roman Catholic, therefore he would not be permitted. In fact, it was his position as an Episcopal minister, and therefore, a minister of the Church of England, that prompted him to stand outside. I find it interesting and inspiring that on that holy night in Bethlehem, at midnight, his thoughts were with his beloved congregation.

         In time his year abroad was up. He returned to a church that welcomed him with much fanfare and he returned to a country that was healing. He had returned home.

         Brooks contemplated marriage, but never married. As the stirrings of his calling began to rise up within him, he had felt that he would be too busy as an itinerant preacher to be able to spend time with his wife. When he actually became a nationally known minister rather than a ‘lowly’ itinerant, he realized that he really wouldn’t have the time to be fair to a wife. And yet, he loved children. While at the church in Philadelphia he even taught a Sunday School class. It was to this class of children that he wrote a poem in 1867 to try and convey his wonder and the depth of feeling he had that night in Bethlehem. A man who had helped to hold the country together Spiritually, who had prayed with a President, who was known nationwide and had walked the path of Jesus, wrote these words for the children; 

1.    O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light;
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

2.    For Christ is born of Mary, and gathered all above,
While mortals sleep, the angels keep their watch of wond’ring love.
O morning stars, together proclaim the holy birth,
And praises sing to God the King, and peace to men on earth!

3.    How silently, how silently, the wondrous Gift is giv’n;
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His Heav’n.
No ear may hear His coming, but in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive Him still, the dear Christ enters in.

4.    Where children pure and happy pray to the blessed Child,
Where misery cries out to Thee, Son of the mother mild;
Where charity stands watching and faith holds wide the door,
The dark night wakes, the glory breaks, and Christmas comes once more.

5.    O holy Child of Bethlehem, descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin, and enter in, be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels the great glad tidings tell;
Oh, come to us, abide with us, our Lord Emmanuel!

   Phillips Brooks was removed as a pastor and was made a Bishop of the Episcopal church at the age of 56, quite young for such an honor. He was installed as Bishop of the Boston area, which was his hometown. But perhaps because he was no longer doing what he loved to do, that is, pastoring, he passed away seven months later. There is, however, an enduring legacy. It may be that you have whispered the song “O Little Town of Bethlehem” to your child to relax them as Christmas nears, or in church looked over at your child with love as the congregation sings out the words to the great song. That’s OK. It was written for children by one of America’s greatest men of God.   

      During Advent of 2021 I wanted to do something special. We had survived COVID the year before and most of that panic and fear had dissipated. We were all a little older and a little wiser, which is to say we had come to really distrust government. For Christians, most had grown in our faith because we had found there was very little else we could trust in. It was, at least where I was, an awakening of sorts. As I thought on these things I came upon the idea of telling the stories of our special Christmas music. I know it was just two years ago, but a lot has changed. This is a good time go back and visit a few of these stories. Until Christmas Day, I will rerun one of those blogs on Mondays. And then, the Thursday before Christmas, I will give you folks the writing that gave me the most pleasure ever to write. During this Advent season, I will write a new blog, so it will not be all reruns. Having said all of this, from Advent of 2021, our songs of faith that proclaim the power and majesty of our Lord.

        It began as a poem written by Henry W. Longfellow called “Christmas Bells.” Longfellow was perhaps America’s best known poet. Personally, I prefer Robert Frost, but I actually remember him before he died. And he wrote the poem that I often think of as my life path. But Longfellow always seemed as though he had come from ancient times. We had an English teacher who insisted we memorize some of his poetry. If we could have just read it, that would have been fine. But we had to memorize!

          One year in seminary, as Christmas neared, one of our professors assigned us various Christmas songs to do backstories on. He had a long list and was assigning a song to each student. I desperately wanted “Silent Night” because I knew the backstory already, but I drew “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day” instead. AGH! Longfellow! But since I had this notion that I might one day want to graduate, I took the assignment with a smile.

          Once I got into it, I was fascinated.

          Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine in 1807. He grew up with a love of country that was, at that time, a hallmark of New Englanders. His first wife died during a miscarriage and he then married his beloved Frances after a pursuit that took years. Fanny, as she was known, was so loved by Longfellow that he once said that the only thing he loved more than country, was Frances. For the first 20 odd years of his adult life he taught at a college level and wrote poetry on the side. Eventually, in 1854, he retired from teaching to concentrate on writing and spending time with Fanny.

          It is said that as the war clouds preceding the Civil War came, he went into a depression. His country, that he loved intently, was tearing itself apart. Frances despaired over her husband’s anguish. She would drag him off to various entertainments, hoping music and laughter would revive his spirit, but to no avail. Finally, in April of 1861, war actually came. His sadness was profound.

          On July 9, 1861, Fanny was putting locks of her children’s hair in envelopes and sealing the envelopes with hot wax. (I didn’t know about this practice, but I guess it was pretty common.) The fashion at the time was for women to wear the large hooped skirts that we see in pictures of the time. These were known as crinoline skirts and were all puffy and lacey and frilly. They were made in such a way as to disguise a woman’s form and thus keep men from lusting after them. (I kid you not.) It was the Victorian era, after all, and New England women were largely influenced in fashion by what was worn in London and Paris. Under these dresses a woman wore a tight corset that she had to be tied into, and then she was tied into the dress. The dresses were made frilly by the use of certain chemicals, including arsenic, that made the cotton very light. The problem of these dresses was that some women died from arsenic poisoning and, because the chemicals made the dresses so flammable, many died when the dress caught fire and it couldn’t be removed fast enough. These things were worn as everyday dresses in New England. In one year over 3,000 women died in dress fires!

          Fanny was thus attired, and as she was melting wax for the envelopes, her dress caught fire. Longfellow, hearing her screams, rushed into the room. She was already on the floor, totally engulfed in flame. He threw a small rug over her, but it wasn’t big enough. So, he covered her body with his, beating the flames out with his hands. She was horribly burned and died the next day. Longfellow’s own burns were extensive. He was in bed for a long time, even unable to go to his wife’s funeral. His hands were disfigured and he had burn scars all over the front of his body. His face was so burned that he eventually grew a scraggly beard to cover the scars. Already in the grip of depression, he sank even lower.

          Then, his oldest son, Charles, informed him that he was joining the Union Army. Longfellow forbade it, but the young man joined anyway. In late 1863, Longfellow received word that Charles had been mortally wounded in battle and was being moved to a military hospital in Washington DC to die. Longfellow journeyed by train to the Capital. There he found his son would most likely live, but the injury was quite bad and required a long recovery period. Now, completely covered in grief and sorrow, he determined that life was not worth living. When he went to bed on Christmas Eve, he was determined that it would be his last night on earth. He would die by his own hand on Christmas.

          As the first rays of light graced the sky on Christmas morning, the city’s church bells began to ring. Lying there in his bed, he listened, and then went and opened the windows to hear better. The Confederate Army of Northern Virginia had invaded the North that year, getting very close to Washington DC before being beaten at Gettysburg. People were scared, people were losing hope. But there, on Christmas morning, the bells announced, once again, the birth of the Savior. Using his crippled hands as best he could, he wrote the words to the song we know now. As a poem, it had seven stanzas. Eight years later, when it was put to music by Jean Baptiste Calkin, Calkin shortened it to five. He considered the other two as to be too dark for Christmas. These are the words to the poem, “Christmas Bells.” I will put the stanzas Calkin took out in italics. Think, as you read, how the realization of Christ was like food and drink to someone who was starving.

Christmas Bells

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The Carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
    And made forlorn
    The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said;
‘For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!’

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!’

            The magnificent story of our Savior brings peace even into the most troubled soul.                                                      

I have been many things along my life's journey. I grew up a farmer and have been a mechanic, a computer programmer, a security guard, a funeral director, to name a few. I have done these things to pay the bills as I worked through school and the early years of ministry. But one thing I have never been is a poet. I am no poet and I know it. But I have made the effort for you, dear reader, to add to your holiday cheer. Enjoy.

Read to the rhythm of The Night Before Christmas 

Twas the night after Thanksgiving, when all through the house, 

Not a stomach was settled, not even the mouse.

The carcass was stuffed in the bag full of trash,

The leftovers lay there, just some turkey hash. 

The children were stuffed and sprawled on their beds,

Sent there to sleep right after their meds.

And Granny with a shoe off and Grandpa with a snore

Were slumped in their rockers and taking no more.

When out in the street there arose a loud flurry,

A Wal-Mart truck down shifting to stop in a hurry. 

I threw the door open and yelled to the night,

"HEY, BUTTON IT UP AND GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

The diesel vapors spewed through the bare trees, 

And fogged up the night and stank up the breeze.

When what to my red, itchy eyes should appear. 

But an angry driver with a crowbar held near.

The mean looking driver looked tired and worn,

His coat was in tatters and his jeans were all torn.

He beat his bar on that big truck,

I sighed with relief for I was in luck.

"YOU SORRY OLD TRUCK, OH HOW I HATE YOU!

OH WHY CAN'T I GET A TRUCK THAT IS NEW?"

His feelings were clear, he wasn't mad at all,

Just frustrated with his rig and ready to bawl.

"Hey, buddy, is there a real big problem for you?

Is there something you need, or I can do?"

He whirled around, saw me and sighed.

"No sir," he said weary, "But with this truck now has died."

I have driven all night to get to Wal-Mart out here,

So people who abide can have their Black Friday cheer.

But lo, this junk cannot take this grade, 

It is not worth the money my employer has paid."

Within my heart there arose a great fear,

No Black Friday, no shopping, no joy this year?!?

"Now wait, my friend, perhaps I can aid.

AAA is close by and to them I have paid."

They came in a hurry and fixed that old truck, 

And it did not cost me, not even a buck.

The driver was so happy, he gave me a hug,

"Black Friday is saved! To the store I must lug!"

With a smile he turned and to the cab he did scamper

The motor ran fine, not even a whimper.

His joy was complete as he slammed in the gear, 

And he shouted aloud, "Happy Black Friday this year!"

------With apologies to the Rev. Clement Clarke Moore who wrote 'The Night Before Christmas' for his children.

  

                                      

Imagine....All the wonderful smells of an awesome Thanksgiving meal. Guests begin to come in. Lots of hugs, handshakes and backslaps. Laughter, talk, comments on the meal. And then, everyone sits down at the beautifully set table and the hosts bring in the meal. Before everyone begins to eat, they go around the table and express what each one is thankful for. This is done so all can see the need for thankfulness. Say the gathering is a group or family of Christians. They are thankful for the family, their church, God's provision, all of those things. Then the prayer and the feast begins.

This is the pattern many Thanksgiving meals follow. Absolutely nothing wrong with it. The children are taught the need to be thankful, the adults are reminded that the blessings they experience are from to the Lord. A very nice thing, a very important part of Thanksgiving.

But another question comes to my mind; What are you unthankful for?

Uh, what now? It is Thanksgiving. We are supposed to be thankful, not unthankful. Right? 

Certainly. We should be thankful. Ephesians 5:20, Giving thanks always for all things unto God and the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ; There, you see, we are to be thankful all the time!  This is true, but is this the primary emphasis of the verse?

In this case, the paragraph begins at verse 15 and runs through verse 21. It is a passage that deals with Christian conduct. Verse 20 indicates it is not just the outside conduct, but also the inward conduct, which is a Biblical theme. In this case, it is being thankful for all things.

Well, of course I am thankful for all things! OK. What about that job or that family member or the weather or your special sports team or school or whatever. The anger and frustration you feel is not thankfulness. 

While in seminary I worked for a while with a group of home builders. Mitchell Brothers' Construction. Three brothers that all looked just alike. Weird, really. Anyway, my job was to mix the mortar that went in the joints to hold brick or block together. I would carry the brick or block to where it was needed and then roll the wheelbarrows filled with mortar to where the work was happening. Really a hard job. I had been in the ministry for several years and was working to finish my education. I had the stresses of school, the church I served, the job I had and my small family. I was thinking of chucking seminary and going back to Miami, where I had opportunities to serve and friends to hang with. I was disgruntled with everything around me and I wanted the comfort of the past. I was working in the basement area of a new construction. I had just brought a wheelbarrow of mortar to the basement area and was bent over by the unfinished block wall that separated two sections of the basement. Just then, one of the Mitchell brothers called my name. I stood up, but the block wall was just a bit higher than my head. I stood up on several blocks to be able to see and hear him. I was grumbling inside, wondering what the master wanted me to do right then. To my surprise, all he said was 'Let's call it a day!' Wow! Cool! 

And then a thought came to my mind. The block wall was like all the things in my life. The wall in my heart had gotten higher and higher and was blocking out God. Oh, I was in seminary, I was a Youth Pastor. In both of those endeavors I showed all the marks of a very good Christian. But that wall was getting higher and higher. Soon there would be no place for the Lord. I had to do something. And what I did was I began to turn it all over to the Lord.

It didn't happen right away. But it did happen. What is the evidence? I could lay out a lot of things, but let me give some things many of you are familiar with. April 2017, they were going to do a triple heart by-pass on me. The wife and son and daughter-in-law had been ushered out. The very pregnant nurse was making me ready. Tears were falling off her face. "Are you OK?" She looked down at me and smiled. "Yeah, I'm fine. But they have detected a problem with the heartbeat in the baby." I reached up and took her hand and began to pray for her. When I was done, she was weeping. She was giving me a big hug when transport arrived. As we rolled down the hall, I thought, 'What a blessing! This makes it all worth it!' Over the last six years of that ministry at the Indiana church, I spent a lot of time in hospital and doctors' offices. In those places I got to share the Lord. The illnesses were not pleasant, but I got to share the Gospel with many I would never have met. Moving to Ohio after retirement I very soon had the joy of a toe amputation. When everything related to that was over, I had spent three weeks in the hospital and rehab. In every instance, I worked to not build a wall in my spirit. I shared the Gospel at every opportunity. The one thing I truly love to do, ministry, I cannot do right now. But I still share the Gospel. I am not perfect. I have my bad moments. But the wall is not being rebuilt.

Express your gratefulness on this day, but also be true to the Lord and start working on the unthankful things that cloud your mind.

Oh, and that pregnant nurse went into the hospital that night in distress. They had to do an emergency C-section. The baby was fine, mama was fine and it worked out. God is good!

Blessings.